Beyond the Horizon (Sons of Templar MC 4)

“Um. No,” I told her and Adam, the bartender who was smirking at me.

“You’ll be totally great, it’s like a double act,” she persuaded. “I know you’re a good singer, I’ve heard you in the shower,” she winked. “Plus, you’re hot as balls.”

I snorted. “Yeah, right.”

She was my friend of course she’d say that. And she was drunk. And trying to get me up on stage. Of a strip club.

Though I would admit that I didn’t look like myself, hadn’t for the past week. I’d embraced my inner wild child, or more accurately let my wild child best friend have control over my outfits, hair, and makeup. I was wearing the shortest shorts I’d ever been clothed in, with a sheer top tucked in, a lace bralette visible underneath. The sky-high heels I was wearing were the only part of the outfit that was mine. She’d teased my long blonde hair and stuffed it into a messy ponytail. My makeup was intense. Like I could barely recognize the intense smoky-eyed, contoured girl in front of me. That was good, though. Being someone else. It was the only way to escape the big sad. I’d decided to adopt this new persona. Though I was drawing the line at singing to my friend’s stripping routine. I didn’t judge her, not for a moment, but I knew there was no way I was going to be able to do that without vomiting.

“Adam,” Bex’s voice snapped my attention back to the present moment. I took a sip of my vodka, such intense thought needed alcohol to discourage it.

“Do you or do you not think that Lily is the sexiest bitch you’ve ever laid your baby blue’s on?” It was a question, but the way her eyes were narrowed I could tell she would only accept one answer.

I swatted her shoulder. “Bex,” I scolded.

I turned to Adam, who was staring at me with a small grin on his face.

“You don’t have to—”

“I work in a strip club. It means I see a lot of lookers,” he began, leaning against the bar. “It’s the God’s honest truth you are the sexiest gal I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he continued with a wink, his southern twang sharp.

I gaped at him. “Really?”

His smile got bigger. “Really darlin’,” he said firmly. He gave me one more look before going to serve a customer.

Bex whirled my stool around to face her. The motion made me slightly dizzy.

“See?” she snapped. “No matter what crazy thoughts are floating around in that pretty little head, you’re a ten. Adam doesn’t bullshit,” she told me firmly.

I raised my eyebrow at her. “Slathered in this much makeup, Fiona off Shrek would look like a supermodel,” I stated. “Plus, my you-know-what is almost showing in these shorts,” I added.

Bex rolled her eyes. “You’re twenty-three and not a virgin anymore. Call it what it is. Vagina. Pussy. The word doesn’t bite,” she teased.

I didn’t answer, just sipped my vodka. “I’m not doing it,” I declared when she wouldn’t stop looking at me with that expectant stare.

Her shoulders sagged, but she wasn’t mad. She kissed my cheek. “Yeah, babe, thought that’d be your final answer. This place,” she waved her hands around, “isn’t you.” There wasn’t judgment or sarcasm in her voice, just something sad. It was quickly masked, and she propped up her boobs in a way every male in the immediate vicinity looked our way.

Bex was oblivious. “Gotta go make rent.” She blew me a kiss and winked, then strutted toward backstage.

I frowned at her back, something niggling at the back of my mind at her strange demeanor. Her eyes had been darting around everywhere, and she seemed more hyped than she’d been in the car. The thought was quickly lost. I leaned on my chair, saving myself at the last minute when I realized my chair had no back, because it was a bar stool. That would’ve been embarrassing. I leaned forward, plonking my elbows on the bar, putting my chin in my hands and chewing on my straw with my mouth. While I did that, I also chewed over Bex’s words.

“This place, it isn’t you.”

“Who am I?” I half whispered to myself.

I asked that question, that pivotal question of my identity and was coming up blank. I didn’t know who I was without my mom to be loud to counteract my quiet. Without me to tamp down her eccentricity. I took care of her. Even before the cancer, I was the responsible one. She was a great mom, but her unique spirit meant she didn’t ride me about homework, curfews, or anything. It meant she didn’t think like other moms. I was responsible. I did homework. I made dinner for us when she’d locked herself away in her studio. We were a team. I was her partner. That’s who I was. Up until now. Now I was no one. So why couldn’t I be the girl who danced with her girlfriend at a strip club? Why couldn’t I let go of all of my inhibitions that had crippled me half my life? What’s the worst that could happen? I’d already had the worse—hit rock bottom.