Beyond the Horizon (Sons of Templar MC #4)(30)

“That way,” Bex pushed herself off the floor and answered Amy with her hand. “I’ll shower first. Knock down the door if I’m not out in twenty, it means I’ve passed out,” she instructed seriously.

I nodded woodenly, watching Amy disappear into my room.

“Coffee,” Gwen declared with a soft smile.

She did as Amy did, strutting through the door in her designer duds, not blinking at the rundown apartment and the damaged vintage furniture.

“Diggin’ the boho vibe.” She winked at me. “I’ll totally have to get you to take me vintage shopping.”

I didn’t reply and her cheerful face changed, and she stepped forward, grasping my forearms lightly.

“I’m not going to ask how you are because that’s a stupid question,” she murmured. “I am going to tell you you’re not going to feel like this forever. It seems like it I know. But I promise it won’t last that long. It gets better.” Her eyes twinkled with unshed tears, and I knew she was thinking of the brother she lost a couple of years ago. Her voice was so convincing, I almost believed her—almost. Gwen had strength—family. Bex was all I had. I didn’t have family. And I knew what little strength I had was keeping me upright. It wasn’t going to chase away the big sad, or the demons. Wasn’t going to wrench the weight off my chest.

Gwen continued, “I know you don’t like to talk about yourself. You think that you need to handle all of your problems alone. You don’t,” she squeezed my arms, “you’ve got people around you. Whatever you need. If you want to talk or just go to a crappy romance movie, I’m here for you, girl,” she said quietly.

I blinked away the tears at the support she was offering, but managed a small nod.

“Thanks, Gwen,” I choked out, unable to say much more.

She gave me a small smile, not making me feel awkward at my inarticulate response.

“It’s what friends are for, Lily, remember that.” She released my arms. “Now, let’s get you caffeinated, and then we can set to repairing that hangover,” she said with a knowing grin before she moved toward the kitchen.

She skirted past a wayward wine bottle to reach the coffee pot. She was dressed all in white, her chocolate hair piled atop her head. Her body didn’t betray the fact she’d had two children, she seemed to be some kind of freak of nature. You’d expect someone like that to be frightfully awful and stuck up. Gwen was neither.

I tried to let her words penetrate. To give me a sense of hope that she might be right. Maybe one day I’d find a way to believe those words. But right now, the darkness of grief had a firm clutch on me, so firm that I worried I’d never see the light again.





I glanced down at the name flashing on my ringing phone.

Asher.

My stomach did a somersault. I downed the remainder of wine in my glass and stood. Bex gave me a small knowing grin, but didn’t say anything as I put the phone to my ear and walked toward my room.

“Hey,” I greeted quietly, closing the door.

It was early evening, Bex and I had recovered from our hangovers largely thanks to Amy and Gwen taking us out for food. Since we were recovered, Bex declared the only logical thing to do was to go out. I was happy to. Alcohol promised numbness. Distraction. Anything that quelled pain that had stitched itself to my soul was welcome. We’d just started our “pre-drinking” and were getting ready to go somewhere. I didn’t care where. Anywhere that hid me from the big sad that little bit longer.

“Flower,” Asher’s husky greeting sent tingles to my toes much more effectively than my wine had done.

“Hey,” I repeated.

I heard a throaty chuckle at the end of the phone. “Hey,” he murmured.

There was a pause, a long one. It would have been awkward with anyone else, silence was kind of the opposite goal of a phone conversation, but it somehow wasn’t. I waited for the inevitable “how are you going?” that everyone asked the grieving relative. The question everyone knew the answer to, but the safe, expected social interaction.

“What’s your favorite food?” Asher surprised me by asking.

I blinked. “What?”

“Your favorite food. See, I was sitting here thinking of you, and realizing I don’t know much about you. Only how I feel about you. I want to know more. I want to know everything, flower,” he explained roughly.

My stomach dropped again as I digested his words. He didn’t say anything else as I was silent a moment. A long moment. He wanted to know me? Everything about me? I wanted to ask him why, why he seemed so interested in me when I was the most uninteresting person on the planet. I didn’t.

“Steak,” I said finally. Nothing else, no beautiful articulate reasoning that mirrored his own. I didn’t do well with articulate in most situations.

There was a small pause. “Steak?” Asher repeated in disbelief. “The tiny waifish girl who looks like she eats salads for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, loves steak?”

I smiled slightly, relaxing onto my bed. “Yeah. I love it. It was the only rebellious thing I’ve ever done in my mom’s eyes. She was a vegetarian. My meat eating tendencies were her secret shame,” I joked. Then I realized I was talking about her in past tense. My gaze flickered to the painting on my wall. The pain returned. It was never gone, I guessed.