Beyond the Horizon (The Sons of Templar MC Book 4) (10 page)

“You did the right thing,” Bex declared, following me to plonk herself down on a barstool, peanut butter in tow.

I pulled eggs and milk out of the refrigerator, sitting them beside a loaf of bread.

She spied that and the pan I was getting out. “French toast?
Fucking sicko
,” she exclaimed in an Aussie accent and put her peanut butter down.

I rolled my eyes. “I know I did the right thing. It didn’t make hurting him any easier,” I told her.

She rolled her makeup smudged eyes. “Ugh. Seriously, I love you more than life itself Lilmeister, but stop caring about other people, especially douchebrain. Focus on yourself, for once in your life. Let this shit process. Yell, scream, cry, eat two tubs of ice cream while watching
The Biggest Loser.
I’m down for it all. Or to completely leave you in solitude,” she offered, knowing me too well.

I leaned against the counter, putting my head in my hands for a moment. “I’m scared,” I whispered then looked up at her. “For three years it’s been constant motion. Taking care of Mom, studying, working, rinse and repeat. I haven’t stopped. Haven’t contemplated any of it. I’m terrified if I do let myself realize that she’s gone, I’ll get lost. I’ll disappear in this chasm left in my life and never come out,” I told her brokenly. “Mom’s dead. Gone. It doesn’t feel real.” I stared at the door. “I’m expecting her to walk in here, paintbrushes in hand, declaring she’s going to paint our living room to brighten it up,” I said, choking on my tears.

Bex’s face was a mask of grief, a mirror of mine. She pushed up off her stool and rounded the counter to take me in her arms.

“Fuck, Lils, we’ll get through this, promise. I won’t let you lose yourself,” she whispered into my hair.

In that moment, I clung to my best friend like she was my lifeline. Maybe she was. I tried not to think about the other raft in the sea of grief I was floating in. The one named Asher.

Asher:
Thinking of you, flower.

A small smile tickled the edge of my mouth as I re-read the text I’d gotten shortly after lunch. I hadn’t even been without him for twenty-four hours, and I yearned for his touch. It was as if the three years of distance had been three minutes. As if I hadn’t just broken up with my “
kind of” boyfriend
that morning.

Me:
It’s been four hours. How can you be thinking of me already? I’m sure you’ve got much more important things to think about, like slinging back hooch and shooting guns.

I bit my lip, re-reading what I had typed. I erased it.

Me:
I’m thinking about you, too.

I replied simply. He hadn’t written anything back; he was giving me space like I’d asked. I was grateful for it.

“Lil, you deserve a drink. Hell, I think it’s medically necessary,” Bex informed me, holding out a bottle. “I know you’re not a drinker, and that you haven’t touched a drop in three years. Haven’t had fun in three years. Not that I’m suggesting any of this is going to be fun, but alcohol makes you think it is, for a while anyway,” she told me sagely.

It was late afternoon. We had done exactly nothing. Ate french toast. Sat on our sofa and watched crappy reality television. Joked. Talked about Mom. Told funny stories.

It was weird. Sitting on the sofa in my PJs, with nothing to do, nowhere to be. I’d temporarily dropped out of college to work enough to support Mom, and have enough time to take care of her. My job at the bar had given me a few paid days off. It might have been a dive, but my boss was pretty awesome, and she’d loved Mom.

So I had nothing. No hospital to visit. No research to do for last minute cures. No bills to pour over—apparently medical bills died with the patient—apart from the usual.

My mom always shined bright. Shined beautiful. When I was around her, I was bathed in that light too. I was intoxicated, like everyone, by her zest for life. It was contagious. She was brilliant. The ying to my yang. The only reason I felt okay about being me, about my shyness, was because I had her to balance me out. To tell me that who I was, was exactly who I was meant to be. Without her, I was in danger of drifting away from who I’m meant to be. Or losing it altogether. Who was I without my ying? This was all too hard. The bottle Becky presented me with, offered the easy solution—oblivion.

I jerked awake, wiping drool from the side of my mouth.

So attractive.

I blearily regarded where I was.

Sofa.

Why was I on the sofa? My eyes touched an empty bottle of Jägermeister. Oh yeah, that’s why. Might explain the headache too. The headache was worsened by the knocking at the door. It wasn’t loud, but it seemed to echo off my skull.

“Whoever that is, you shoot them. Shoot them right in their hand, so they can’t inflict this horror on anyone else,” Bex mumbled from her spot on the floor.

I squinted at her, feeling more than a little fuzzy, I vaguely wondered why she was on the floor when her room and her bed were meters away. After a second, I got up, deciding to save the person on the other side of the door from getting maimed by a sleep zombie Bex.

I flinched at the bright light that assaulted me when I opened the door, and it took a second for the people on the other side to come into focus. I blinked rapidly.

“I told you it was too early,” Amy hissed knowingly at Gwen, who was gazing at me with a soft look on her pretty face.

She ignored Amy. “Lily, sweetheart. I’m sorry, we can come back.” She motioned to turn around.

“Or,” Amy cut in, “we can take you out for a nice greasy breakfast with a Bloody Mary on the side, it’ll fix you right up.”

“You had me at Bloody Mary,” I heard Bex yell from somewhere behind me.

I flinched at the sound, too loud.

Amy grinned. “It’s settled then.” She pushed past my zombie form to make her way into my apartment.

My hungover brain realized I should have been embarrassed at these glamorous women seeing my far from glamorous home. Being in this neighborhood and looking at the crumbling paint covered by posters, the faded carpet disguised with colorful rugs, the ancient appliances. I’d been to their place many times. It looked like the pages of a magazine, mirrored the images in my head of what I imagined my life might be like one day. Seeing Amy standing in the middle of my living room clutching a bag that cost the same as three months’ rent had me cringing. And realizing my life might never get better than this.

She didn’t seem ruffled. “Point me in the direction of your room, Lily. I’ll get you an outfit together. Gwen will make you coffee.” She directed a pointed glance at Gwen, who was still standing in the doorway.

I stood silent, still bathing in the shame that had begun to wash over me. And trying not to vomit as my hangover intensified.

“That way,” Bex pushed herself off the floor and answered Amy with her hand. “I’ll shower first. Knock down the door if I’m not out in twenty, it means I’ve passed out,” she instructed seriously.

I nodded woodenly, watching Amy disappear into my room.

“Coffee,” Gwen declared with a soft smile.

She did as Amy did, strutting through the door in her designer duds, not blinking at the rundown apartment and the damaged vintage furniture.

“Diggin’ the boho vibe.” She winked at me. “I’ll totally have to get you to take me vintage shopping.”

I didn’t reply and her cheerful face changed, and she stepped forward, grasping my forearms lightly.

“I’m not going to ask how you are because that’s a stupid question,” she murmured. “I am going to tell you you’re not going to feel like this forever. It seems like it I know. But I promise it won’t last that long. It gets better.” Her eyes twinkled with unshed tears, and I knew she was thinking of the brother she lost a couple of years ago. Her voice was so convincing, I almost believed her—almost. Gwen had strength—family. Bex was all I had. I didn’t have family. And I knew what little strength I had was keeping me upright. It wasn’t going to chase away the big sad, or the demons. Wasn’t going to wrench the weight off my chest.

Gwen continued, “I know you don’t like to talk about yourself. You think that you need to handle all of your problems alone. You don’t,” she squeezed my arms, “you’ve got people around you. Whatever you need. If you want to talk or just go to a crappy romance movie, I’m here for you, girl,” she said quietly.

I blinked away the tears at the support she was offering, but managed a small nod.

“Thanks, Gwen,” I choked out, unable to say much more.

She gave me a small smile, not making me feel awkward at my inarticulate response.

“It’s what friends are for, Lily, remember that.” She released my arms. “Now, let’s get you caffeinated, and then we can set to repairing that hangover,” she said with a knowing grin before she moved toward the kitchen.

She skirted past a wayward wine bottle to reach the coffee pot. She was dressed all in white, her chocolate hair piled atop her head. Her body didn’t betray the fact she’d had two children, she seemed to be some kind of freak of nature. You’d expect someone like that to be frightfully awful and stuck up. Gwen was neither.

I tried to let her words penetrate. To give me a sense of hope that she might be right. Maybe one day I’d find a way to believe those words. But right now, the darkness of grief had a firm clutch on me, so firm that I worried I’d never see the light again.

I glanced down at the name flashing on my ringing phone.

Asher.

My stomach did a somersault. I downed the remainder of wine in my glass and stood. Bex gave me a small knowing grin, but didn’t say anything as I put the phone to my ear and walked toward my room.

“Hey,” I greeted quietly, closing the door.

It was early evening, Bex and I had recovered from our hangovers largely thanks to Amy and Gwen taking us out for food. Since we were recovered, Bex declared the only logical thing to do was to go out. I was happy to. Alcohol promised numbness. Distraction. Anything that quelled pain that had stitched itself to my soul was welcome. We’d just started our “
pre-drinking”
and were getting ready to go somewhere. I didn’t care where. Anywhere that hid me from the big sad that little bit longer.

“Flower,” Asher’s husky greeting sent tingles to my toes much more effectively than my wine had done.

“Hey,” I repeated.

I heard a throaty chuckle at the end of the phone. “Hey,” he murmured.

There was a pause, a long one. It would have been awkward with anyone else, silence was kind of the opposite goal of a phone conversation, but it somehow wasn’t. I waited for the inevitable “
how are you going?
” that everyone asked the grieving relative. The question everyone knew the answer to, but the safe, expected social interaction.

“What’s your favorite food?” Asher surprised me by asking.

I blinked. “What?”

“Your favorite food. See, I was sitting here thinking of you, and realizing I don’t know much about you. Only how I feel about you. I want to know more. I want to know everything, flower,” he explained roughly.

My stomach dropped again as I digested his words. He didn’t say anything else as I was silent a moment. A long moment. He wanted to know me? Everything about me? I wanted to ask him why, why he seemed so interested in me when I was the most uninteresting person on the planet. I didn’t.

“Steak,” I said finally. Nothing else, no beautiful articulate reasoning that mirrored his own. I didn’t do well with articulate in most situations.

There was a small pause. “Steak?” Asher repeated in disbelief. “The tiny waifish girl who looks like she eats salads for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, loves
steak
?”

I smiled slightly, relaxing onto my bed. “Yeah. I love it. It was the only rebellious thing I’ve ever done in my mom’s eyes. She was a vegetarian. My meat eating tendencies were her secret shame,” I joked. Then I realized I was talking about her in past tense. My gaze flickered to the painting on my wall. The pain returned. It was never gone, I guessed.

Asher didn’t let me focus on it. “Well, I’ll have to take you out for a giant steak for our first date,” he proclaimed.

“First date?” I repeated.

“Yeah,” Asher confirmed. “See, we haven’t had one of those, and I’m mighty keen to take you out. Show you off. When you’re ready,” he added.

I was silent for a long time. Again, he didn’t press. “What if I don’t know when I’ll be ready?” I asked quietly.

Asher didn’t pause. “Then I’ll wait,” he replied firmly, seeming unperturbed. “As long as you’ll consent to me talking to you, calling you. Need to hear that beautiful voice at the very least. I wouldn’t object to dirty pictures either,” he teased.

I surprised myself by letting out a small giggle. “I’ll consent,” I said finally. “So, what’s your favorite food?” I asked after another pause. I wanted to know him too, I realized.

Asher didn’t miss a beat. “Tofu,” he replied seriously.

I surprised myself even more by bursting out with laughter.

And just like that, with a simple phone call, Asher seemed to salve some of the burn on my soul.

It felt good. Amazing in fact. I could get used to it. That was the problem.

Bex was painting her nails on the sofa while I made us lunch. I didn’t think that putting frozen fries in the oven constituted “
making”
anything, but I was impressed I had the energy to do even that considering we hadn’t arrived until the sun rose this morning.

“You know what? I’m not even hungover, or tired,” I told Bex, straightening from the oven.

She didn’t glance up from her task. “It’s ‘cause you’re still a little bit drunk,” she explained. “It’ll hit you in a couple of hours, then you’ll feel like you’ve been hit by a truck,” she declared firmly.

I screwed my nose up. “I’m not keen on that, alcohol is supposed to make you feel good isn’t it?” That was the whole reason I was doing this, being this person. This person who chugged beers at parties and did
Jell-O
shots. This person I didn’t recognize. I didn’t feel good. But I didn’t feel anything. That was good.

Bex glanced up. “Yeah, it’s not the alcohol that makes you feel bad the next day, it’s the absence of it. Which is why we keep drinking,” she told me cheerfully.

It was safe to say Bex was wholeheartedly on board with this new lifestyle I’d decided to adopt. The strip club where she worked had given her a few days off also. Begrudgingly. Her boss treated her like crap, but she was their main earner so he didn’t have much choice but to give her the time off. She’d been a party girl since before I met her, but I knew even she didn’t drink as much as we had been since ... since
it
happened. I guessed she was running too.

My heart did a skip when the sound of my phone jolted me out of my thoughts. I scrambled to snatch it off our counter, hoping it was him. I felt butterflies in the pit of my stomach at the name flashing on the screen.

“When the oven beeps you get up, take the fries out of the oven,” I instructed Bex quickly. “If you don’t, we both starve and die a fiery death when the oven catches fire,” I warned quickly. Bex was not a cook.

She waved her free hand above her head. “Yeah, yeah, go and have your chat with your biker.”

I didn’t need to be told twice.

“Asher,” I greeted softly as I closed the door to my room, sinking onto my bed.

“Flower,” his raspy voice mumbling the name only he called me, and it was the best sound in the world. “You busy?” he continued.

“No,” I answered quickly. I may not know why he wanted to call me, to talk to me, but I knew I didn’t want it to stop. I knew it was unhealthy. Becoming this attached to someone who wouldn’t be in my life for long, but I couldn’t help myself. Calls with Asher went hand in hand with the fried food and alcoholic drinks, only they were unhealthy for my emotional wellbeing.

“Are you?” I asked.

There was a chuckle at the end of the phone. “Not right now, Lily. That’s why I called you.”

I felt my face flame. “Oh, right,” I muttered. I was even awkward on the phone. Great.

“Even if I was busy, there’s nothing that will stop me from speaking to my flower,” he told me as if I wasn’t an awkward dork. As if I was special.

I swallowed. He was so candid. So free with his feelings. It was unnerving.

“Aren’t guys like you meant to be mysterious and hide their feelings underneath a thick wall of muscle and testosterone?” I blurted, staring at my ceiling.

There was another throaty chuckle at the other end of the phone. “Guys like me?” he questioned.

I fiddled with my comforter. “Hot guys. Bad ass biker types that leave feminine jaws dropping in their wake,” I explained.

This time there wasn’t a chuckle, there was a full out roar of laughter.

Usually, this would have me wanting to hang up the phone and hide underneath the comforter I was playing with. But he wasn’t laughing at me. Not in that way.

“Flower, I’m not sure how I’m meant to act, or how mysterious I’m meant to be since I’ve never been in this situation,” he replied.

“Situation?” I repeated.

“A situation where I’ve been unable to get a beautiful blonde out of my head for going on three years,” he explained, his voice serious. “One where I’ve never wanted anything more than I want that particular blonde. I don’t know what’s going on in that beautiful head, I know she’s going through shit, I know she’s shy and oblivious to the effect she has on me….” he paused, and my stomach did somersaults, “so I’m trying to make it explicitly clear just how serious I am about her without scaring her off. Without her letting doubt corrupt that head. How am I doing?” he asked quietly.

I stared at the wall for a long moment. “You’re doing pretty good,” I whispered finally.

“Good,” he said firmly.

He didn’t let the conversation continue down this dangerous road. He moved on to topics mundane and decidedly less serious.

It didn’t mean I didn’t let those words rotate in my mind, and that I didn’t think of it long after we’d said our goodbyes. I thought about it until I didn’t think of much at all. Until I welcomed the blissful oblivion.

“What made you want to patch into the Sons?” I asked shyly the next day, tired of him asking all the questions, desperate to know more about the man I’d loved for three years.

Asher paused. “I was a fucked up kid, shit at home wasn’t good and I sought escape as soon it was offered. For a start, that escape took me down a bad road….” he paused again as if he was measuring his words, figuring out what to tell me, “I got out of that shit, joined the Navy, found discipline, order. Family. I got my shit together. I was good at it. The problem was I started to question the shit they asked me to do. Told me to do. I met Brock, he was serving the same time as me. He didn’t like being told what to do either. So we got out. I followed him back to Amber, patched in as soon as I saw the club for what it was. A brotherhood. Family. The rest, as they say, is history,” he explained.

I caught on to one thing he’d said. “You didn’t have a family?” I asked quietly.

Asher paused. “I didn’t. Till I did. I’ve got a huge, motley and loud family. They might not be blood, but the club, that’s stronger than blood,” he told me.

That hit me. Hit me hard. I yearned for that. A place that offered that. But no one could replace what I had. I moved my mind from those thoughts and focused on something else he said.

“How long have you been in the club?” I continued my inquiry.

“Going on seven years,” he replied.