Firestorm (The Sons of Templar MC Book 2)

By: Anne Malcom

My hard biker’s face softened and a callused hand stroked my cheek.

“Baby, the shit you’ve been through, the shit you’ve survived? You deserve a lifetime of happy and I’m going to make fucking sure you get it.” He finished this with a kiss.

Plastering my mouth against his, I moaned as his tongue explored my mouth, my worries about Belle fading away.

I pulled back abruptly. “Amy,” I muttered.

Cade’s face was blank. “Not too sure I’m happy you’re thinking about Amy when I’m doing that, babe.”

I shook my head. “That was great. Amazing. Obviously. But it’s Amy…I don’t know where she is. She’s missing.”

Cade’s body tightened at this and he instantly turned into the alert, macho alpha male. “Explain,” he ordered.

I recounted what Katherine had told me. “That means she’s been MIA for two weeks Cade. I’ve talked to her since then but maybe only twice. And both times she said she was busy and had to go. I’m worried.” I chewed my lip.

Cade brought his thumb up to my mouth, lightly brushing it.

“She’ll be fine baby. She’s probably just getting some time away from it all. I know something happened with Brock that might have had her wanting to disappear for a bit.”

I raised my eyebrow threateningly at this. My man had better not have been withholding information from me.

“I don’t know any specifics—put your claws away. I just know that he’s been a grumpy motherfucker. Not that that’s really news over the past year, but more so than usual. Something went down—maybe Amy just needed to get her head straight,” Cade said reassuringly, rubbing my arms.

I chewed on this for a moment. “But why wouldn’t she tell me? She’s my best friend and she’s going through all of this on her own.” I gazed up at him, tears welling in my eyes.

She was the one who would tell me I was being a crazy person worrying about things like snuffles and hair growth. She’d pour me a cocktail and distract me with Celine’s latest collection or some inane celebrity gossip.

“I don’t make sense without her. Where is she?”


I slung back my fifth shot, savoring the burn at the back of my throat and the tingling in my fingers as the alcohol seared into my system.

“Another.” I pushed my glass at the bartender without looking up.

He didn’t say a word, nor did he raise a judgmental eyebrow that I was drinking alone in the early afternoon. I was pretty sure it was barely past lunch. This was most likely due to the kind of establishment I was currently welcoming oblivion in. It was dark, with an old wooden bar and equally old chairs and tables scattered around the place. The paint was crumbling at the walls and the clientele was as rough as the bar itself. Not that I cared. As long as they provided alcohol that let me escape into blissed numbness I did not give a shit.

“Here you go, darlin’.” The bartender pushed the drink into my waiting hands and I downed it.

“Want to talk about it?” he asked in a gruff tone.

I glanced up at him. He was older, probably late fifties with dark greying hair and a greying mustache. He was wearing a plaid shirt undone, with the sleeves rolled up and a wife beater underneath. Faded tattoos were scattered up his arms. I met his eyes; they were brown and crinkled at the sides. He was staring at me with a kind expression that looked out of place on his otherwise rough exterior.

“Talk about what?” I replied, managing not to slur my words.

“Whatever’s got a beautiful lady like you in a shithole like this, drinking her troubles away.” He pulled out another glass and poured the clear liquid into it before refilling mine. “Can’t let you do it alone.”

I paused, clinking my glass with his and drinking. “Guess I just felt like being anonymous for a while, and this place seems like same as any to be no one,” I replied, glancing around at the patrons. There weren’t many; the few that were scattered around were keeping to themselves.

The bartender nodded, regarding me. “Fair enough, girlie. Want my advice, best person to be is always who you are. Might not be perfect, might be hard as hell, but you ain’t got nothing if you ain’t got yourself.” With this sage wisdom he left me the bottle and walked down the bar.

I regarded the tequila bottle through blurry eyes. I wasn’t quite ready to be myself. If I was, that would mean I had to face all the issues that came with being Amy Abrams. Currently there was a shit ton of those. I didn’t feel like facing reality, like feeling the pain that had been my constant companion for almost a year. I didn’t feel like masking it through fake smiles and inappropriate jokes. I had played a part for eight months and I was exhausted. I didn’t want to feel anymore. I thought back to what brought me here, to a dive bar in the middle of New Mexico, after driving aimlessly around the country for two weeks trying to get my head straight. If I thought back I had to go way back, to the reason I wanted to be in a dive bar in the middle of New Mexico. The day that changed my life forever and that could have turned me into an alcoholic.

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