Outside the Lines (Sons of Templar MC 2.5)

I bit my lip. My stomach swirled at the thought of losing this. The only place where I felt I belonged. Then something struck me. A week. A week exactly since Hansen had kissed me senseless in the kitchen. A week since I’d developed a third eye or some other disfigurement only visible to bikers.

I stood, my worry turning to anger quickly.

“Thanks, I owe you one,” I told Scarlett.

She looked at me like I was slightly crazy, but most people did that around here, thanks to the fact my mouth always seemed to outrun my mind.

“Sure, no problem,” she replied as I turned my well-heeled toes toward the bar. The bar where Hansen was sitting with his back to me.

Charley watched me approach with wide eyes, his glance moving toward where my own were narrowed.

“Oh shit,” he muttered under his breath.

I ignored that and moved to stand beside Hansen getting right in his face.

“You and me need to have a chat, now,” I demanded sharply.

He didn’t look at me. “Got nothing to say to you,” his voice was cold.

I masked the pain at his tone, at his dismissal. “Isn’t that mighty convenient. You don’t have to say anything, considering I’m the one that’s gonna be speaking,” I snapped.

I didn’t wait for another no doubt biting response, I grabbed his muscled arm and yanked. I was under no illusions about my strength or lack of it. I was short, even in my wedged boots, and despite the fact I considered Cheetos, a food group, I weighed a lot less than Hansen.

Still, he let me drag him off and around the corner, out of sight of the peanut gallery. He jerked his arm out of my grasp when we’d moved into the deserted hallway.

He stepped forward, and without meaning to, I retreated so my back hit the wall.

“You don’t ever…” he spoke quietly, his body taut, “…speak to me like that in front of my brothers again.”

I shivered at that blankness that settled over his face. This wasn’t him. He might have silenced me with biting stares over the past week, but before that he was anything but cold. He didn’t sleep with any of the girls here, that didn’t mean he didn’t show them respect. He laughed easily with the men, and although he never laughed in my direction or at one of my jokes, it was still easy to see he didn’t take himself or his general badassness too seriously.

And he was a badass. Down to his hulking frame, one that towered over me with rippling muscles that had him looking like some kind of fitness model. His bald head accentuated his sharp and defined features, only enhancing his hotness. Which was weird, considering I always thought I’d liked men with shaggy hair—apparently not.

I didn’t let myself turn into a squeaking female at his tone. “How about you don’t go around kissing me, ignoring me, and then turning me into a leper. Then I won’t have to talk to you like that to get your attention, since all other attempts have been met with a badass biker ‘don’t mess with me stare,’” I snapped back.

I didn’t know where this anger was coming from. I wasn’t an angry person. Actively, I shied away from confrontation, didn’t need it in my life. Right now it seemed I was ready to spit tacks.

Hansen’s entire body stilled.

“You want to tell me what was so bad about my kissing skills for you to give me the cold shoulder for the past week? And then have every guy in here treat me like their little sister, instead of what I am?” I continued.

Shit. Did I just say kissing skills?

Hansen stared at me, searching my face. “What you are?” he repeated.

I observed the fact his features hardened exponentially as he uttered this.

“Yes. What I am. What I’ve been for the past two years,” I snapped.

He didn’t reply, his jaw tightening.

I made a decision. Whatever was going on here was not one sided. Even now, I felt the heat sizzle between us. If I wanted happiness, wanted him, I had to take it. Or at least, try. I stepped forward, clutching the sides of his cut lightly.

“I’m not the only one feeling this,” I murmured, my voice shaking. “I know you feel it too.”

Hansen seemed to consider my words for a moment, appearing like he was inspecting the attraction between us. Then he clutched my wrists and shoved them away roughly.

“I don’t,” he clipped coldly. “Kissing you was a mistake. One I won’t make again,” he promised, then didn’t waste any time in turning his back on me.

I sagged against the wall, trying not to admit my heart was in little pieces at that moment. That I hadn’t been humiliated and rejected by the man who I’d been crushing on for the better part of a year. I’d failed on that score.

I didn’t get much time to wallow in self-pity at Hansen’s cold rejection. Not when the boys from the Cali chapter thundered in with a wave of testosterone and proved that it was possible for a sexy glare to melt panties. They caused the club to go into full badass mode as the set about rescuing Brock’s—sexy surfer biker hybrid who changed my stance on thinking man buns were stupid—Old Lady from some guy who had kidnapped her. Yes, kidnapped her. I’d been with the club for a while, and we may have had some dramas, but we’d never had a kidnapping.

It was all hands on deck, and I was so busy helping out with shit I didn’t notice the fact the boys were yet to touch me, despite Hansen’s rejection. I was further distracted when a beautiful redhead with some seriously gnarly wounds was brought in. It was my task to hang out with her while she was bedridden and her old man did whatever club shit us females were not allowed to know about. Not that it was a chore. She was awesome, even battling blood loss and recovering from a kidnapping she was a freaking knockout.