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

  He laid his lips on mine. It was meant to be light. They were about to ride out, after all. But I grasped on. Made the kiss harder, more violent. I needed to imprint myself onto his lips so he’d feel me until he came back to me. I needed to taste him on my tongue, a reminder that he was alive. That he was coming back.

  “Baby,” he hissed, pulling back ever so slightly. “I’ve gotta go.”

  I didn’t reply, just put my hands to his belt and started unbuttoning. “Well, then you’d better be quick. Because you’re not leaving here until you’ve fucked me so hard, I forget how scared I am.”

  His eyes flared with a desire that had never dimmed all these years. “I’ll make you forget everything but the feeling of me inside of you,” he growled.

  I didn’t forget about everything.

  But I did still feel him inside me when I found out he was dead.

  Part II

  After.

  Chapter 1

  I didn’t sink down to my knees and scream when Brock told me Ranger was dead.

  I’d thought such news was meant to bring you to your knees. That’s what I’d imagined I might do. And I’d imagined this moment many times. Sure, a regular person might have horrible fantasies every now and again about how it would feel to lose their husband. It was human to dwell on our fears. To a certain extent. It was also human to brush them aside, burying them, because we couldn’t very well go dwelling on how we would feel if the love of our lives was killed.

  Unless the love of your life was in a line of work where he faced the very real possibility of death every single day.

  Like a police officer.

  Firefighter.

  Member of the Sons of Templar MC.

  Though the Sons wasn’t a line of work. It wasn’t even a lifestyle. It was a marriage. One you couldn’t divorce yourself from. It was for life.

  I’d married Ranger knowing that meant I was marrying the club. I’d grown up with the club. Loved it. Hated it. Resented it. Counted my blessings to have it. Raised my children within it.

  All of it.

  And his death was a moment I’d been preparing for.

  After Laurie, when there was more blood than usual, I’d prepared. Knew it might be my husband soon. I’d accepted it because I’d had no other option. I’d just prayed to whatever god was listening that my husband would come home.

  And he did.

  Sometimes covered in blood that wasn’t his own.

  Sometimes needing me to tend to wounds.

  Other times with ghosts in his eyes, with a stranger residing in his soul.

  He would wake me with his hands, with his mouth, desperate to feel something. Feel alive. Or he’d just held me. The worst of times were when he’d come to bed smelling of whisky and turn his back to me, erecting a cold shield between us.

  But we’d gotten through it all.

  The club was legit now, so I’d let myself lapse into a false sense of safety. Stopped preparing myself for the prospect of my children growing up without their father.

  Silly me.

  It hurt.

  Brock’s eyes had sucked everything out of me. Everything good, everything bad, everything in between. I was a hollowed-out shell, drained of life and hope in one sentence.

  I stared at something Brock was holding in his outstretched hand. It caught the light. Sparkled.

  Ranger’s wedding ring.

  The one he’d worn on his finger for years, even through the toughest of times.

  Now it was laying lifeless in Brock’s palm. Shiny. Too shiny. Ranger had always taken good care of himself. But he spent a good amount of time in a garage working on cars, and no matter how much he scrubbed, the dirt and oil stained. Blood was much easier to wash off.

  “I want to see him.” I was surprised at how normal my voice sounded. How could it sound the same when I had no insides? When there was nothing left of who I was moments ago?

  Brock’s face tightened. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Lizzie.”

  I regarded him. He was the same age as me. We’d gone to high school together, but he’d always seemed older. Even though he was a joker, smiling easier and talking a lot more than his president, he was born to wear this cut. Though most of the time he was approachable, kind and funny, there was something that changed in Brock when need be.

  And there was a need for him to change then.

  Cade was in the hospital.

  It was bad.

  Half of the club crowded the hospital waiting room while the half that wasn’t here was at the clubhouse, holding a wake. Brock was taking over as president, because there wasn’t a guarantee that Cade would pull through.

  Though I’d known all of these men before they’d put on the cut, I’d always gotten a little bit scared when they put on their masks.

  But I wasn’t scared anymore.

  And I sure as hell wasn’t about to bow down.

  “Brock, I’m not sure I give a fuck about what you think is a good idea,” I replied. “I’m not asking your permission. I’m telling you to take me to my goddamned husband.”

  Brock’s eyes flickered to the side, to his wife who stood beside me, holding my hand so tight that the bones could’ve been broken for all I knew. I didn’t feel anything.

  Something passed between them. Something secret. Something that they only shared, not for the world.

  I didn’t have that anymore.

  Not another raise of my brows that Ranger would know meant I needed him to rescue me from a conversation I didn’t want to have. No furrowing of Ranger’s brows that I knew meant he needed me to wrap my arms around him.

  No more messages.

  I couldn’t talk to the dead.

  Amy must’ve silently told him something. Given him permission maybe.

  Brock stepped aside. “He doesn’t look—”

  “He’s dead, Brock,” I said. “I don’t expect him to look any other way.”

  I was wrong. He didn’t look dead. That was the worst part. Maybe if the bullet had gone through his forehead, ruining his face, it might’ve been different. I might’ve been able to hold on to that.

  But it wasn’t one bullet. It was three. They’d hit him in the stomach, shoulder and heart.

  I knew that because I undressed him. He was still wearing the clothes I’d watched him put on this morning. I couldn’t bear to look at my dead husband wearing the clothes he’d put on. So I’d undressed him. I touched the single chain around his neck. He’d had to replace it from the one he originally gave me all those years ago, the one I gave back to him as I reminder I was always there. Always waiting. He’d never taken it off. Never, even in the hardest of times. It had blood on it now. My hands were steady as I unclasped it and shoved it in my pocket.

  Then I’d looked at the bullet holes. The blood staining his body. The one I knew so well.

  His face didn’t have any blood on it. No marks to show his violent end. Nothing but the faint lines from our years together and a slight tan since we’d taken a day at the beach with the kids last weekend. Someone had closed his eyes.

  His lips were stained a faint pink. They were cold. He was cold. Not as cold as a dead person should be. I guessed it hadn’t been long enough.

  I brushed the hair from his face then leaned in to smell it. A faint trace of smoke lingered, but mostly it was the shampoo that still sat in our shower.

  How could the shampoo bottle still be full when he wasn’t going to be around to empty it?

  I leaned back, continuing to stare at him. Made myself stare at those bullet holes. At the blood.

  I stared for a long while until there was a gentle knock at the door.

  Evie.

  Had they drawn straws? Seen who’d got the job of coming in here to rip the hysterical widow away from her husband’s bloody corpse?

  No.

  Evie would’ve wanted to be here. It was her job. Despite the fact that her husband no longer held the gavel, she was and always would be the matri
arch of the club.

  She had no soft, pitying look in her eyes. She was too accustomed to the reality of this life for that.

  “I need water,” I spoke before she could. “Warm. Soapy. And a cloth.”

  She nodded once, not questioning my request. When she looked to Ranger, she didn’t flinch, didn’t look away from his body. She looked at him a long time. Like he was still alive. I was thankful to her for that. For not looking away from my husband like he didn’t exist anymore, even though he really didn’t.

  She left, coming back quickly with what I needed.

  I thanked her with my eyes when she set everything down beside me.

  She didn’t offer me any words of support, there weren’t any. Smelling of smokes and whisky, she just gave me a firm squeeze of my shoulder, a soft kiss on my cheek. Then she left. Gave me the last of the moments alone I’d ever have with my husband.

  I dipped the cloth into the water then carefully began to clean the blood from Ranger’s body.

  I couldn’t have the last memory of him being dirty. Being stained with blood. Blood washed off.

  I could do that.

  Wash off the blood.

  That came off.

  This memory of day would be like dirt and oil, though. I’d never be able to scrub it from my memory. It would always be a stain.

  The funeral was an event.

  As it should’ve been. The Sons did a few things big. Weddings, patch parties, funerals. It was maybe a show to the newer members that yes, there was a chance of you dying, but you’d get sent off like a king. An important if not attractive quality to the MC life when you were young and looking to become a badass.

  I didn’t want this funeral. I didn’t want to see my son in a little suit. Didn’t want my daughter in a black dress. I didn’t want to have to make myself presentable for the world. In truth, I wanted to stay in bed, cuddle my babies close and inhale the faint scent of Ranger that remained on the sheets.

  But I hadn’t done that.

  Because that’s not what a Sons of Templar widow did. So I got out of bed in the mornings. I welcomed the women who came into my home in a show of support. I made the guest room up for Olive, because I didn’t want her to be alone during what was most definitely the most horrible moment in her life.

  I’d been the one who told her. Brock had offered to do it, after I’d emerged from the room where I’d cleaned my dead husband.

  I’d refused his offer, as much as I’d been tempted to take it. No way was I letting Olive learn about her son’s death from someone other than me. It was my responsibility. That’s what Ranger would’ve wanted. It’s what a strong Old Lady did.

  And I did it.

  I told the strongest, kindest women I knew that her only son was dead. And doing that caused me to die a little more inside.

  She was taking it well. Or as well as could be expected. She hadn’t really spoken, merely cooked, drank wine and hugged the kids. I knew she was drained. Emptied. It was in her eyes. And as horrific as losing my husband, the love of my life was, the thought of losing my children made my want to rip out my insides. I would not survive that.

  I was barely surviving this.

  In my darkest of moments—and life was just a series of dark moments these days—I’d wished that Ranger and Cade had swapped places. Cade had been seriously injured in the battle, was discharged from the ICU against doctor’s recommendations so he could attend the funeral today.

  It was cruel and ugly of me to wish my loss on one of my closest friends, but I couldn’t help it. This reality was terrible, unthinkable. I would’ve made a deal with the devil to get out of it. But even the devil wasn’t listening to me.

  Lucky had broken his leg.

  Steg had lost an eye.

  Only Ranger was gone forever.

  “Mommy, is Daddy going to heaven today?” Lily asked me as I tied a ribbon in her hair.

  My stomach clenched, acid running through my veins. Lily was still young, and she understood the concept of death since we’d buried hamsters, goldfish and now her father.

  But she hadn’t yet truly fathomed what her father dying meant. She was a little girl who had had a wonderful, loving dad who treated her like a princess. She had not experienced horror and was not expecting a world where her dad didn’t read to her at night or do her hair in the morning. Or maybe she was regressing back into a baby-like state in order to deal with the trauma. I’d read about that online. Since I wasn’t sleeping, couldn’t sleep since the night it all happened, I’d taken to reading all sorts of articles about how children dealt with the death of a parent and how it affected them later in life.

  Jack was three years older, therefore he got the fact that his father was dead. He’d cried the entire first night, but then he’d changed. He was grief stricken for sure. Hadn’t smiled, laughed or played, just stared at the TV when it was on or sat on the swing set in the back yard. But he hadn’t cried since that first night. He’d begun insisting on looking after everything by himself, including me.

  “Daddy is already in heaven, honey,” I replied, using all the strength I had in order to sound stable, not letting it show that I was in mind numbing pain. “We’re just having a... party for him so we can say goodbye.” I looked at her in the mirror. “Do you get that, honey? That we’re saying goodbye to your Daddy today? You’re not going to see him again.”

  She stared at me in the mirror and scrunched up her nose, deep in thought. “Do I get to see him in my dreams? Because I dreamed about him last night. Will he leave them too?”

  I swallowed razor blades, my eyes watering ever so slightly as I shook my head. “No, baby. He will always be in your dreams.”

  Lily nodded then looked at her reflection. “I think you need to get much better at doing my hair then, if Daddy isn’t here to do it.”

  I choked out a laugh at her no-nonsense tone. She smiled at me, sad yet comforting, and that beautiful smile scraped against the wounds of my soul.

  I redid Lily’s here then left her to check on Jack.

  He was sitting on his bed, fully dressed. He would’ve looked adorable in his black suit if not for the fact that he was wearing it to bury his father.

  “You almost ready to go, baby?” I asked him.

  He jerked, looking up, so deep in thought he hadn’t even realized I was there.

  My son was too young to be staring into space with such intensity. To have that ravaged, jaded look in his face.

  “Are you ready?” he asked instead, standing.

  “You don’t need to worry about me, sweetie,” I answered.

  He furrowed his brows. “I’m the man of the house now, mom,” Jack said, as he adjusted his tie. “It’s my job to take care of you.”

  I stared at him, the boy with Ranger’s eyes who looked more and more like his father every day. I couldn’t decide whether this would be torture or a blessing, watching my son grow into a man without my husband there to steer him.

  I cupped his cheek. “No, sweet boy. You will become a man one day. A wonderful one. One that your father would have been so very proud of. But not yet. Not now. Right now, you’re going to be a kid. I’m going to take care of you. That’s my job.”

  Jack stared at me with far too much seriousness and worry. “But Mom, you had Dad to help you with that job. He told me that I had to be the man of the house when he wasn’t here.” His voice was starting to wobble now, cracks in my little man’s façade spreading. “He’s not here. He’s dead, so I need to take care of you and Lily. Because he’s dead, mom.” Tears began to trail down his cheeks, and I pulled him into my chest, if only so he couldn’t see his mother crying too.

  I didn’t shed a tear during the funeral. Not a single one. I didn’t cling to the coffin as they lowered it to the ground. No falling to my knees this time either. That wasn’t becoming of an Old Lady. Or a mother.

  I wasn’t really an Old Lady anymore, though, was I? I didn’t have to play the part, be strong and ready to kick s
ome bitch’s ass if she didn’t know her place. I didn’t have to handle my husband coming home late or covered in blood.

  Because I didn’t have a husband anymore.

  But still, for my kids, I held on. They were already going to have memories of their father’s funeral, they sure as shit weren’t going to have memories of their mother losing her shit.

  All of the women, the Old Ladies, my friends, stood in the front row. Their husbands, wearing cuts and dark glasses of their own stood behind them. The cemetery was drowned in a sea of leather.

  It was a massive show of support.

  But I’d never felt more alone.

  I wish I could say that the day passed by in a blur. Amy had given me a Valium before the service which I took gratefully. I’d take whatever pills or do whatever it took to help numb the pain.

  Though the Valium worked on the edges, softening them, it didn’t reach down to the core of me which was bleeding and dying.

  So the funeral was not a blur. I remembered every single. Horrible. Detail.

  The only thing I was thankful for that entire day was that everyone went to the club after the funeral. I couldn’t stand having people in my house, which was already full of casseroles and death flowers, none of which were able to hide the absence of Ranger.

  I didn’t want to go to the club.

  Not one fucking bit.

  But I went anyway.

  The kids stayed close to me the entire time, all but clinging to my dress. Lily stuck to my side because she didn’t know what to do with herself other than cling to her one remaining parent. Jack was near because he was still convinced that he had to protect me.

  As much as I wanted my kids to be nearby, to be within touching distance, I needed space. I needed to breathe. Needed to down three tequila shots.

  So I found Gwen, gave her the look, the one that got her distracting the kids, all but prying Lily away from me.

  It was a bad move on my part, but I just needed a second.