Outside the Lines

By: Anne Malcom

The Sons of Templar MC #2.5

My life’s not easy. I’ll tell you that now. It’s not neat. I don’t fit into society the way most people expect me to and I don’t color studiously between the lines, outside the lines is where I reside. The fringes of society is where I found my place, with the Sons of Templar MC. The life they lived gave me everything I wanted, and everything I needed. Most importantly, it gave me something I’d been lacking for over a decade—family. A place to belong.

Club girl—that was my title. There were other words for what I was, but I preferred the less derogatory version. Sure, I’d love to be an Old Lady. It’s the dream. But, as someone who escaped into fantasy worlds when life got too much, I knew the difference between dreams and reality. I had resigned myself to the fact, I’d always belong to the club. It didn’t mean I didn’t crave one man in particular to claim me. To put me on the back of his bike and ride off into the sunset with the man who’d captured my heart the first day I saw him—Hansen. The dream where he’d finally see me and make me his, existed strictly in Macy’s world of wonder. Until now. Until somehow my fantasy world and reality world collided and he looks at me in the way I’d dreamt of for a year.

Fairy tales usually had neat and happy endings once the hero and heroine got together. This wasn’t a fairy tale. Hansen wasn’t your traditional hero and I was the furthest you could get from a heroine. I feared my past might dictate my future. That my world outside the lines would go from messy to complete disaster.

Club whore. Not my favorite title, but one that held so much more than the immediate connotations most people connected with it. It wasn’t something I aspired to be as a little girl dreaming of a bright future, but that future dimmed when life delivered me too many of the ugly truths of the universe in too few years.

I’m not going to sit and whine about a happy childhood that was shattered and turned into a nightmare after one horrible night, nor am I going to recount the year I spent dancing on a pole to put food on the table and a roof over my head. That ain’t me. I’m a survivor. I’ll take what life throws at me and figure out a way to catch it with a smile. I find solace in worlds of fantasy and magic, places where I can escape the darkness and evil of the real world. I laugh as much as I can, try not to take life too seriously. Otherwise, I’d never get out alive. No matter what, I’m not letting the bitterness of this world settle in and taint my soul. I did what I could to claw my way out of a life that threatened to ruin me, to find one that suited me, where I fit, where I had a family.

“Macy!” Jagger yelled at me.

I whirled around on my barstool. I’d been alone at the bar, enjoying an unusual moment of silence. I was never silent. And around here, I was hardly ever stationary.

“Yeah, hon?” I replied with a small grin.

“Get me a beer, and get your sweet ass over here,” he commanded from his spot at a table where he was flanked by Charley and Levi.

I rolled my eyes and bent over to snag a beer from the fridge.

“I got it, kiddo,” I reassured the Prospect, who had rushed to help me.

I gave him a wink. They got enough shit from the boys, I didn’t mind doing what I could to make their lives easier.

I sauntered up to the table, my eyes on Jagger. I stopped just out of his reach and dangled the beer from my hand.

“Anyone ever teach you a word that, in polite society, comes after a request? Rhymes with cheese?” I asked with a sickly sweet tone.

Jagger shook his head and Levi chuckled.

“Beautiful and intelligent, Macy. Won’t you please hand me that chilled beverage and sit that tight behind on my knee?” his gravelly voice requested.

He didn’t wait for me to move, just leaned out of his chair and tagged my waist, yanking me onto his lap. I let out a small squeal but laughed.

He nuzzled my neck affectionately and I leaned into his hold.

I liked Jagger. Had a soft spot for him. He wasn’t what most women would call handsome, given the fact he had a scar that marred half of his face, from his temple to the side of his nose, it was jagged, angry and puckered. His jaw was sharp and masculine, although it was covered by a long beard. His hair was unruly and inky black, but always shiny and clean. He wasn’t tall—he was taller than me, even in heels, but that wasn’t saying much—but he was stocky and packed with muscle. It was his eyes that captured me the most. They were the most vibrant green I’d ever encountered, like two emeralds shining from his head. He also had the most gifted tongue I’d ever experienced. Plus, he treated me with respect. Most of the boys did, but he treated me like a friend as well as a bed mate, and we’d spend hours talking after he’d used that gifted tongue along with other appendages.

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