Outside the Lines (Sons of Templar MC #2.5)(13)

Yep. Emotional lottery. In the billions.

“You told them that?” I deduced. “That’s why no one has so much as checked out my ass in the past week and a half?”

Hansen’s gaze turned blank. “Trust me, babe, even when I threaten them with death and dismemberment, they ain’t gonna stop checkin’ out that perky ass,” he stated flatly. His hand moved to trace my lip. “Moment I tasted the sweetness, realized it was better than I ever could have imagined, was the moment I knew no one else was tasting that shit again.”

I jolted. “So you scared them all off, even though you decided to push me away?” I said sharply. Even though his words were sweet, I couldn’t help but be irritated. He may have been trying to protect me from his big, bad, biker world, but that wasn’t his decision to make. I chose to be in this world. I wanted it. I was getting mighty sick of people deciding the only place I felt I belonged wasn’t right for me.

Hansen sighed. “I was trying to make sure I didn’t commit murder,” he stated. “‘Cause that’s what I would’ve done, had someone touched what I had finally tasted after a year, brother or not.”

I sucked in a breath. “If you felt this way, why in the heck did you push me away you big idiot?” I asked, smacking his shoulder. “You had to have known I’d be yours, the moment your mouth touched mine,” I said quieter, losing my bravado.

He did that thing, that thing where his eyes swam the depths of my soul. “Yeah babe, I knew. Which was why I pushed you away. If I didn’t claim you like I have now, I knew I’d never let you go, let you have the chance of a better life.”

My heart pounded in my chest. “And now?” I breathed.

“And now, I’m the one that’s going to give it to you,” he declared. “That answer your question?” he asked.

“I think that answers that question and any question I could have about anything anywhere in the universe… ever,” I said stupidly.

Hansen grinned. He kissed my head gently and went back to the grill.

My fantasy turned reality stayed firmly in place as he cooked us a delicious breakfast, which we ate on his patio. It then continued after we finished said breakfast and had sex on his breakfast bar. And sofa.

The whole day was spent discovering each other’s bodies, whispering stupid jokes—me, and laughing at stupid jokes—Hansen. Despite a nagging headache, which Hansen was very vigilant about, it was almost the best day in my life to date. Actually, it was the best day of my life to date. Period.

That’s why, late on Sunday afternoon, I was loathed to break the spell. A lot of it was because I really didn’t want to go back to my chicly decorated but shabby house and sit in front of a computer screen for the next four hours. I wanted to cuddle up to a warm yet firm body and continue to spend time in Hansen’s sparsely decorated but decidedly not shabby house. I also didn’t want to leave this house. I was terrified of doing so, I’d break whatever spell we were under and reality would come hurtling back in, or maybe Ashton Kutcher would come running in with a camera crew declaring this whole wonderful day an elaborate trick.

I reasoned my emotional trauma would make for great television. As would Hansen’s abs.

I trailed his pec, touching the light puckered scar marring an otherwise smooth and perfect torso. “What’s this from?” I asked quietly, giving myself five more minutes until I let reality back in.

“Bullet wound,” he said in a distracted voice, his hands drawing light designs on my back.

I lifted my head to rest my chin on his chest, horrified. “Bullet wound?” I repeated.

He nodded nonchalantly like a bullet wound was something akin to a paper cut.

“You’re telling me that this…” I touched the scar lightly, “…is evidence of a bullet tearing through your chest?” I asked, slightly hysterical.

“Missed anything major, babe. No biggy,” he replied, eyes on me.

“No biggy?” I repeated. “The man classifies a gunshot wound as ‘no biggy’ and he thinks I’m crazy,” I addressed the empty room.

Hansen’s chest vibrated as he chuckled. He lifted me so my body was fully on top of his and my face was almost touching his.

“Long time ago, Mace. Another life,” he said, more seriously. “One that made me who I am. One that taught me a lot of shit. And one that I’m glad to be out of, on account of the high probably of getting shot.”

I chewed all of this over. I imagined Hansen, big, strong, unflappable Hansen getting plowed down by a bullet. My stomach clenched tightly at the thought. I couldn’t imagine him in a hospital bed.

“Please tell me you didn’t dig the bullet out yourself, rub some dirt on it and run that beautiful butt right back into whatever situation got you shot in the first place?” I said with a hint of seriousness, but mostly joking.

Hansen smiled again. “No. I let someone who wasn’t bleeding from the chest take the bullet out, and it took me a few weeks to get back on my feet.”

“A few weeks? Geez okay, Clark Kent. I’m pretty sure it would take months to get back on those glorious legs if you were anything less than superhuman,” I teased.

“Glorious legs?” he repeated with a full grin.

I shrugged my shoulders. “You obviously don’t skip leg day.”