Battles of the Broken (The Sons of Templar MC Book 6)

by Anne Malcom

  She gave his hand another squeeze.

  And because she knew when to shut her mouth, she got out of the car and didn’t make him spew out a response.

  Which was a good thing because he had nothing to say.

  And she had hung around with the rest of the old ladies and their kids while Cade had held church.

  It was a lot less chaotic than it had been for a good handful of years. It had a fuck of a lot to do with the fact that there had been no new partnerships between a patched member and an old lady. And those courtships always promised chaos. But after what happened with Bex, it had cut the club.

  Deep.

  And then the shit with Rosie.

  She was the heart and soul of the place. Even Gage fucking saw that. And she’d been involved in some deep shit. Deeper than anyone thought she could be capable of. Everyone apart from Gage, of course. He knew his shit. He’d known it all along.

  Because he excelled at seeing the shit people hid.

  The dark shit.

  And Rosie had dark shit.

  She could also handle it.

  But shit since then had been quiet.

  As quiet as it could be, at least.

  Partly because they’d stopped running guns and started going legit.

  More or less.

  They still took contracts out for some fuckers who needed to be put down.

  Which was what Cade had given Gage.

  A gift from the fucking Devil, as if the Prince of Darkness himself knew Gage needed to end someone if he was going to keep his shit tight.

  “Not so fast,” Cade said, eyeing Lucky and Brock who were nearing the door before he focused on Gage. “You need backup on this?”

  He was talking about the ex-Mexican gangbanger Rosie had sent them info on from LA. The bitch was a fucking bounty hunter, among other things. She and the ex-cop moonlighted, doling out vigilante justice.

  Crawford.

  Straight-laced fucker who’d tried to bring down the club for years. Now he was chasing—and killing—drug dealers and rapists with his wife.

  Rosie had called in the club because she was unable to chase after a gangbanger turned pimp—one who specialized in underage girls—on account of being three months pregnant. Apparently Crawford had to detain her for a day because she’d been determined to take on the underworld, even with a baby growing inside of her.

  Gage didn’t doubt that she could’ve.

  He wasn’t of the same opinion of his brothers, who didn’t seem to like their women foraging into the fray at the best of times, let alone being vulnerable. Gage knew fucking breathing was vulnerable, and he knew those women were stronger than most of the self-proclaimed badasses he’d taken down in his life. He also knew that women had demons too. Especially the ones within the club. And they deserved to fight them, to starve them in the best ways that worked. And those ways were likely to be dangerous. Because life was fucking dangerous.

  But these fuckers didn’t seem to like the idea of women fighting battles.

  Cade, of all people, had driven up to LA to side with Crawford. That was all sorts of upside down. But the cop had proved himself.

  So Gage didn’t kill him.

  It would’ve pissed Rosie off.

  And Gage respected the fucker.

  He cracked his knuckles, smiling at Cade’s question. “When do I ever need backup?” he asked.

  Cade shook his head, grinning.

  Because Gage was right. He was the main member who dealt with the contracts. Sure, Bull would come along when he needed to feed his own demons. Sometimes Lucky, if it had shit to do with rape—his own demons were hungry still, and sometimes you needed to know when to feed the right demons and starve the wrong ones. But mainly it was Gage. Because he was the most fucked up of them all.

  His brothers were strong motherfuckers who could stomach a lot.

  But Gage could stomach everything.

  And he didn’t have a family to risk in case shit got turned around. There was nothing for him to lose. Which meant he was little more than unstoppable.

  “All right, great, smoke time,” Brock repeated, slapping Gage on the shoulder as if the matter were wrapped up.

  Gage gripped the knife at his belt, more for comfort than anything else. Because in addition to craving blood, junk, and Lauren’s body underneath him, he fucking wanted a smoke.

  He wanted a whole fucking pack of them.

  He’d hated them before kicking the junk. But they were the only thing that helped get him clean the first time.

  And, eventually, the second.

  Because you couldn’t kick an addiction without starting another one. And he’d just fucking promised Lauren he was going to kick the addiction that’d had a big fucking hand in keeping him sober. That and killing people. And blowing shit up.

  So he was going to have to take up a new addiction.

  And he knew it was going to be her.

  “Not smokin’,” he replied to Brock.

  Brock’s hand paused, as did Cade from where he was getting up from the head of the table. They were the only two brothers—save Lucky—in the club who knew he was sober. Not that it was a secret; he just didn’t go waving his chips like they were a badge of honor.

  Because they weren’t.

  He wasn’t proud of being sober.

  Because it wasn’t an accomplishment.

  An accomplishment would’ve been never getting hooked on the shit in the first place. That might’ve saved them.

  Might’ve saved him.

  But there wasn’t room for mights in his life.

  Hence him not spilling his shit to the only family he had left.

  An area in his chest burned with the fact that this wasn’t quite true. He ignored it.

  But Cade and Brock knew about the addiction. Nothing else though. No way were the words of his true past leaving his lips. It was too fucked up for even his brothers.

  “Come again?” Brock asked, screwing up his face. “You’re not smoking? What? You lose a bet with Lucky or something?

  Gage shrugged off his hand, pushing up to stand. “Givin’ it up.”

  Brock gaped at him. Even Cade’s eyes widened slightly, and the motherfucker had a notorious poker face.

  “You’re giving up smoking?” Brock asked in shock. “And taking up what? And don’t say you’re not replacing it with somethin’ else, ’cause if you don’t, I’m thinking you’ll burn the fuckin’ clubhouse to the ground just ’cause you’re in a bad mood. Shit, you’ve done that before.”

  Gage gritted his teeth. “Wasn’t our clubhouse, if you’ll remember correctly.”

  Brock rolled his eyes. “Different chapter, still Sons.”

  Gage shrugged. “They were a piss-poor chapter anyway. Plus no one died. And no one traced it back to me.”

  “They never do,” Cade said, eyeing him in that intense way the fucker did. He saw more than most men, but Gage hid more than most men, so he didn’t really see shit. “You good, bro? Somethin’ you want to share with us?” He eyed the door, the room now emptied of brothers who were in a hurry to get to their families, or a bottle, or between the legs of a club whore.

  “Stays in here if you do. You know that,” Cade continued.

  Gage straightened his shoulders, reaching in for his piece, the weight of it in his hands comforting, calming. He checked the chamber before shoving it back into his shoulder holster. “Got nothin’ to share. Got people to kill.”

  And he turned on his heel, planning to do just that.

  Hoping—no, fucking praying he would be able to curb his need by ending some lives.

  Not his need for the junk.

  For her.

  Lauren

  I would’ve been lying if I didn’t expect the person knocking at my door at eight in the morning on a Sunday to be Gage.

  I wasn’t just expecting it.

  I was hoping for it.

  Though I’d spent the time since he’d left pretending I wasn’t.
Convincing myself that the next time I saw him, I’d firmly tell him to leave me alone. Let him know I was so far from the woman for him it was comical.

  He was a biker.

  Even if he was your run-of-the-mill biker, it wouldn’t work.

  But he wasn’t.

  He was something so much more than those menacing men who threw society’s rules out the proverbial window and lived hard and fast.

  He lived hard and fast. But he also lived dangerous. He also had a kind of emptiness behind his eyes that chilled me to the core.

  Then there was the other side of him that made me burn hot. That made me want things I’d pretended I’d never even thought about.

  He was a killer. He didn’t hide that from me. Freaking hell, he’d all but admitted it the second time we spoke—when he told me I was his.

  And then there was me.

  Me.

  Who barely had any friends because she didn’t do anything to put herself out there. Who never took risks. Who made sure her life was orderly, simple, safe. Who lived slow and gentle by design. For survival.

  Abagail’s reaction on Friday was right on the money. The mere thought of the two of us was comical. Like a mouse and a snake.

  So using my precious logic, I should’ve been able to dismiss him, for my survival more than anything else. Because he was the antithesis of everything I’d insulated myself from. All the chaos, danger, and pain in the world wrapped into one man.

  One man I couldn’t stop thinking about.

  So I both dreaded and awaited opening that door to him.

  Only it wasn’t him.

  “Okay, she’s alive and has all of her limbs and is cute as a fucking button,” a stunning redheaded woman said into a phone at her ear, her emerald eyes going up and down my body in appraisal.

  Usually when another woman looked at you like that—especially a woman who was tall, curvy, stunning with almost waist-length red hair and style that belonged on a runway—it was instinct to shrink back. To let anxiety and all those insecurities rise up and chew away at you, because certain kinds of women had a talent for pinpointing all those insecurities, bringing them to the surface with one look.

  But it wasn’t that kind of look.

  Though her perfectly made-up eyes were appraising me, it wasn’t sharp or mean like the way a lot of women did. Not that I had much time to deduce this, since she was somewhat of a Chanel No. 5-laden hurricane.

  “Mhhm, yeah, babe, I’ll pass on any and all goss, plus your little talking to. Okay, kiss your cop for me, and give him a BJ too.” She winked at me as she hung up the phone.

  In a motion that she managed to not make rude, she pushed past me and started up my stairs, almost gliding up them in six-inch Valentinos.

  The Rock Star Studs.

  I nearly drooled.

  Shoes were my weakness. Designer ones especially.

  Not that I owned any. Of course not. They were a completely irresponsible purchase, and I didn’t have anywhere to wear them. I merely admired them from afar. And here was an unknown glamazon woman, entering my apartment at eight on a Sunday morning wearing heels that cost more than my monthly mortgage payment.

  I followed her up in a dream, my ballet flat–clad feet seemingly unworthy to step where those magnificent shoes had graced my floors.

  “I need coffee, like yesterday. My baby decided it was okay to keep me up all night,” she called from the top of the stairs.

  The click of her heels on the hardwood followed her words.

  She glanced over her shoulder on the way into my kitchen, grinning.

  “Before I pushed that beautiful but fucking annoying human out, the only time I was up all night was when I was partying or my husband was giving me multiple orgasms.”

  Another wink as she started opening cupboards at random. I had stopped at my kitchen island, rather unsure of what to do.

  She wasn’t robbing me. It didn’t seem like she was going to hurt me. But I was pretty sure I should’ve objected to a woman, no matter how friendly and well-dressed she seemed, walking into my apartment without introducing herself.

  Though she did seem a little familiar.

  “That was Lucy on the phone, by the way,” she said, pausing at the third cupboard. “She heard about you crashing your car. I have no idea how, but her husband does own a security business, so I guess it would be weirder if she didn’t know. Those badass motherfuckers have, like, I don’t know, sensors or something.” She shrugged. “And anyway, she was pissed. Because she tried your cell and it was disconnected—I’m guessing it broke in the crash—and then you weren’t at work. She was going to drive up here, but of course, she has babies, like me. Well, hers is currently cooking in her stomach, but it’s the same principle. They kind of stop you from doing anything spontaneous, like road-tripping to Coachella, or going to Paris to get drunk on champagne and shop at Dior.” She sighed, her eyes dreamy, obviously not talking about Lucy. “Of course, we love our children dearly and all that.” She waved her hand dismissively, but there was a warmth in her eye. “But they do tend to take a little more effort to rope into spontaneous road trips. And I mean rope. Have you seen those car seats they make?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “Honestly, you have to be a rocket scientist to figure that out. My husband isn’t a rocket scientist, but he’s got those badass powers, so he’s in charge of all baby contraptions.” She resumed her rummaging.

  I was slightly relieved at the mention of Lucy, and I was beginning to connect the dots. There was only one redheaded, foulmouthed, beautiful and stylish woman in Amber who was married to a badass with “badass powers.”

  “You’re Amy?” I said.

  She looked over her shoulder. “Well, duh, of course I am. Who else would I be?” She looked back to my cupboards before sighing and stepping back. “Now, is there like some kind of map to get to your coffee?”

  I smiled. “Um, I don’t have coffee. I ran out.”

  She gaped at me like I’d just said I had bodies stuffed in the fridge.

  “What do you mean, you ‘don’t have coffee’?” she asked slowly, as if she’d just stepped on a land mine and was hesitant to move too much, let alone speak quickly, in case the whole place went up.

  I shrugged. “I don’t drink it.”

  That time she braced herself on my island as if the very words struck her down. “You. Don’t. Drink. Coffee.” Again it was spoken like I’d offered her to become one of the severed heads in my freezer. “But how do you”—she waved her hands at me—“look like that and not have coffee in your life?” She pointed to her chest, covered in a green silk shirt, which was tucked into white drainpipe jeans. “I’ve had four coffees to make my whole situation happen and be fabulous.” She narrowed her expertly manicured brows. “And you look like a damn vision of girl next door mixed with… hmm.” She looked me up and down again, brows furrowed. “Something different but kickass. Something unique. And you’ve done this without coffee. I’m going to need the name of the demon you brokered the deal with to sell your soul. Because homeboy hooked you up.”

  I smiled wider, despite the way her words hit my exposed nerves. The way she spoke, a thousand miles a minute, was comforting. Calming somehow. There were people you just immediately clicked with. It had happened with me less than a handful of times, because I didn’t let myself click with people.

  Clicking meant caring.

  Caring meant danger.

  Because when you cared about a person, even a little bit, you gave them that little bit of yourself to hold onto, keep safe. And no matter how long it took, that little piece would eventually be destroyed. By that person themselves, or the world in general.

  “You can tell me all about it at the coffee shop,” she decided, closing my cupboards and snatching her purse off my countertop. “Because you might be some kind of human-demon hybrid, but we’ll talk about that over my java, because I, sadly, am not.”

  She linked her arm in mine, directing us both down the st
airs and outside before I knew what was happening.

  “I don’t have my purse, or my keys,” I said as she dragged me along. She was a lot stronger than she looked.

  “Oh, honey, you don’t need your purse. It’s only polite of me to buy you your unicorn tears or whatever it is you consume instead of coffee to make you this hawt at eight in the morning,” she replied, her heels clicking along the pavement as we rounded the corner of Main Street.

  “And no matter what those idiot alpha males say, you don’t need to lock your fricking doors in Amber in the middle of the morning. Seriously. I’ve only been kidnapped twice. And neither of those times was from someone breaking into my house. So we’re good.”

  Though I knew Amy had been kidnapped—everyone knew all of the things that had happened to the women tangled up with the Sons of Templar, as it was kind of hard to keep kidnappings and car bombs a secret—it was strange to hear her mention it so casually, like it was a trip to Bed Bath and Beyond or something.

  She opened the door to the café, stopping and inhaling, her entire body sagging. “Lacey!” she yelled. “I need coffee.” She looked at me. “I know what I said about the unicorn tears, but I don’t think even Lacey is that talented.”

  I smiled. “Peppermint tea is fine.”

  She relayed that to Lacey by shouting it across the café in a way that managed to be not at all obnoxious. And by Lacey’s reaction, I was thinking it was normal.