Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC 2)

He walked around the breakfast bar and kissed my head. “Eat, baby. I’ve just got to make a call then I’ll be back.”

“’Kay,” I replied. He started to walk away but I stopped him, grabbing his hand. “Thank you,” I whispered. “For saving me.”

Brock stared at me. “You don’t need to thank me. I’ll always save you. I’ll always be there to get you. Without you there is no me, Sparky.”

A warm feeling bloomed in my stomach at his words and he kissed me firmly on the mouth. “Eat,” he commanded.

As tempted as I was to dig into the huge bowl of pasta, I had a couple of things to do first. I grabbed the home phone from its cradle and dialed.

“Hey girl, after some soul searching I decided not to bleach my eyebrows. I don’t even care what designer it’s for. I can’t do it,” was Ry’s answer.

“Good call,” I replied. “Now I’m sorry I don’t have the streaming video feed—trust me, you wouldn’t want it anyway, but this was just a courtesy call to let you I was kidnapped again. Only for a couple of hours though and I’m safe and sound at home with a bowl of pasta,” I told him.

There was silence at the other end of the phone.

“I promised I’d tell you and I didn’t want some loudmouthed maid to get there first.” I filled the silence, unsure of what to say. No one had ever rendered Ry speechless before.

“Ry?” I asked.

“I’m booking a flight to your freaking crime hotspot as we speak. This shit has to stop. I’m going to kick those motorcycle-riding, leather-wearing man gods myself. And I won’t even enjoy it,” he shouted, emotion in his voice.

I commenced in talking Ry down and reassuring him I was okay, then hung up. I devoured half a plate full of pasta before an image flew into my mind. Rafe on the bed, missing his skull. Blood and brains in my hair. I barely made it to the bathroom before emptying the meager contents of my stomach. As good as the carby goodness was going down, it was not fun to re-experience.

It was especially not fun to have large tender hands pull my hair back halfway through my vomiting saga.

“Go away,” I whined in between heaves, feeling embarrassed. “I’ve had plenty of experience with mild alcohol poisoning, which gave me the skills I need to hold my own hair back,” I informed him.

I didn’t get a response as I continued on; he just rubbed my back soothingly. When I was done he handed me toilet paper to clean my mouth and I stood on shaky feet. I was aware of my puke breath so I pushed past him, grateful I kept spare toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet. After making sure I was minty fresh, I turned to a concerned biker.

“I’m not pregnant,” I blurted, remembering Gwen’s revelation through vomit of her bundle of joy. “Him, his body. It just popped into my mind and I couldn’t stomach the food,” I explained quietly.

Brock gathered me into his arms and stroked my hair. “It’s okay, baby, I’m surprised that’s the only reaction you’re having. You’ve had one heck of a shock. I’m proud as shit at how strong you are. But you don’t need to be. I’m here. You’re safe. React how you need to.”

I sank into his arms. “I’m good now. I’ve got you.”

“For the rest of my days, baby,” he murmured quietly.

EPILOGUE

One Year Later

“You still sure about this? I can totally cause a distraction while you slip out the back,” Lucky said teasingly.

Brock grinned at his friend. “I’m not the one who’s going to be slipping out the back.” His voice held a note of humor but he couldn’t help but worry about the glimmer of truth behind that statement. His girl had been skittery as fuck the past few days; marriage was something that scared the shit out of her.

Cade slapped him on the shoulder. “She’s not going anywhere, brother,” he said quietly.

Lucky laughed. “Where else would she find such a handsome motherfucker?”

The men all ignored Lucky and they poured a shot glass for each of them.

“Any advice for married life, brother?” Brock asked his best friend after he had downed his shot.

“Count your motherfucking blessings every day. And never criticize the shit she wears, no matter how much skin she shows. It’s not fuckin’ worth it,” his serious friend answered.

After they had downed a couple more shots Brock stood at the end of the aisle, waiting impatiently for his girl. It had taken them too fucking long to get here and he was anxious to make her his wife. Actually, he was anxious to get this shit over with and take her home so he could sink into his wife’s golden pussy. She had insisted on a big fancy affair; he wanted to go to Vegas and get her locked down the moment he put the rock on her finger six months ago, but like usual she got what she wanted. Not that Brock cared. Nothing much fazed him these days. Shit with the club was quiet, his best friend was happily married and had a kid with another on the way. His other best friend seemed to be less likely to drive his bike into oncoming traffic; the fucker actually smiled every now and then.

Plus, six months ago, the night before he asked Amy to marry him, he and Bull had gone into Clark Devon’s mansion and killed the piece of shit. More precisely, Brock had let him bleed out after giving him six incisions on his thighs. No matter what promises were made there was no way Brock was ever going to let that motherfucker die of natural causes.

His life was good. Fucking amazing. In his wildest dreams he never imagined he would get a life like this. He thought he’d been happy with his club, with the freedom, with the pussy he got. But when she hurtled into his life he realized how empty it had been. The light within her, the fire, it ignited every inch of him and he knew his life would be nothing until he had her on the back of his bike. It wasn’t an easy road. It was hard as fuck. But the best things in life were always the things which you would work to the death for. Die for. The things that tested every inch of your strength, ‘cause once you got them, nothing would taste sweeter.