Outside the Lines (Sons of Templar MC 2.5)

Man, I loved her.

I woke to loud banging which seemed to shake Arianne’s tiny apartment. I squinted and deduced it was coming from the door.

“Open the fuckin’ door,” a voice bellowed.

A very angry voice.

A very angry familiar voice.

I detached my hand from Arianne’s who was yet to wake up and half rolled, half fell off the sofa.

“Ouch,” I muttered as my head hit the corner of the coffee table. It didn’t exactly hurt, but I thought such impact was meant to cause pain, so I uttered to appropriate word.

Okay, still numb, which meant still drunk. I pulled myself to my feet and fought against the swaying floor to make it to the door. Definitely still drunk. That and the fact it was still dark must have meant it was still night-time.

After battling with the chain, I was blinded by horrible, bright sunlight when I opened the door. I put my hand up to shade myself. Okay, not night. Arianne just had really great curtains.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” I heard an angry voice mutter.

I squinted to see Hansen taking up the doorway. His entire frame seemed to be etched in fury.

“What time is it?” I asked, wondering how it was so bright and how I was still resonantly drunk.

There was a pause. “What time is it?” Hansen repeated in a dangerously quiet voice. One which I should have registered as a warning.

I was drunk and disorientated so I didn’t. So, instead, I nodded.

Note to self, don’t nod. It hurts head.

“You’re fucking serious?” he yelled. “I come home, you’ve disappeared, no note, no call, you’re fuckin’ computer’s still open. You don’t answer your phone, not for hours, then you send some fucked up text and turn off your phone. Now, I finally find you, after driving myself fuckin’ crazy with worry all night, and you ask me what time it is?” he bellowed.

I flinched, not only at his anger but at the fact the volume of his voice was very painful to my fast approaching hangover.

He seemed to take my flinch as fear, so he took a deep breath and seemed to make an effort to calm himself. “What the fuck, Macy?” he said quieter, but no less angry. “You can’t do shit like that, just take off. Is this about me asking you to move in? You got a problem, you talk, you don’t fuckin take off without a word,” his voice began to rise again.

I squinted at him, and swayed slightly, unable to properly comprehend so much while dealing with the transition between drunk to hungover.

Hansen steadied me by clutching my hips. “You’re drunk?” he said in disbelief.

I nodded. “Seems that way.”

“It’s nine am,” he pointed out through gritted teeth.

I tilted my head. “Well, that vodka was certainly worth every penny,” I mused out loud.

“So you put me through all this shit…” he returned to that dangerous quiet voice, “…to tie one on?”

He didn’t even wait for me to answer, just let go of my hips and stepped back. “Got shit to do,” he clipped, his voice tight. “You wanna talk about whatever the fuck this is…” he gestured to my body, “…you do it when you’ve sobered up.”

He didn’t even wait for a response, just sauntered off and left me standing there, squinting into the harsh morning sunlight. Then they came the feelings. So, I stumbled back into Arianne’s kitchen, poured myself a glass of orange juice and splashed a liberal amount of vodka into it.

“My kind of mimosas,” Arianne commented, slightly slurring her words. She grabbed my glass stole a sip, then sank back on the sofa. “Make me one if you’re morning drinking, I can’t let you do it alone,” she declared.

Totally loved her.

“Honey, I love a bender as much as the next girl, and I totally get why you’re drowning your sorrows. How about we transition to coffee?” Arianne suggested after two glasses, and an hour later.

I thought on it.

Coffee. Coffee meant sober. Sober meant hangover. Hangovers came with regrets, and the stern reality of life prior to drunkenness. I wanted to stay in a perpetual state of drunkenness to avoid the reality that I knew was coming. I knew that was strictly labeled as alcoholism, and I didn’t want that. I also wanted to prolong my holiday from reality—from pain.

“Or,” Arianne said, on my pause. “We could get showered, put on awesome bathing suits and hit this pool party I was invited to?” she suggested.

I grinned. “You totally get me,” I told her.

She cupped my face. “I totally get the need you have to finally uncoil and feel all that pain that’s been building up for years. This might not be the most sensible way to do it. But fuck sensible, we may as well have some fun while we’re drowning our sorrows,” she said with a sad smile.

The music was loud. Too loud to hear what the tool beside me was saying, thank God. He’d taken it upon himself to fill the empty sun lounger beside me. Since I’d left Arianne on the dance floor and decided to pass out in the sun, this guy had taken my solitude as in invitation to hit on me. I tried my hardest to nicely reject him, but he wasn’t taking the hint. I decided to go straight to ignoring him. Plus, he couldn’t see my eyes were shut under my shades.

After a few minutes, he seemed to go silent and I was glad for him finally going away. Then, I felt a shadow mask the rays of the sun, therefore hindering my tan.

“Dude, down in front,” I said with closed eyes, hoping he could hear me over the music.

The shadow remained, so I guessed not. I opened my eyes to see the shadow was not dressed in swim trunks, nor looking like he was having any fun. This shadow was wearing all black and had a familiar leather cut over the top of his black tee. His eyes were hidden by my dark shades, but the hardness of his jaw told me he was pissed. I noticed Jagger and Charley were behind him. Jagger looked slightly less pissed and a little more concerned. Charley was checking out the tits of some girl walking past him.