Outside the Lines (Sons of Templar MC #2.5)(23)

I shook away the bitterness that came with that thought. “I’m not asking my boyfriend to whack someone,” I slurred.

Arianne’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t a someone. He’s not a person, the man that did this. He’s an animal. Plus, you tell Hansen, you probably wouldn’t even have to ask,” she commented.

My phone dinged.



Hansen: Macy. I’m getting seriously concerned. Where the f*ck are you?



Arianne’s words resonated. Because I feared they were true. The world I’d found myself in was a world of loyalty and love. With that loyalty came the need for revenge on anyone who hurt the club. With that love came brutality.

I typed into the phone.



Me: Need numbness. You make me feel. I’m okay. Safe. Just need to be numb for the night.



I read over my text with drunken eyes, deduced it made sense, then switched off my phone. Arianne watched me. She didn’t say a word, didn’t judge, just passed me the vodka bottle.

Man, I loved her.





I woke to loud banging which seemed to shake Arianne’s tiny apartment. I squinted and deduced it was coming from the door.

“Open the f*ckin’ door,” a voice bellowed.

A very angry voice.

A very angry familiar voice.

I detached my hand from Arianne’s who was yet to wake up and half rolled, half fell off the sofa.

“Ouch,” I muttered as my head hit the corner of the coffee table. It didn’t exactly hurt, but I thought such impact was meant to cause pain, so I uttered to appropriate word.

Okay, still numb, which meant still drunk. I pulled myself to my feet and fought against the swaying floor to make it to the door. Definitely still drunk. That and the fact it was still dark must have meant it was still night-time.

After battling with the chain, I was blinded by horrible, bright sunlight when I opened the door. I put my hand up to shade myself. Okay, not night. Arianne just had really great curtains.

“Jesus f*ckin’ Christ,” I heard an angry voice mutter.

I squinted to see Hansen taking up the doorway. His entire frame seemed to be etched in fury.

“What time is it?” I asked, wondering how it was so bright and how I was still resonantly drunk.

There was a pause. “What time is it?” Hansen repeated in a dangerously quiet voice. One which I should have registered as a warning.

I was drunk and disorientated so I didn’t. So, instead, I nodded.

Note to self, don’t nod. It hurts head.

“You’re f*cking serious?” he yelled. “I come home, you’ve disappeared, no note, no call, you’re f*ckin’ computer’s still open. You don’t answer your phone, not for hours, then you send some f*cked up text and turn off your phone. Now, I finally find you, after driving myself f*ckin’ crazy with worry all night, and you ask me what time it is?” he bellowed.

I flinched, not only at his anger but at the fact the volume of his voice was very painful to my fast approaching hangover.

He seemed to take my flinch as fear, so he took a deep breath and seemed to make an effort to calm himself. “What the f*ck, Macy?” he said quieter, but no less angry. “You can’t do shit like that, just take off. Is this about me asking you to move in? You got a problem, you talk, you don’t f*ckin take off without a word,” his voice began to rise again.

I squinted at him, and swayed slightly, unable to properly comprehend so much while dealing with the transition between drunk to hungover.

Hansen steadied me by clutching my hips. “You’re drunk?” he said in disbelief.

I nodded. “Seems that way.”

“It’s nine am,” he pointed out through gritted teeth.

I tilted my head. “Well, that vodka was certainly worth every penny,” I mused out loud.

“So you put me through all this shit…” he returned to that dangerous quiet voice, “…to tie one on?”

He didn’t even wait for me to answer, just let go of my hips and stepped back. “Got shit to do,” he clipped, his voice tight. “You wanna talk about whatever the f*ck this is…” he gestured to my body, “…you do it when you’ve sobered up.”

He didn’t even wait for a response, just sauntered off and left me standing there, squinting into the harsh morning sunlight. Then they came the feelings. So, I stumbled back into Arianne’s kitchen, poured myself a glass of orange juice and splashed a liberal amount of vodka into it.

“My kind of mimosas,” Arianne commented, slightly slurring her words. She grabbed my glass stole a sip, then sank back on the sofa. “Make me one if you’re morning drinking, I can’t let you do it alone,” she declared.

Totally loved her.

“Honey, I love a bender as much as the next girl, and I totally get why you’re drowning your sorrows. How about we transition to coffee?” Arianne suggested after two glasses, and an hour later.

I thought on it.

Coffee. Coffee meant sober. Sober meant hangover. Hangovers came with regrets, and the stern reality of life prior to drunkenness. I wanted to stay in a perpetual state of drunkenness to avoid the reality that I knew was coming. I knew that was strictly labeled as alcoholism, and I didn’t want that. I also wanted to prolong my holiday from reality—from pain.