Scars of Yesterday (Sons of Templar MC #8) - Anne Malcom Page 0,53

answer didn’t come from Amy but from behind her.

Brock was leaning against the wall, watching his wife primp with heat in his eyes.

Amy frowned and whirled around to face her husband.

“Ah, even after all these years of marriage you still think you have any kind of say in where I go or what I do. How adorable,” she cooed with saccharine sweetness. “Shouldn’t you be watching the children, honey?”

I bit back a smile.

“Girl’s nights don’t really have the best track record lately,” Brock replied, eying his wife while smartly not commenting on her statement. There was a warning in his tone and a danger in his gaze. The kind of danger that most men and women would blanche at and go off running, no matter how much Brock resembled a chill surfer dude.

Amy merely rolled her eyes. Old Ladies were immune to all the intimidating and scary glares. Which was mostly why they were Old Ladies. These men didn’t want women who scared easily; they needed women who could weather their alpha bullshit and throw them sass right back. Or be gentle in the face of it.

Amy wasn’t about being gentle right now, though.

“Well, the last one doesn’t even count because Rosie totally planned on Anastasia being kidnapped,” she snapped.

“And the rest?” he asked, a whisper of a grin teasing at the corner of his mouth.

She waved her hand. “All part of the Sons of Templar mating process.”

He blinked. “Sons of Templar mating process?”

She raised her brow. “Oh, come on, don’t play dumb. We’ve only been through this like...” she trailed off, counting on her fingers. “Eight times. Give or take. You know that once a man in a leather cut sets his sights on a woman, that woman most likely gets involved in trouble. Usually through no fault of her own.”

Brock was flat out grinning now. “No fault of her own?”

She scowled. “Are you trying to tell me that Gwen wanted to be kidnapped by those creepy Spider dudes? That I wanted to be kidnapped by an arguably creepier crime lord type dude? That Mia wanted to be kidnapped by her gross, asshole ex-husband? And that Lily, Bex, Lauren, Macy and Caroline wanted all the shit that happened?”

Brock looked suitably chastised. His grin disappeared, most likely from the memory of his now wife’s kidnapping and all the dramas and near-death experiences that came after it. “I’m not saying that at all.”

She put her hand on her hip. “Well, you should stop saying anything at all if you want to get lucky tonight.” She hitched her purse onto her shoulder, one that I was pretty sure was worth as much as my first car, though, I was used to her pricey accessories by now. “Now, Lizzie and I and the rest of the girls are going for a quiet drink, to shoot the shit with Laura Maye. No drama. And even if there is, we’re all more than capable of handling it.” She winked, leaned in to kiss her husband then left.

The table that was always reserved for us at Laura Maye’s bar was almost entirely full of glamorous women, laughing, drinking cocktails and commanding the attention of everyone in the bar when we arrived.

Everyone stopped talking when Amy and I approached.

It had been a long time since I’d attended a girl’s night, the night at the club taking more than enough out of me. Sure, since then there had been coffee dates with Gwen, Mia, Lauren. Each had gently—except Mia, who wasn’t really the type to beat around the bush—asked about my conversation with Kace. It was clear they were not only curious but hopeful.

For what exactly, I didn’t know. For some kind of romance? A fling? Distraction? For some kind of second chance at a happily ever after? They were all hopeful women, insulated by their own happiness. It was sweet of them, but too simple. As cliché as it was, you couldn’t put a Band-Aid over a bullet wound. And that’s what any kind of romance would’ve been right now. Despite the subtle pull I felt toward the man, he wasn’t a cure. Or a salve. A distraction at best.

But I didn’t need to distract myself from the pain. I had to face it head on, figure out how to live with it so I could eventually move on.

In about ten years or so. Maybe longer, when the kids had moved out of the house, not having memories of their father tainted by some strange man their