Scars of Yesterday (Sons of Templar MC Book Book 8)

by Anne Malcom

  I was staring at my laptop when the knock came at the door.

  It was done. I had absolutely no words left inside me. Not for this story, at least. I had plenty of other words, a mess that didn’t yet make sense on another document in my computer. But neither had this until now. Until it was done.

  It was confronting to be done with the book. Just like it had been confronting to hear Kace say he loved me. While I was writing this, fuck, even when I got the publishing deal and was sitting in that fancy New York office, it hadn’t felt real yet. The book had been unfinished, I was still in its clutches. Still swept up in the world I was creating.

  What did I do now? Send it off to some stranger? Send it out into the world?

  The mere thought terrified me.

  Luckily, the knock delayed me from thinking about all of this too hard. Once I looked through the peephole, I disarmed the alarm.

  It was always armed when I was in the house alone. Though the kids and I were barely alone in the house these days. There were always after school events. Playdates. One or more of the women in our group coming over here or inviting us over there. Then Kace came straight home. To our home. Where he stayed every night. Where the kids now woke up to him being there, knowing he’d slept over. It didn’t seem to bother them whatsoever that he was all but living with us. He still had his place. Him and Jack were still rebuilding the car. Sometimes he’d work over there, though not very often, not with everything going on. It was not because the club was orchestrating things to make sure I was never alone. That’s just was life was like. That’s what life had been like before Ranger too. Busy. Full.

  Everyone had been watching me, waiting. For the breakdown that they thought would come after me ending someone’s life. Having to clean up the blood of my would-be killer from my kitchen.

  The police don’t do that. I hadn’t known that. Fortunately, Evie had. She’d arrived with a mop and bucket and a bottle of whisky. She’d helped me clean up the blood of the woman I killed.

  Kace wanted to help too. But the biker queen had turned to him and cupped his cheek. “Baby, some things a woman needs to do herself. I got her.”

  Kace didn’t want to leave me. That much was clear. It was burning inside of him. But he respected Evie. Every man did. On reflex. It was also reflex not to leave their woman with a pool of blood to clean up after she killed someone.

  He nodded once, and Evie release him.

  Kace then turned to me, kissing me hard and quick. “I love you, baby,” he murmured.

  I didn’t say it back. Not with words at least.

  He left and Evie and I got to cleaning.

  When he came back that night with the kids, the house smelled of bleach and lemon, with only a hint of death. Though I think that I was the only one who smelled that.

  We watched movies and ate pizza until the kids fell asleep. Then Kace carried them to bed.

  Then he carried me to bed and made fierce, intense love to me.

  Throughout the next few weeks, he made it clear he was there to talk to. That I was safe. He treated me like I was made of glass, expecting me to shatter. The women didn’t do that because they knew that we were diamonds. It took a lot more to break us.

  But that was something I had to communicate to Kace. I got frustrated with the edge in the air, the way he was waiting for me to crumble.

  “You want to protect me,” I acknowledged.

  “Of course I want to fuckin’ protect you,” he barked.

  “That’s the problem,” I replied, voice even. “Every single other one of the courtships I’ve watched over the years have been different. Because the men and women are so incredibly different. But there are some things the same, at their cores. You men. You big, biker men who are used to strong-arming your way through situations. You live a life where you have to be strong, violent and willing to do whatever it takes to protect the club. It’s who you are. You love fiercely. The patch. Your brothers. Your women. So it stands to reason you want to protect them too. But the thing is, you’re all attracted to different women, sure. But these extraordinary women who can survive this life do not want or need a man to protect them. They don’t need shields. They need swords. And to be fair, a lot—okay, all—of the Sons of Templar courtships have involved kidnappings, drive-bys, bombs, poison, gunshots. All things in your wheelhouse. All things you men know how to fight back. But what you want to protect me from is nothing that your experience, that your strength, that your willingness to get bloody is going to beat. I’m not going to have some extraordinary situation with car chases, gunfire or explosions. You’re not going to ride in to save the day or my life. You can’t protect me from what’s coming. What’s already hit me. You can’t protect me from myself.”

  “I can’t do what you’re asking.”

  “You have to,” I implored. “If you want me. This. Us. You have to trust that I know this life. That I can look after myself. I can’t do this otherwise.”

  Kace gritted his teeth. “I trust you, baby,” he scowled. “I just don’t trust the rest of the world.”

  “Makes the two of us,” I agreed. “I’m always going to worry that saying goodbye to you means I’m never going to see you again. I’m going to see your death twenty different ways before you come home each night. I’m going to imagine all kinds of horrors. Going to see twenty different versions of what life would be like without you.”

  Kace sighed, his eyes troubled and dark. “Fuck, Lizzie,” he murmured.

  “You want to back out of this yet?” I joked.

  His hands went to my hips. Firm. Bordering on painful. “I never want out of this. Ever.”

  So that was that.

  Kind of.

  This was the first day I’d had alone at my house for more than a couple of hours at a time since Nicole. And Kace texted me at least every hour to make sure I was alive and not bound and gagged in a cheap motel room.

  Or trapped in a mansion in another state.

  That had happened.

  And worse.

  I figured Gage was knocking on my door because Kace had bribed or convinced him to come and check on me in a way that seemed organic.

  “Gage, what a surprise,” I smirked slyly. “Can I get you anything?” I asked once I’d let him inside.

  “Nah, I’m only here to drop something off then I’ve got to get home. Lauren needs to paint, so I’m taking over.”

  I smiled, thinking of their dynamic. Of their happily ever after. Even though the first half of his life had been broken. He gave me hope.

  “You’re here to drop something off or to make sure I’m not rocking in a ball on my kitchen floor?” I teased.

  Gage’s mouth twitched. “Seeing you upright and sane is a bonus, but I didn’t expect anything less,” he proclaimed.

  Gage was one of the only men who didn’t look at me like I was going to lose it. We had a connection. He’d seen parts of me, raw and open. He’d watched me heal too. So he knew this wasn’t going to break me.

  He opened his cut to retrieve something from an inner pocket. “You know the club better than anyone. Know that we’re all at peace with the fact we might die by the club. Sure as shit fight against it, considering all the things we’ve got to live for. But it’s not somethin’ we ignore. Not a responsibility we take lightly. We’ve got things in place. In case of the worst.”

  I stared at the thing he was holding in his hands.

  “He made me promise not to give this to you until you were living,” Gage continued, handing me an envelope. “Really living, not going through the motions like you have been for the past year.”

  I stared at the envelope now laying in my palm. It didn’t weigh anything, but my palm ached from the mere act of holding it.

  “I’m sure many of the women have already said something along the same lines as this, but moving on isn’t betrayal,” he explained, voice soft. “Living is the greatest gift you can give his memory.” He leaned in to gently kiss my head and then le
ft.

  I didn’t read the letter right away.

  Maybe months ago I would’ve. I probably would’ve torn at the paper with a desperation to devour any words my husband had for me. Ranger had really thought this through. Giving it to me when the grief and death were so close to the surface, it wouldn’t have done anything.

  So now that they were deeper, I was managing to breathe around it all. I set the letter on the counter while I opened a bottle of wine and poured it into a glass. I stared at it as I drank the first glass.

  Then, with a steady hand, I opened it.

  Lizzie.

  Baby. You’re probably mad as fuck to be reading this right now. Maybe at me. Maybe at the club. Or maybe not at all. I can honestly say, even after us being married all these years, I can’t say what you’ll do. How you’ll react to my dying. I just know one thing that never changes. The way you love.

  I’ve written many versions of this letter over the years. And every time I get to tear up the one that came before, I’m happy. Reminding myself what a lucky bastard I am to continue life with you.

  Fuck. I’ve put you through a lot. The fact that I’m writing this knowing everything I’ve done to you and the fact you’re still sleeping in our bed, yeah, I’m lucky.

  Not many women are strong enough to go through what we’ve gone through. I wasn’t strong enough half the time. But you carried us through.

  You carried me through loss I didn’t know how to handle. You carried our children, your own pain. You made me feel like I was something. That my past didn’t define me. You saved me, baby.

  I fucking hate to think there is any kind of possibility that you’re reading this. When we’re finally at a good place. The club is straight. The kids are growing. We’re stronger than ever.

  I’ve broken my promise to you. If you’re reading this. I’ve broken the promise I made to grow old with you. I hate myself for it. Maybe if I was a fucking contractor, I wouldn’t have to write these letters every few years. You’d get what you wanted. What you deserved. But I’m not that. There’s no changing who or what I am.

  I hate that I’ve left the kids. That I don’t get to do all the things a father should do.

  There was a harsh mark in the paper. A smudge. Something to show that the mere thought of leaving his children had pained him. I took a painful breath and a large sip before I continued.

  Fuck I hope I get to rip this letter up. As soon as I do, I’m coming home, gonna tuck in the kids, tell them how much I love them, then I’m going to spend the whole night worshipping you. Tasting you. Imprinting my utter fucking devotion to you on all of your skin.

  But it’s because of that devotion that I’m writing this. I’d be a coward not to. To stick my head in the sand and try to forget the fact there is a chance you’ll have to go through this alone. And I know the club has your back. Those crazy fucking women have your back. I also know you’ll be alone. In our bed. At midnight. When you make coffee in the morning. When you watch the kids at the recitals and sports games you hate. You have to do all of that shit alone. It hurts my very soul. So I’m asking you to make sure that’s not forever. That you don’t sentence yourself to a life alone. Now this is hard as fuck for me think about let alone put on paper. I hate the thought of any other man near you. But what I hate more is you waking up alone every morning for the rest of your life.

  I won’t let you do that.

  If you’re reading this, then it’s time. Get your shit together, baby. Give someone the gift of your love. And know I died fighting, because I didn’t want to let go of it. Kiss our kids for me. Never let them forget how much I loved them.

  The letter was in shreds at my feet before I realized exactly what was going on. My hands had worked of their own accord, ruining the words before I could try to preserve them. Wasting hours, poring over them. Losing myself in it.

  I’d read the letter once. That’s all I needed. It wasn’t like I was about to forget a single fucking letter.

  Slowly, purposefully, I walked to the sink. got a lighter out of our kitchen junk drawer and set the pieces on fire. Then I washed the ashes away.

  Then I called Gwen to request an emergency girlfriend meeting.

  Chapter 23

  “Wait,” Gwen interrupted, holding up her hand. “They’ve all got letters?”

  As I expected, every single woman in our circle had joined us.

  I nodded. “Apparently they’ve all made some kind of deal.”

  “A deal?” Amy repeated, rifling through her purse. My heart hurt for her. She’d had a letter from a dead love before. I was pretty sure she wasn’t too hot on the idea that there was a chance of reading another one in the future.

  “So they’ve all been writing death letters like Nicholas mother effing Sparks?” Mia asked, though it was clear she didn’t need an answer. “Do they not realize this is not a romantic comedy and such letters are not at all cute?”

  “That’s insane,” Bex snapped, her eyes narrowed, likely thinking of all the ways she was going to tell off her husband later.

  “It’s kind of sweet,” Lily added quietly. Of course, the softest of all of us, found the romance in this, though she got more than a few eye rolls.

  “Sweet my tight ass,” Amy muttered, snatching her phone from the table and pressing angrily at the buttons. She put it to her ear. “Hi, honey,” she said in a tone that Brock likely picked up as a warning. “Oh, no, I’m fine,” she said after a beat. “I’m just sitting here with all the gals, having cocktails, talking about the death letters you’ve written all of us.”

  She paused, presumably while Brock tried to say something to make up for it. Making an excuse. “Oh, I don’t need you to try to bullshit your way out of this,” she stated, most likely interrupting what Brock had to say, if he’d even had time to say anything. “I just need you to know that I know about the letters. And I swear to fucking God, if I ever read one, I’ll take up necromancy in order to bring you back from the goddamn grave in order to accurately punish you for not only writing the letter but for dying in the first place.” She sipped her drink. “And if you haven’t figured it out already, you’re sleeping in the guest room tonight.” She hung up the phone.

  “Was it a mistake telling you?” I asked, feeling very responsible for the tongue lashings that most of the Sons of Templar would be getting at various points throughout the day.

  “No fucking way,” Amy huffed.

  “What she said,” Gwen put in.

  Mia nodded.

  As did Bex.

  Lily bit her lip with what I could only guess was unease.

  Lauren had a relatively even look on her face compared to the rest of the women. Gage had given her a lot of darkness, all of his scars, so she probably wasn’t surprised by this. Wasn’t hurt by it.

  “Are you okay, sweetie?” Ashley inquired, leaning forward to squeeze my hand.

  “Yes,” I answered automatically and honestly.

  Amy raised a brow. “I’ve gotten one of those mother fucking letters, so I call bullshit.”

  I smiled sadly at her. At the morbid connection we’d share forever. Receiving letters from dead men.

  “Maybe if it had been sooner,” I explained. “If I’d read that when everything was raw and open. When the world didn’t make sense, and I hated it almost as much as I hated myself. If I didn’t have someone like Kace. If I didn’t have friends who pried me out of my own shell of grief.” I looked around at the women who meant everything to me. The cornerstones of my life.

  “I’m sure there’s still going to be moments when I want to sink onto the floor or float down the shower drain,” I continued. “But I’m different now. The letter hurt. But I’m used to being hurt now. I recover quicker. I’m at peace with my pain now.”

  All of the woman looked at me with glassy love in their eyes. They hurt when I hurt, wanted to fix me. If they couldn’t do that, they’d always be there with a drink, a kind ear and a fuck-load of curse words.

 
“Love that for you, honey, but I am not at fucking peace with shit,” Amy said, lips thinned. “And I’m planning on punishing my husband in many different ways later on tonight, none of them ending in an orgasm... for him, at least.”

  “Cheers to that, bitch,” Gwen chuckled, holding up her glass.

  Everyone clinked, laughing. Because that’s what these women did, they turned their lemons into margaritas.

  I didn’t see Kace for three days after the letter.

  He obviously knew about it. Though the guys didn’t look like the kind of men who would gossip over cosmopolitans, they definitely spilled secrets over beers, whiskies or the dead bodies of their enemies.

  They were honestly worse than us, which was kind of saying something since our group had no secrets.

  I thought about Ashley and Wire. Her being expert at evading any and all conversations about her love life.

  So maybe almost no secrets.

  I was also pretty sure Wire kept tight lipped on the whole thing too. Something very interesting was going to play out there, hopefully sooner rather than later.

  But what was happening right now was at the forefront of my mind. Or rather, what wasn’t happening right now.

  Had Kace heard about the letter and come to his own conclusions about what it would mean? Deciding to cut things off without so much as a word?

  No. That wasn’t him.

  That was just one of the many possible explanations I’d gone through over the past three days.

  I’d had to lie to the kids and say Kace was away on club business because even three days of his absence created a hole in our lives. In our home. It was terrifying. It pissed me off too. How hard was it to fucking text?

  It was safe to say I was going through about a thousand different emotions. The most prevalent of which was need. For Kace. To tell him the truth Ranger had given me permission to tell.

  He’d given me permission to feel it all.

  It wasn’t simple. I was going to struggle with this. With my feelings for Kace and my longing for my husband. I suspected it was going to be a long journey. But I wasn’t about to let it end here.