Beyond the Horizon (Sons of Templar MC #4)(70)

“Stan over here did it, quite impressive really, he could have a career in stain removal if the biker thing doesn’t work out,” she mused with a straight face.

I rolled my eyes. “Thanks, Stan,” I addressed the skinny redhead staring blankly at the television. He surprised me, not looking like a biker at all. But I wasn’t one to judge books by their covers.

His eyes cut to me. “You’re welcome, Ma’am. But my name’s not Stan,” he informed me. “It’s Skid,” he added.

“Oh, okay, sorry, Skid,” I said quickly, feeling my face flame slightly. I glared at Bex. “Why are you calling him Stan?” I hissed under my breath.

She glanced at him. “Because I refused to believe his actual name is ‘Skid’ and he won’t tell me his real name. Ain’t that right Andrew?”

He didn’t move his gaze from the television, just shook his head slightly.

Bex grinned. “It’s a game we’re playing,” she informed me.

I rolled my eyes before narrowing them on the nasty purple bruise on her face and the ring of red around her neck. I flinched slightly.

“How are you?” I asked in a softer voice, stepping forward to bend down in front of her.

Bex’s grin dimmed slightly. “I’m fine,” she reassured me. She shook a little bottle in front of me. “Silas brought me the good stuff.” Her gaze went to the corner, where she must have gotten another imperceptible head shake.

I frowned at the bottle, snatching it off her to inspect the label. I was just reading about prescription medicines. “Don’t take too much of that, these are strong and easy to get addicted to,” I said seriously.

Something had flickered in her eyes before she snatched the bottle back from me.

“Okay, okay, Nurse Ratchet,” she teased. Her face turned serious once more, and she pushed my hair back and flinched when she saw my head. “I’m sorry, Lilmeister,” she whispered.

I squeezed her hand. “I thought we agreed this was not your fault,” I told her firmly. “I’ve got to change for work, you two okay here?” I asked, my gaze darting between them.

Bex’s smile returned. “Me and Jordan are fine.”

I shook my head. “Have you spoken to Carlos about not being able to work?” I asked with concern.

She scrunched up her nose. “Yeah, I did talk to that weasel. He said he was disappointed in me for letting him down, as if turning into a dickwad’s punching bag was my decision,” she scoffed.

“He’s a dick,” I informed her.

She nodded. “That he is,” she agreed. “But he’s a dick that signs my paychecks. Or he will when I can get back to work. Until then, he’s got me on unpaid leave.”

My back straightened in anger. “Unpaid?” I repeated. “You’re entitled to paid sick leave.”

She shook her head. “I’m not entitled to shit, I’m lucky I’ve got a job to go back to. Not that Carlos has much choice, I’m one of his top earners….” she paused, worry tainting her face slightly. “This better get better, quick smart,” she gestured to her body, “my rainy day fund is seriously lacking, and by lacking I mean nonexistent.” The bravado in her voice was long gone and now only worry remained.

I grabbed her hand and squeezed once more. “Don’t worry, I’ve got us covered,” I reassured her with a smile.

She frowned at me. “I’m not putting my shit on you. I don’t want you working yourself into the ground. You’ve got enough crap to deal with. You’ve got college to ace, a sex hunk boyfriend to ravage. I’m not your responsibility,” she said quietly.

I smiled at her. “Newsflash. You’re my best friend. You’re the only family I’ve got left. I’m taking care of us,” I told her firmly. “And to do that, I’ve got to go get ready for work,” I continued. And before she could argue, I rushed into my room to change so I could make it to work.

It was hours later when I had tried to distract myself from being dead on my feet and field lame pickup lines from sleazy guys that I thought of the answer to our problems.

Mom’s house. A lawyer had called days ago about her “estate.” Not that there was anything left. Bank accounts were all but drained from medical bills, and what little that was left I spent on her funeral. The only thing she had left was her house. I didn’t think of that before. I couldn’t. I couldn’t go back to the place I’d grown up in after we escaped my father. The place that held so much happiness within its walls. Now it was a tomb, a tomb of memories that would haunt me if I went in there. But I had to. If I wanted to continue college without failing, I had to cut down hours at the bar. I couldn’t do that if I had to keep paying rent for the place we were in now. Unlike Bex, I had a rainy day fund. One that would be dry when I had to cover the both of us. But if we moved to the house my mom owned, my house, we wouldn’t have to worry about rent. I just had to find a way to walk through the front doors without being ripped apart by the memories within its walls.





One Week Later



I stood staring at the door. I must have stood there for minutes, but it felt like hours. I squeezed the key so tightly I felt the jagged edges imprint in every one of my fingers. I stared at the swirling colors on the wood. Mom had painted it when we moved in. My gaze moved to the flowerbeds, once blooming with the same color that Mom filled her life with, dead and wilted. It would all be like that. Inside, all the color would be damp, lifeless.