Outside the Lines: A Sons of Templar Novella 2.5

  There was a pause. “What time is it?” Hansen repeated in a dangerously quiet voice. One which I should have registered as a warning.

  I was drunk and disorientated so I didn’t. So, instead, I nodded.

  Note to self, don’t nod. It hurts head.

  “You’re fucking serious?” he yelled. “I come home, you’ve disappeared, no note, no call, you’re fuckin’ computer’s still open. You don’t answer your phone, not for hours, then you send some fucked up text and turn off your phone. Now, I finally find you, after driving myself fuckin’ crazy with worry all night, and you ask me what time it is?” he bellowed.

  I flinched, not only at his anger but at the fact the volume of his voice was very painful to my fast approaching hangover.

  He seemed to take my flinch as fear, so he took a deep breath and seemed to make an effort to calm himself. “What the fuck, Macy?” he said quieter, but no less angry. “You can’t do shit like that, just take off. Is this about me asking you to move in? You got a problem, you talk, you don’t fuckin take off without a word,” his voice began to rise again.

  I squinted at him, and swayed slightly, unable to properly comprehend so much while dealing with the transition between drunk to hungover.

  Hansen steadied me by clutching my hips. “You’re drunk?” he said in disbelief.

  I nodded. “Seems that way.”

  “It’s nine am,” he pointed out through gritted teeth.

  I tilted my head. “Well, that vodka was certainly worth every penny,” I mused out loud.

  “So you put me through all this shit…” he returned to that dangerous quiet voice, “…to tie one on?”

  He didn’t even wait for me to answer, just let go of my hips and stepped back. “Got shit to do,” he clipped, his voice tight. “You wanna talk about whatever the fuck this is…” he gestured to my body, “…you do it when you’ve sobered up.”

  He didn’t even wait for a response, just sauntered off and left me standing there, squinting into the harsh morning sunlight. Then they came the feelings. So, I stumbled back into Arianne’s kitchen, poured myself a glass of orange juice and splashed a liberal amount of vodka into it.

  “My kind of mimosas,” Arianne commented, slightly slurring her words. She grabbed my glass stole a sip, then sank back on the sofa. “Make me one if you’re morning drinking, I can’t let you do it alone,” she declared.

  Totally loved her.

  “Honey, I love a bender as much as the next girl, and I totally get why you’re drowning your sorrows. How about we transition to coffee?” Arianne suggested after two glasses, and an hour later.

  I thought on it.

  Coffee. Coffee meant sober. Sober meant hangover. Hangovers came with regrets, and the stern reality of life prior to drunkenness. I wanted to stay in a perpetual state of drunkenness to avoid the reality that I knew was coming. I knew that was strictly labeled as alcoholism, and I didn’t want that. I also wanted to prolong my holiday from reality—from pain.

  “Or,” Arianne said, on my pause. “We could get showered, put on awesome bathing suits and hit this pool party I was invited to?” she suggested.

  I grinned. “You totally get me,” I told her.

  She cupped my face. “I totally get the need you have to finally uncoil and feel all that pain that’s been building up for years. This might not be the most sensible way to do it. But fuck sensible, we may as well have some fun while we’re drowning our sorrows,” she said with a sad smile.

  The music was loud. Too loud to hear what the tool beside me was saying, thank God. He’d taken it upon himself to fill the empty sun lounger beside me. Since I’d left Arianne on the dance floor and decided to pass out in the sun, this guy had taken my solitude as in invitation to hit on me. I tried my hardest to nicely reject him, but he wasn’t taking the hint. I decided to go straight to ignoring him. Plus, he couldn’t see my eyes were shut under my shades.

  After a few minutes, he seemed to go silent and I was glad for him finally going away. Then, I felt a shadow mask the rays of the sun, therefore hindering my tan.

  “Dude, down in front,” I said with closed eyes, hoping he could hear me over the music.

  The shadow remained, so I guessed not. I opened my eyes to see the shadow was not dressed in swim trunks, nor looking like he was having any fun. This shadow was wearing all black and had a familiar leather cut over the top of his black tee. His eyes were hidden by my dark shades, but the hardness of his jaw told me he was pissed. I noticed Jagger and Charley were behind him. Jagger looked slightly less pissed and a little more concerned. Charley was checking out the tits of some girl walking past him.

  I pushed my shades on top of my head, just in time for Hansen to roughly grab my arm and yank me up.

  He reached down and snatched my cover-up from beside me. “Put that on. Now,” he clipped in my ear.

  I complied, because even in my drunkenness, I could see the danger in his eyes. My eyes landed on Arianne, who was now standing with Jagger, his hand circling her wrist. She shrugged her shoulders and grinned. Crazy bitch.

  After I had yanked my floaty kaftan over my head, Hansen grabbed my arm and proceeded to drag me through the throngs of people and out of through the fancy hallway of whoever’s mansion it was we were attending the party.

  “Hansen,” I started as he stopped me in front of an SUV.

  He turned his head from the door, which he was opening for me. “Not a fuckin’ word,” he clipped, his voice colder than I’d ever heard it. “Get in the fuckin’ car, Macy,” he ordered.

  I complied, again, out of self-preservation.

  He rounded the car and screeched out of the driveway in silence. I fiddled with the tassels on my kaftan. I had switched to water not long ago but was still feeling pretty buzzed.

  “You eaten today?” he said finally, his voice tightened.

  “Do strawberry daiquiris count?” I asked.

  Hansen’s eyes cut to me. “What the fuck do you think?”

  “Well, I’m not sure of their actual ingredients, but since they taste remarkably like strawberries I’m guessing maybe… since fruit counts as food,” I rambled.

  My eyes landed on Hansen. I was guessing he was expecting a no. He didn’t say anything more, just directed us to a drive through and promptly ordered.

  “Eat,” he commanded, thrusting the greasy bag at me.

  Suddenly, I was ravenous and inhaled the burger and fries that it contained.

  Once I’d finished, I realized the air in the cab was humming. That may be because the food had done its job to soak up the alcohol swirling around in my stomach.

  “You’re mad,” I observed.

  Hansen’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. I noticed his knuckles were turning white.

  “Mad, was about six hours ago, right after I realized you were whole and safe. After finding you half naked, half wasted, sprawled on a sun lounger while greasy fuckers glared at you, I’m fuckin’ furious,” he muttered.

  With his presence and the grim reality of soberness, came pain. Came the truth. The bitter, ugly truth that I was trying to escape.

  “I can explain,” I started in a weak voice.

  “Don’t wanna hear it,” he cut me off. “We’ll talk when you’ve slept it off. When you’re not coasting off a fuckin’ two-day bender,” he clipped in disgust.

  I flinched at his tone and turned my head. I was thankful, not for his anger but for the respite. At least now I could keep running for a little longer.

  I awoke dying. Or at the very least suffering from some horrible brain-eating virus. I thought a moment. Nope. Just hungover. Very hungover. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing my body to lapse back into unconsciousness until I was able to physically handle the pain. It didn’t work. I lay very still, trying to get my bearings and handle the pain I put myself through.

  I opened my eyes and saw I was in a familiar room. Hansen’s room. Events came rushing back. That night at Arianne’s—ignoring his ca
lls. The next morning—how angry he was. Then my brilliant decision to go to a pool party and continue drinking. Instead of sober up and explain myself to Hansen. I couldn’t even remember getting to bed, least getting changed into the tee I was wearing.

  There was a glass of water and two aspirin beside the bed. He couldn’t hate me that much. I sucked down the water and swallowed the aspirin.

  “Always helped mom,” a quiet voice declared.

  I jumped, which wasn’t the best idea for my delicate head. Hansen sat in the corner, on an old armchair, his elbows resting on his knees.

  “What?” I croaked, confused, and slightly hurt at the empty look in his eyes.

  He nodded to the glass. “Two aspirin and water… helped her shake off the worst of it. Usually, so she could stomach her morning drink,” he clarified. “Learned that at ten years old, to put those there,” he continued. “That was, of course, after I dragged her to bed.”

  His heartbreaking words began to sink in. “Your mom was—”

  “An alcoholic,” he finished bitterly. “Yep. Most of my memories of her were when she had a drink in her hand, or when she was passed out clutching the bottle,” he explained without emotion.

  It all sunk in. Hansen was always at the bar, or sitting at the club. He watched, joked with his brothers, stared at me, but he never drank. Might have a beer every now and then, but never more than two.

  “Hansen—” I tried to speak, sitting up.

  “Died when I was seventeen,” he cut me off again. “Plowed her car into a power pole. Lucky it was only herself she killed, not some innocent family. Lucky I turned eighteen the next day, so I didn’t end up in the system. So I could enlist,” he carried on.

  My heart hurt, no bled with his words.

  “Don’t begrudge you, you want to let loose… have beers… have fun,” he continued. “But when you decide to take off with no word, have me picturing your lifeless body in a ditch somewhere, only to find you sprawled at some McMansion in a getup that barely covers your pussy? That shit is not fucking okay,” he said quietly. Just because he didn’t yell didn’t mean I didn’t feel the depth of his anger.

  I pushed off the bed shakily and made my way over to him. His jaw was hard as he watched me approach.

  “I can explain,” I cooed, standing in front of him, not sure if I should touch.

  “Yeah, so could she. Don’t have time to listen to excuses now, babe. Should’ve been at the club an hour ago. Been waiting for you to wake up. Make sure you were okay with my own two eyes,” he said coldly, standing up.

  We stood close, but not touching. My eyes prickled because our proximity didn’t change the fact I felt miles away from him.

  “Now I’ve seen that I’ve got to roll. We’ll talk, figure this shit out. Maybe when I’m a little less fuckin’ furious.” He touched my cheek briefly, but didn’t say a word and then turned to leave.

  I watched woodenly as he disappeared down the corner of the hallway. I then crawled back into his bed and stared at the ceiling. His indifference, his anger, was well founded. But, I also didn’t know that shit about his mom. If I did, I would’ve done things differently. He also was supposed to know me, know that I didn’t do shit like yesterday on a whim. He should know that I wouldn’t leave like I did without a reason. He couldn’t see past his anger, couldn’t even give me the time to explain. Not when club business was waiting.

  I rolled over and groaned when I realized the day. Saturday. Visit with the she-devil day. And I had to do it hungover. The universe freaking loved me. Little did I know the universe had far from finished with me.

  I have no idea how I did it. Survived an hour feeling like death warmed up and nursing a snit with my boyfriend. And battling the debilitating fury that had settled at the base of my stomach knowing he was out there. Free to live his life. Finished the measly sentence, while I would never escape my lifetime sentence. But I did. I let the insults about my hair, my job, the fact I looked like a drug addict today, I let all of it slide over me.

  But when I got out, I struggled to get it under control. Get myself breathing right.

  “Macy?” a concerned voice asked from beside me.

  I glanced to see Robert push off from the wall he was leaning on to approach me, his worried eyes taking me in.

  I sucked in a breath and straightened.

  “You okay?” he asked, lightly touching my arm.

  “Yeah,” I said weakly, not sounding at all convincing. I felt like I was about to implode.

  He frowned at me. “The fact you’re a disturbing shade of green begs to differ. That place making you physically sick now?”

  I laughed. “No, it just so happens that place seems to magnify an already horrific hangover,” I informed him.

  He gave a knowing grimace. “Yeah, I can imagine that does not do wonders for any kind of ailment… hangovers even more so…” He paused. “Want me to take you for a coffee? Maybe some greasy food?”

  I considered it. Yeah, I knew this guy alluded to wanting more, but his suggestion seemed platonic, friendly. He was nice, understood the shit that I was going through. Well, maybe not everything, but stuff pertaining to my grandma and that place. I suspected, with the pain in his eyes that he needed someone to talk to as well. Also, facing a male who wasn’t completely and utterly furious with my hungover self-factored in there too.

  “Yeah, that sounds good,” I agreed finally.

  He grinned and his hand went lightly to my lower back. “How about we take my car? I’m worried about the chances of your being able to operate a motor vehicle right now,” he joked.

  I let him lead me into the parking lot. “Yeah, I might have to agree with you there.”

  He stopped us in front of a shiny, silver BMW. “Holy shit,” I exclaimed. “This is a freaking nice car. Maybe I should become a lawyer. Selling your soul’s totally profitable,” I commented, my usual lack of filter not hindered by mild alcohol poisoning.

  Robert laughed easily and he didn’t seem offended by the ‘selling your soul’ part. He opened the door for me. “Yeah, well, sometimes being a blood sucking lawyer has its perks.” He winked at me as I sank into the leather seats.

  I laughed easily, genuinely, for the first time since Jim’s phone call. It felt good.

  “So Macy, apart from subjecting yourself to weekly visits to the asylum. What do you do?” Robert asked, after pulling out of the parking lot.

  I glanced over at his attractive profile. “I’m a graphic designer, working from home. I’m a full-time computer hermit, part time Lord of The Rings and Star Wars enthusiast,” I told him.

  His eyebrows rose. “You’re a graphic designer?” he repeated. “And like Star Wars?”

  I grinned slightly. “Why, you don’t think a computer geek can be someone other than a slightly overweight man living in his mom’s basement?” I teased.

  He laughed. “No, it’s not that, I just haven’t encountered one quite as interesting and beautiful as you,” he commented.

  I blushed. Maybe he wasn’t interested in the purely platonic.

  “Our firm’s actually looking for some new logos, website redesign, I might have to look at your work,” he mused, pulling into the parking lot of a trendy looking coffee shop.

  And with that, somehow Robert seemed to move my mind out of the dark recesses it had retreated to and made me forget about reality, if only for a while.

  Coffee with Robert took me on a little trip. Showed me what life would be like if I was the kind of girl who drank fancy, complicated coffee in sleek cafes. If I dated a guy, who wore three hundred dollar sweaters and drove fifty thousand dollar cars. It was nice. Comfortable even. But it wasn’t me. I knew that. Whatever complications I had with Hansen, whatever shit we had to get through after the last few days, we’d get through it.

  So, after a couple of hours on holiday in the real world, I hopped in my car and drove back to my world. The one where I belonged. At least, where I thought I belonged. One step throug
h the doorway of the place I thought of as home had those thoughts, and my heart, shattering into a thousand pieces.

  I never forget a face. I wasn’t shit hot with names, but faces I was good with. This particular face was etched into my brain. Ditto with the name. You don’t really forget the guy that shot your parents for apparently seeing something they shouldn’t have. You don’t forget the man who took away your family and ruined your life.

  Seems like he wasn’t done taking away my life, my family, because when I walked through the doors to the club, he was sitting in front of the bar smiling and joking with my family. He clapped his hand on Hansen’s back, laughing at something. He was breathing free air. He was laughing with the men I loved. Him. The man who robbed me of everything.

  I struggled to breathe as I felt everything collapse around me. My heart seemed to pound so loud it deafened me. I felt my blood go hot and every ounce of anger I’d swallowed over the years seemed to burn through my veins.

  I didn’t register anything. Not Hansen’s shocked face as he saw me standing in the doorway, not the way that Grim’s level gaze darted from the animal to me. Not Jagger calmly walking up to me, trying to direct me gently out the door. Nothing.

  All I saw was the gun tucked into Jagger’s jeans, visible from the angle he was leaning to get me out the door. Because he was doing that, he didn’t expect me to yank the gun out of his belt, calmly switch off the safety and rush to where Hansen was sitting. Everyone seemed to freeze as I lifted the barrel and shot through the face that had been etched into my brain for twelve years.

  The gunshot served as something to slow my heart, to regain sound. I felt something warm splatter on my face and then there were arms around me, frenzied curses, a huge amount of not so organized chaos. I didn’t really pay attention to it. The anger seeped away as someone yanked the gun out of my hands, and I was half carried by familiar arms to the sofa area. I felt numb. Seeing everything going on around me, but not registering it. My ears rang slightly.