Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC #2)(49)
“Gwennie! Oh my god. Oh my god,” I chanted as I rushed towards her, hugging her just to make sure she had all of her body parts accounted for.
Once I was satisfied I pulled back to inspect her. My eyes rested on purple bruising covering half of her face.
“Those f*ckers,” I hissed as fury burned through me.
“Amy, it’s okay,” her soft voice tried to reassure me. That only made it worse. How could my tiny, five foot nothing friend get subjected to violence yet again? Hadn’t she been through enough? Didn’t she deserve a life where she wasn’t in danger of getting kidnapped or brutalized?
“Those f*ckers!” I yelled, wishing I had the person responsible in this room so I could tear their fingernails off. “How can this be happening to you again, Gwen? You’ve been through enough! Jesus, you’ve been through hell. You almost died at the hands of crazy f*cked up men. Now after finally healing some other bastards get their hands on you. Um, no. This is not acceptable.”
My eyes darted around the room to rest on Cade. He was watching the exchange with a grim face and his arms crossed. He was looking all badass and dangerous. What was the use of a dangerous badass if he didn’t prevent kidnappings? For f*ck’s sake, he was the reason she was kidnapped in the first place.
“What have you done about this?” I shot at him. “Are you going to make sure this isn’t going to happen again? Cause if you don’t I’m calling my father and he’s going to send his jet to come and take us to an island far away where this are no men within miles.” I changed my mind. “Actually, f*ck that. I’m calling him now.”
I was deadly serious as I whipped out my phone, scrolling through my contacts.
“Babe, cool it. It’s sorted. Put the f*cking phone down and chill the f*ck out,” a familiar deep voice commanded at my shoulder.
I whirled around and directed my glare at yet another biker involved in this freaking mess. How dare he dismiss this like it was nothing now that Gwen was back? Did he not realize what she had been through trying to recover from her last attack? How horrific it was for her to be able to even walk down a f*cking street after it?
“Cool it?” I repeated quietly, my voice shaking. “Cool it?” I shouted at him. “Are you f*cking kidding me? Did you see Gwen lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to monitors on life support? No. Did you listen to a doctor say she might never wake up? No. Did you sit by her bed for almost two weeks, waiting, thinking over and over how you could’ve stopped this, seen the signs, maybe saved her from the horror she endured? No, you didn’t! I did!” I finished my rant with tears streaming down my face, all of those ugly memories surfacing.
Brock didn’t say anything, didn’t yell back or argue. He just stepped forward and pulled me into his arms. I relaxed into them, thankful for the strength and support they represented. I barely noticed him lift me and carry me out of the room, his mouth in my hair.
He made it to my bedroom and lay on my bed, positioning me so I was curled up tightly in his arms. I clung to him. We were silent for a long while.
“Are they dead?” I asked quietly.
Brock moved his head down to make eye contact with me.
“Every last one,” he declared fiercely.
“Good,” I murmured.
With that his arms tightened around me and I drifted off to sleep.
A month passed after Gwen’s kidnapping. Things were quiet; there were no car bombs, drive-bys or fashion emergencies, so things were good. Well, for Gwen and her overprotective, seriously hot, seriously into her biker things were good. Me? Not so much.
I had woken up alone after falling asleep with Brock on the night of her kidnapping. I had barely seen him since, and when we did bump into each other things were tense. He had come to the wrong conclusions about Ian and I was at a loss as to how to set him straight. I craved his touch. I missed him like crazy but I was also happy for the time to get my head together.
A surprise visit from Ry and Alex had done wonders to distract me from my disastrous love life. Gay best friends seemed to have superhuman emotional healing powers. And a heavy hand when making cocktails. It had taken a turn after an argument with Brock at a strip club where I had just gotten into a catfight with Cade’s ex. I had almost melted at the look he had given me after the smackdown I wasn’t aware he witnessed. I then stiffened when he thought he could order me around after ignoring me for the past month. In front of my friends no less. Not okay. So I threw sass. Asserted my independence. It felt good until he had sworn and stormed off with a waitress, his intentions clear. This had been a swift kick in the ovaries.
No matter how much I tried to convince myself I didn’t care, I did. I felt like vomiting at the thought of him with someone else. I then loathed myself for thinking that; I had done the exact same thing with Ian, worse in fact.
Those months sucked majorly. My friend was happier than I’d ever seen her, our business was booming, we had a beautiful home and awesome new friends. I should have been ecstatic. Instead I was miserable. I could hardly sleep, hardly eat with all the shit churning through my mind. I couldn’t keep this up. I had to do something, make a decision about all this.
I did. I came to the conclusion that no matter how much it made sense for Ian and I to be together I couldn’t do it. I wanted Brock. I needed him.
I wanted to make a go of being an “old lady” no matter how much I despised the label and the connotations of ownership that went with it. Gwen seemed to be wearing it as easy as she wore Prada, so I could give it a go. I only faced the prospect of swallowing my pride, or more accurately my fear, and telling Brock this. I was terrified he would reject me. Crush me, humiliate me. Memories of my desperate vulnerable childhood hampered me.