Beyond the Horizon (Sons of Templar MC #4)(32)

“Situation?” I repeated.

“A situation where I’ve been unable to get a beautiful blonde out of my head for going on three years,” he explained, his voice serious. “One where I’ve never wanted anything more than I want that particular blonde. I don’t know what’s going on in that beautiful head, I know she’s going through shit, I know she’s shy and oblivious to the effect she has on me….” he paused, and my stomach did somersaults, “so I’m trying to make it explicitly clear just how serious I am about her without scaring her off. Without her letting doubt corrupt that head. How am I doing?” he asked quietly.

I stared at the wall for a long moment. “You’re doing pretty good,” I whispered finally.

“Good,” he said firmly.

He didn’t let the conversation continue down this dangerous road. He moved on to topics mundane and decidedly less serious.

It didn’t mean I didn’t let those words rotate in my mind, and that I didn’t think of it long after we’d said our goodbyes. I thought about it until I didn’t think of much at all. Until I welcomed the blissful oblivion.





“What made you want to patch into the Sons?” I asked shyly the next day, tired of him asking all the questions, desperate to know more about the man I’d loved for three years.

Asher paused. “I was a f*cked up kid, shit at home wasn’t good and I sought escape as soon it was offered. For a start, that escape took me down a bad road….” he paused again as if he was measuring his words, figuring out what to tell me, “I got out of that shit, joined the Navy, found discipline, order. Family. I got my shit together. I was good at it. The problem was I started to question the shit they asked me to do. Told me to do. I met Brock, he was serving the same time as me. He didn’t like being told what to do either. So we got out. I followed him back to Amber, patched in as soon as I saw the club for what it was. A brotherhood. Family. The rest, as they say, is history,” he explained.

I caught on to one thing he’d said. “You didn’t have a family?” I asked quietly.

Asher paused. “I didn’t. Till I did. I’ve got a huge, motley and loud family. They might not be blood, but the club, that’s stronger than blood,” he told me.

That hit me. Hit me hard. I yearned for that. A place that offered that. But no one could replace what I had. I moved my mind from those thoughts and focused on something else he said.

“How long have you been in the club?” I continued my inquiry.

“Going on seven years,” he replied.

I paused. Seven years. “I assume you had to probate, or whatever it is for a time before that?”

Asher choked out a laugh. “Prospect, babe,” he corrected. “Yeah, for six months. Fuckin’ misery, though I’m glad I didn’t have to prospect when Gage was around, he puts those poor shits through Hell,” he informed me lightly.

I pondered this. Seven and a half years with the Sons, time in the Navy. I assumed you had to be in the Navy for a while to become a SEAL.

“How old are you?” I asked finally. I had him pegged not much older than me, but he’d have to be way older if I factored all that in.

He seemed caught unaware. “Twenty-nine, why? You got an age limit on men you date?” he teased.

“Twenty-nine?” I repeated in disbelief. “But that’s not enough time,” I exclaimed.

“Not enough time for what?” he sounded amused.

“To become not only a bad ass Navy SEAL and then a bad ass biker,” I blurted.

Asher choked out another laugh. “I joined the Navy at seventeen, flower. Trained for a year then served for four. Joined the Sons straight after,” he informed me.

“Seventeen,” I repeated. “That’s so young. You were just a kid,” I murmured. Too young to go down whatever dark road he went down. One I wanted to ask about but felt too shy to. I may have been coming out of my shell with him, but I’d never abandon it.

There was a pause. “Yeah, I was a troubled kid. Fucked up. I came out a man. Still f*cked up in a way, differently ‘cause of the shit I saw. The club showed me different kinds of f*cked up, but it fixed what could be fixed,” he replied.

I was taken aback. He shared so readily with me. Talked … like really talked. Didn’t grunt or speak in monosyllables. He was telling me about his life. Like he wanted me to know about it. Like he wanted me to be a part of it.

“What could be fixed?” I repeated. “What about what couldn’t?”

“I’m starting to think only one person could fix that, I just have to be patient enough to wait for her,” he murmured softly.

I let out a small gasp at the meaning behind his words at who her meant. I fiddled with the cushion on our sofa uneasily. He couldn’t mean me. He had to know I couldn’t fix him when I was beyond repair myself.

“You think that’s me,” I clarified.

“No,” he said immediately. “I know it’s you.”

My heart sank and soared at the same time. “How do you know? You don’t know everything about me, about what I’m not. Not that girl,” I whispered, staring around our apartment. I was like this very apartment. Desperately covered with things to distract from what was underneath. Instead of crumbling paint, it was a crumbling soul that was poorly hidden.