Battles of the Broken (Sons of Templar MC 6)

‘Babe’ was a throwaway word for a lot of men. Best not to read into it. My brain wasn’t capable of reading the pages woven by Terry Goodkind, so it definitely wasn’t ready to inspect the complexities of a hot guy’s lexicon.

“Yeah, I’m still here,” I replied, my voice little more than a whisper.

“Good,” he said firmly. “So you okay to come down to the station? Have a chat? Only if you’re up to it. I know you’re a bit banged up. I could come over to your place—”

“No!” I interrupted, horrified at the thought of the hot cop being in my space. And me being awkward and fumbling around like an idiot. Then the energy of my home would be stained with memories of my awkwardness and most likely embarrassing myself. “I mean, I’m okay to come down. Fresh air would be good for me since Niles sent me home from work. It’ll stop me from getting cabin fever,” I said, forcing my voice to be light and try to cover up the way I’d nearly shouted at him.

Another chuckle. “Well, I’d hate to be responsible for cabin fever. I’ll see you soon?

I cleared my throat. “You will be seeing me—I mean I’ll, um, be down at the station soon,” I stammered.

Speak like a human, Lauren!

“Okay, Lauren. Soon.”

I hung up the phone and would’ve banged my head against the window frame if it didn’t already feel like I was.

Some strange part of me knew there was more to come.

A lot more.

Three

“Holy shit, babe,” Troy said the second I walked into the station and pushed my dark glasses onto my head.

Before I rightly knew what was going on, he’d rounded the desk at the front of station and was in front of me. Right in front of me.

He grasped my chin much like another man had the night before. But his fingers were soft, gentle, barely gripping the skin—unlike the other man.

My skin didn’t burst into flames from the touch, and my breathing didn’t turn shallow.

That didn’t mean I didn’t react. My body warmed slightly from the touch and his scent of clean linen and some subtle man’s aftershave that was classy and understated.

His green eyes zeroed in on the gash on my head, the bruising on my face.

“It looks worse than it is,” I murmured shyly, not quite knowing how I’d managed to have two hot guys touching me in the space of twenty-four hours.

Two very different hot guys.

The man from last night couldn’t have even be described as hot.

I didn’t know how to describe him.

My mind went to the momentary glimpse I had of him under the streetlights outside the hospital. Everything about him was hard, rough edges. His large body seemed sculpted from steel as he’d clutched the bike, his muscled arms near bursting from the fabric of his long-sleeved henley, tattoos visible from underneath, creeping past his wrists. Tattoos that snaked up his neck, where they were buried by his blond beard. Not overly long, but a definite beard. Well groomed. Perfect, actually. Lumberjack meets biker. His hair was the same, brushing his shoulders. Or it would’ve if it’d been wild. At some point, he’d tied it into a messy bun at the back of his head.

I didn’t think man buns would’ve done a thing for me, since I was all about clean-cut.

But the mere thought of that bun had me quivering under Troy’s touch.

Troy, who was clean-shaven. Troy, who had short and expertly groomed dirty blond hair. Troy, who was tall, muscled, but leaner, a lot less imposing. Troy, who didn’t radiate menace and wear a motorcycle cut. No, he exuded safety and was wearing a neatly pressed uniform.

He must’ve mistaken my quiver for a reaction of pain to his grip, letting me go and stepping back slightly.

His mouth was a tight line. “Well, it looks bad, Lauren,” he said, answering my earlier statement. “The doctors clear you? Give you painkillers?”

I nodded once, ignoring the pain at the motion and deciding not to inform Troy of my stance on painkillers. He wouldn’t understand. Not many people would. It was easier just to pretend that I conformed to society’s habit toward swallowing a pill to forget pain instead of learning to live with it. Numbness was more dangerous than pain.

He held a hand out in front of him. “Want to come sit down and we’ll chat?” he offered, eyes as warm as his voice.

I nodded again, lifting my aching feet toward the cluster of desks set apart in the wide room.

“You need anything?” he asked when I sat down. “Tea, water?”

“No, thanks.”

He took a seat, sipping from a mug beside his computer.

“You didn’t offer me coffee,” I noted.

He grinned, showing gleaming white teeth. “You don’t drink coffee.”

My stomach dipped. “How do you know that?” I whispered.

His grin left him. “I’m a cop. It’s my job to know things. Especially when it’s things about the pretty features editor of the Amber Star.”