Scars of Yesterday (Sons of Templar MC 8)

Everyone stopped talking when Amy and I approached.

It had been a long time since I’d attended a girl’s night, the night at the club taking more than enough out of me. Sure, since then there had been coffee dates with Gwen, Mia, Lauren. Each had gently—except Mia, who wasn’t really the type to beat around the bush—asked about my conversation with Kace. It was clear they were not only curious but hopeful.

For what exactly, I didn’t know. For some kind of romance? A fling? Distraction? For some kind of second chance at a happily ever after? They were all hopeful women, insulated by their own happiness. It was sweet of them, but too simple. As cliché as it was, you couldn’t put a Band-Aid over a bullet wound. And that’s what any kind of romance would’ve been right now. Despite the subtle pull I felt toward the man, he wasn’t a cure. Or a salve. A distraction at best.

But I didn’t need to distract myself from the pain. I had to face it head on, figure out how to live with it so I could eventually move on.

In about ten years or so. Maybe longer, when the kids had moved out of the house, not having memories of their father tainted by some strange man their mother brought in because she was lonely.

So I told the women, and myself, that it was nothing. That he was just being friendly. I definitely did not tell them about him mowing my lawn. Gwen thankfully kept her mouth shut too.

“You look amazing!” Gwen squealed, getting up to hug me.

“I’ll have to second her on that one,” Mia winked, giving me her own hug, followed by the rest of the group.

Laura Maye placed a drink in front of me as soon as my ass hit the stool, squeezing my shoulder.

“There you go, honey. That’ll solve all your problems. For the time bein’ at least,” she joked in her trademark country twang.

Laura Maye had been in Amber for over ten years. Maybe longer. It was hard to remember what life was like without the beautiful, buxom, Southern woman who wore leopard print, faux fur and leather and hair out to there.

I’d known her for years and had yet to see her without perfectly applied makeup. I knew she had a sad story, but she’d never told any of us. You could see it in her eyes sometimes. In the wisdom she always shared with women when they were going through hell. The kind of wisdom that only people who had made that journey could give.

We’d all gently tried to pry it out of her, but she was as stubborn as she was strong, intent on keeping her past where it was.

I got that. In fact, I envied that. There was no option for me to do that here in Amber. Not with everyone knowing my story. I couldn’t erase it. Couldn’t ignore it. Just had to find a way to live with it,

Laura Maye’s cocktails certainly helped.It was bound to happen.

As kind and understanding as my friends were, they were also pushy bitches. They were not going to let me sit down and bleed quietly without helping.

Or at least trying to.

“How are you, Lizzie?” Mia asked. “Really. Before you say fine or give us some other bullshit. We know you’re not fine. Your husband is dead, and your world is nothing like it should be. Like you deserve. So how the fudge are you?”

My first instinct would’ve still been to lie. To pretend to be brave and strong and act as though I’d been handling life with a semblance of sanity.

As it was, Laura Maye’s cocktails didn’t just soften the edges, they loosened my tongue.

“I used to tell myself all kinds of stories about what would happen if I lost him,” I mused, swirling my drink. “Not that I wanted to invite those kinds of things in, but with Ranger being involved in the things he was, me loving him as much as I did, there wasn’t really a way not to think about the worst happening.”

The women around the circle nodded, their eyes dark with the possibility of how easily they could’ve been me. How they still could be one day.

“I figured I’d be a mess,” I continued, taking a sip. “That I wouldn’t get out of bed for months. I wouldn’t brush my hair or eat or breathe without crying.” I took another sip. Amy was right about one thing, Laura Maye’s cocktails were definitely strong enough to dull most of my feelings.

“But that’s not how it’s gone,” I continued. “I’ve been brushing my hair, getting out of bed, eating every meal, going about life.” I paused. “But I’m not okay. Not by a long stretch. But I’m also not broken how I thought I’d be. And that scares me.”