Outside the Lines (Sons of Templar MC 2.5)

I opened my mouth shock. “You’re shitting me?” I asked ungracefully.

He smirked. “I’m not shitting you, babe. Other bitches at the club might’ve been easy on the eyes, but they weren’t you. Didn’t fuck you because I knew if I got a taste, I wouldn’t be able to let you go, I’d trap you in this life. When I realized you’re in it for good, that’s when I realized I needed to get my shit together… claim you. Night at the bar gave me the push I needed.”

“Don’t put me up on a pedestal,” I pleaded. “It’ll only hurt when I hurtle down off it. When you realize I’m not some delicate flower that naïvely walked into a biker den to get her soul corrupted,” I told him. I was far from naïve when I walked in. I’d known exactly what I was getting myself into.

His face turned hard, but I continued, “My life isn’t daisies and butterflies. My life is far from innocent or good. My parents were murdered when I was twelve. I saw them die, watched them bleed out,” I told him and his body jerked. “I was sent to live with my only living relative, one who my mother didn’t even speak to. One who was meaner than half the gang bangers on the streets she lived on,” I told him honestly. “I went from a home full of love to a house which seeped hatred. Bitterness. I lived that, breathed that, for six years…” I paused. “I wasn’t always a happy person. My parents’ death, my fork-tongued grandmother, they created an angry, troubled teenager. One that tried to find love in various boys. Some were nice, others weren’t…” I trailed off and watched Hansen’s jaw harden exponentially.

I wasn’t going to elaborate on my years thinking sex equaled love. Nor was I going to educate him on how I found out the hard way, after one of the boys that ‘loved’ me smacked me around. A swift punch in the face and a couple of broken ribs taught me the truth. “I was always searching for something, searching for the family I’d lost,” I explained, moving my thoughts away from my troubled teen years. “Didn’t have it with my own blood, I escaped at eighteen, had nothing but the clothes on my back and a few hundred bucks to secure me a room in a dingy motel. Did crap at school, apart from with computers. I loved them, was good with them. But I couldn’t afford one, had no other discernable skills or qualifications, so I stripped.” I tried for nonchalance, not looking at Hansen, afraid of the judgment I’d find behind his eyes. I couldn’t handle that, so I traced the scar on his chest.

“I’m not ashamed of it,” I declared. “Of the fact I stripped for a year. I met Arianne, made enough money to take care of myself, I survived. Somehow, during that time, I realized the difference between a good life and a bad life was attitude. If I held onto that anger that I had at the world for the shitty hand I was dealt, it’d turn me into an angry and bitter person. It’d turn me into my grandma.” I shivered at the thought. “So I let it go. All of it. Saved my money, got enough to get a computer, started bringing in clients and making enough money to quit stripping.” I shrugged. “And the rest, as they say, is history.” I chewed my lip. “Then I found the club. Saw what it was. A dysfunctional, rowdy, and rough around the corners family. Somewhere I could belong.”

I finished my little speech, finally meeting his eyes. They didn’t betray anything, but his hands tightened around my body. “That’s why I need you to see me,” I whispered. “See who I am as an imperfect person. One who isn’t some imagined version of who you think I am. Someone who deserves something better. I was a stripper, a club whore, and now I’m your Old Lady. This for me is better. The best,” I told him truthfully. “Who I am, what I’ve gone through… I’m not set for the traditional life. The one where you’re expected to fit within some sort of predestined mold. Where they make you color neatly between the lines. I’ve never been able to stick inside the lines. I want to be free to go outside them, color my own life.”

I pursed my lips. Though I talked a lot, all the time actually, that was the most I’d actually said to anyone, ever.

Hansen searched my face for a long while, then he flipped me on my back, framing my face with his hands. “First, you don’t call yourself a club whore again. Ever. That’s not what you were. Not how I think of you. You were someone wading through a shitty life, trying to find their way,” he said firmly. “Every word you’ve just said, makes me believe you’re even more perfect than I’d imagined. You’re perfect because of your imperfections, ‘cause of the life you’ve survived. You’ve fought your way through and still found a way to be this…” he stroked my jaw, “…this beautiful, funny, goofy woman who carries the world on her shoulders, but fuckin’ skips through life like nothing weighs her down. The one who has the sweetest pussy I’ve ever tasted, the kindest heart I’ve ever witnessed. You make me determined to give you everything you want. Everything you deserve,” he declared.

A lone tear seeped out of the corner of my eye at his words.

His mouth hovered over mine. He wiped the tear off my face with his thumb gently. “And baby, you do fit in a mold. One I didn’t even know I’d created. One that was made for the woman who I would want to be on the back of my bike, warm my bed, own my soul,” he growled, claiming my mouth before I could do anything stupid, like propose.