Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC #2)(38)

I let out a breath. I really didn’t want it to come to this. “Someone’s coming to town today. Someone I need to...sort some things out with before I can even consider taking this—us—further,” I said quietly.

Brock’s face turned cold. “A man.”

I nodded, unable to say anything else. I felt like a massive bitch.

“So you’ve just been using me as your personal f*ck toy until your real man comes to town? That it, Amy?” he clipped. “The man who wears an expensive suit, earns enough money to keep you in your fancy shit and someone you can take him to Mummy and Daddy?” he yelled.

“No! Of course not. How could you even think that? We’re not together. Not anymore,” I defended. “And wearing a fancy suit and getting my parents’ approval would be two things that would make me run a mile,” I told him honestly.

Brock glared at me in disbelief before his face turned blank. “Yeah, well you do whatever you gotta do. I don’t need your shit f*cking up my life.” He grabbed his board and walked off.

“Well, that went well,” I said to myself.

It was safe to say the drive home that night had me feeling like utter shit. Not only had I felt like a terrible person after the train wreck run-in with Brock, I also had just gotten off the phone with Lucy and she had told me somehow Jimmy had called Gwen. My worry for my friend permeated everything else. I was terrified that sick f*ck got into her head and bulldozed all of the progress she had made over the past year. That was not going to happen. I would make sure of it.

I dialed a number I usually avoided like the plague.

“Amy, how are you, my dear?” My father answered the phone pleasantly.

“I’m not the best, Father, since I just found out that piece of shit Jimmy somehow called Gwen’s cell phone and threatened her,” I responded with a shaking voice. “I need you to find out how that happened and get whoever was responsible fired,” I ordered. “I also want you to make sure that that piece of shit is in solitary for the rest of his miserable life.”

My father was silent for a moment. “Consider it done. How is Gwenevere?” His concern almost sounded real for a moment.

I paused. “I don’t know, I haven’t spoken to her yet. I’m pulling up at home now so I’ve got to go.” I turned off the car, bracing myself. “And Dad...thanks,” I said after a moment.

“You’re welcome, Amy.” My father sounded taken aback at my thanking him but I didn’t have time for my estranged family drama. I had my real family to worry about.

Promptly, as I was walking up our driveway in fact, my worry turned to anger.

I stormed in the door, slamming it behind me, eyes narrowing on Gwen as I hurtled into the dining room. “You!” I accused, pointing my finger. “I cannot believe the prick who shall not be named called and I had to find out from freaking Lucy! I mean, I love the girl, but I don’t want to find this shit out secondhand. You should have called me the moment you got off the phone with that maggot so I could call him back and reach down the phone and castrate the f*cker,” I said fiercely, meaning every word. I would gladly deball that man given the opportunity.

Gwen looked at me blankly, and I was happy to see she looked...okay. She didn’t look like she was on the verge of breaking down. She wasn’t that shell she was a year ago. She looked strong. I let out a teeny breath.

“Hello Amy, how’s it going? Want to say hello to Ian who just got home from an unknown warzone?” was Gwen’s sarcastic response. Okay, so she was fine.

I swallowed, unsure if I could glance his way without laying all of my feelings on my sleeve for Gwen to see. The room felt like it was crackling with electricity; I could feel his presence, the heat of his gaze on me. I willed myself to glance in his direction with an impassive stare on my face. I focused on why I was mad.

“Sorry, Ian, didn’t mean to be rude. I was just a little preoccupied with the whole ‘Gwen getting a phone call from a murderous psychopath’ situation.” I decided sarcasm was the best form of defense.

But as my eyes locked with Ian’s everything fell away. I drank him in greedily as he pushed up from his chair, striding toward me, not breaking eye contact. He was bigger, his muscles more defined. His eyes glowed with intensity.

Then I was in his arms. I battled with the feelings that came rushing with his touch and then relaxed. He was whole. Safe. No bullet holes in sight.

When he released me I wasn’t ready to let go of his touch. I also wasn’t ready for the tender, intimate gaze that penetrated my soul when he looked at me. It was one we had shared in the stolen moments of our fleeting courtship. I inwardly winced at the pain it caused.

“Looking great, Ames,” he said softly after his eyes had roved my body.

The look wasn’t wild or animalistic like the ones that Brock directed at me; neither did it make me feel like flames licked my body. It was soft, reverent, though there was a tinge of sexual hunger in it.

I was glad I looked good today. Well, I tried to look good every day, but I was happy with my outfit of choice. My white lace dress had long sleeves but its hemline finished well above my knees. My hair was braided so it fell long over my shoulder, and my Manolos almost had me meeting Ian’s chin. I was clad in enough designer armor I might just survive this encounter.

I turned my thoughts outward, or more particularly to rove over Ian’s body. A dull hunger thrummed through me as my gaze ran down his muscled expanse. I stopped at a scar on his eyebrow with a frown. A sick feeling quickly replaced the desire, a brutal reminder of his chosen profession. The thing that could get him dead in an instant. The thing that had already killed us. “Just another one to add to the collection,” I remarked dryly.