Outside the Lines (Sons of Templar MC 2.5)

That’s why, late on Sunday afternoon, I was loathed to break the spell. A lot of it was because I really didn’t want to go back to my chicly decorated but shabby house and sit in front of a computer screen for the next four hours. I wanted to cuddle up to a warm yet firm body and continue to spend time in Hansen’s sparsely decorated but decidedly not shabby house. I also didn’t want to leave this house. I was terrified of doing so, I’d break whatever spell we were under and reality would come hurtling back in, or maybe Ashton Kutcher would come running in with a camera crew declaring this whole wonderful day an elaborate trick.

I reasoned my emotional trauma would make for great television. As would Hansen’s abs.

I trailed his pec, touching the light puckered scar marring an otherwise smooth and perfect torso. “What’s this from?” I asked quietly, giving myself five more minutes until I let reality back in.

“Bullet wound,” he said in a distracted voice, his hands drawing light designs on my back.

I lifted my head to rest my chin on his chest, horrified. “Bullet wound?” I repeated.

He nodded nonchalantly like a bullet wound was something akin to a paper cut.

“You’re telling me that this…” I touched the scar lightly, “…is evidence of a bullet tearing through your chest?” I asked, slightly hysterical.

“Missed anything major, babe. No biggy,” he replied, eyes on me.

“No biggy?” I repeated. “The man classifies a gunshot wound as ‘no biggy’ and he thinks I’m crazy,” I addressed the empty room.

Hansen’s chest vibrated as he chuckled. He lifted me so my body was fully on top of his and my face was almost touching his.

“Long time ago, Mace. Another life,” he said, more seriously. “One that made me who I am. One that taught me a lot of shit. And one that I’m glad to be out of, on account of the high probably of getting shot.”

I chewed all of this over. I imagined Hansen, big, strong, unflappable Hansen getting plowed down by a bullet. My stomach clenched tightly at the thought. I couldn’t imagine him in a hospital bed.

“Please tell me you didn’t dig the bullet out yourself, rub some dirt on it and run that beautiful butt right back into whatever situation got you shot in the first place?” I said with a hint of seriousness, but mostly joking.

Hansen smiled again. “No. I let someone who wasn’t bleeding from the chest take the bullet out, and it took me a few weeks to get back on my feet.”

“A few weeks? Geez okay, Clark Kent. I’m pretty sure it would take months to get back on those glorious legs if you were anything less than superhuman,” I teased.

“Glorious legs?” he repeated with a full grin.

I shrugged my shoulders. “You obviously don’t skip leg day.”

Hansen’s face turned serious and he shook his head. “Christ, I’m a stupid fuck,” he said. “Missing out on a woman who can make me laugh about a fuckin’ gunshot wound and make me hard as stone at the same time,” he muttered to himself. His hand trailed my collarbone. “Been missin’ out, Mace, which means I’ve gotta lot of time to make up for.”

I blinked away the slight prickling in my eyes at that statement and let myself wonder how such a switch had been flicked in the last twenty-four hours to turn Hansen into this. Soft eyes, smiles, heartfelt declarations littered with profanities.

I decided not to question it. When you looked too closely at things, you usually found out shit that you didn’t want to know.

“Can you make up for it after you drop me home and let me chain myself to my computer?” I asked lightly, hating that his jaw turned hard at my request. “I’m on deadline for a couple of projects that need to be done by tomorrow,” I told him apologetically. As much as I wanted to stay, I also had to eat. And buy shoes.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “Don’t like you in that neighborhood, babe,” he said, repeating his sentiments of the other night.

As much as I liked his concern, I also felt slightly miffed at the unspoken fact that I, as a woman, couldn’t take care of herself because suddenly I was attached to a macho biker.

I reared back slightly, Hansen’s hands made it impossible to completely move off him.

“I feel like we had this conversation the other night. The neighborhood may not be winning any awards for the friendliest street in New Mexico, but no pipe bombs have been detonated there lately either,” I retorted with sharp sarcasm.

“We had that particular conversation when you weren’t mine. You are now,” Hansen replied with a frown.

I narrowed my eyes. “Me becoming yours does not automatically transform me into a helpless damsel unable to function in the real world without an alpha biker at her back,” I told him. “I’ve navigated the real world pretty darn well for twenty-four years. I’m tougher than I look,” I finished. I wasn’t too hot on telling him all the grim details of my bleak experience of the horrors of the real world, so I left it at that.

Hansen’s face hardened. “Yeah babe, I don’t doubt it. Being mine doesn’t mean you can’t handle the real world, just means now I can try my fuckin’ best to protect you from it,” he told me with determination.

I softened slightly. I couldn’t help it. “How about you try and protect me from it, and also get right with the fact that doesn’t include lecturing me about my zip code,” I said gently, but firmly.

Hansen stared at me a moment. “You got beer at your place?” he asked weirdly.

I nodded.

“Cable?” he continued.

I nodded again.

“Right,” he said, knifing up, and taking me with him.

He set us both on our feet and turned to his dresser.

I watched his back, confused. Then I got distracted at the fluidity of the movement of his defined muscles, making the rider on his tattoo look like he was alive.