Kicked: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by C. M. Stunich

  “You can use the acronym, Brent. I know what the FBI is. Hopped the pond a long time ago.”

  Brent smiles at me, his teeth too big and too bright for his little mouth.

  “I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. McBride, but I'm actually following up on a phone call from Rebecca White. She reached out to the Trinidad Police Department this morning about her husband, Landon White.” My heart drops, but not because I'm nervous or because this is unexpected—well, an FBI agent is a little unexpected but fuck him. I feel sick to my stomach because I miss Landon every goddamn day. If there was any way I could've saved him, I would've. But a snitch is a snitch, and the boys found him before I did.

  “He's a grown ass man,” I say, ashing my cigarette onto the tops of Brent's shiny brown shoes. “And whatever's happening between him and his wife is his business.”

  “Are you aware that Landon White is missing? He didn't come home from work last night and Rebecca's becoming concerned.”

  I let my lips twitch into a smug smile that I don't feel. Landon is goddamn dead, and I'll never know why he went to the cops in the first place, why he turned his back on his brothers.

  “Landon's thirty-two years old and two hundred and sixty pounds of muscle, Mr. Gregson.”

  “It's Gilman,” Brent corrects, but I already know that.

  “Look, he was at work yesterday, and I'm sure he'll be there again today. What else do you want me to tell you?”

  Brent opens his mouth to say something and then thinks better of it. Yes, technically Landon's been missing for almost two weeks, but the Wolves found him last week and took care of things. Of course, according to his time card and his wife, he's been seen every day up until today. Brent though, he seems to know something more, like maybe how Landon's been unreachable for quite some time.

  “Look, do you have a card or something? I'll give you a call if I think there's a reason to get the feds involved in a grown man's personal business.” Brent wrinkles up his eyebrows, like he knows I'm insulting him but isn't quite sure how to respond.

  I snap my fingers and hold out my palm, waiting for him to drop a business card in my waiting hand.

  I'm going to need that card to keep an eye on this man. I knew Landon was snitching on the club, but I didn't know who exactly it was that he was talking to.

  Now I do.

  Lucky me.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Lyric

  “Brent!” I say, standing up from my desk with a radiant smile and a tick of nervous energy in my belly. I feel like I'm straddling two worlds, the one I've always known and one I never wanted to know. That's ridiculous. You had a one-night stand with an MC president. Big deal. Every girl has an experimental phase. Maybe you're just going through yours a little late? I make a vow to get this job done and get the hell out of there before Royal McBride tries to drag me in any further. “What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I'd stop by and see if you were free for lunch?” Brent asks, smiling widely at me. He weaves between the other desks in the room and pauses next to mine as we exchange a friendly hug and step back, looking each other over. “You said the new office was nice, but you didn't say how packed it was in here,” he remarks, looking around at the overflowing desks, the people chugging away at computers, chatting on phones, rushing from here to there.

  “It's an upgrade from that place on Trinity Street to be sure,” I say, reaching up and tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. A stray strand? I lift my hands to my bun and find that it's come … undone.

  Uh oh.

  Feels like an omen to me.

  I clear my throat and gather my hair back up, putting my favorite black clip back in place.

  “But the city's growing faster than we ever could've imagined, and we've had to hire on a whole new staff.” I glance around the room, at the intricate moldings on the wall, the ornately carved pieces of wood that are original to the house. Once upon a time, this place was a flawless Victorian, gazing out at the sea with pride and grandeur. Now, it's a busy office with the shutters pulled and an ugly blue carpet spread out over the original hardwood floors. “It can get kind of crazy in here.” Brent keeps smiling at me, but his gaze is traveling over me again, taking me in from head to toe like Royal did that first day at the compound. Somehow though, I … liked it when Royal looked at me like this. Brent … it doesn't feel right. “Let me grab my purse and we'll do lunch.”

  I brush the feeling away and clamp down on the strange guilty feeling in my gut.

  I've started this plan in motion, so I'm going to see it through. What other choice do I have? If I quit now, my dad will probably fire me.

  And if I tell Royal?

  He'd probably kill me.

  After my lunch date with Brent, I make up an excuse and flee the office as fast as my heels can carry me.

  “I haven't seen him in almost a week. Of course, interviewing those freaks didn't help. They all claim to have seen him yesterday, but that's bullshit. I know it is. They probably figured out he was talking to me.”

  I swallow hard and unlock the doors to my car, climbing in and heading straight home. I need a warm bubble bath and a bowl of pasta. That's it. I just need a break, a moment to think things through and get my head together. I can't do that in the office with my dad breathing down my neck and my sister casting me suspicious glances every couple of minutes. She hasn't outright asked if I slept with Royal, but she will, eventually.

  I can't deal with that right now.

  “I don't know why I'm even bothering. They probably killed him and dumped his body in the ocean.” Brent clenches his fork in his hand, knuckles white with the strain. “Who am I kidding? I'll never see that man again—dead or alive.”

  At least I got a small amount of truth from Brent. When I called in the favor, he started looking into the Wolves and his curiosity got the better of him. Technically, Brent isn't in Trinidad in any official format. According to him, he's on vacation, paid days and all.

  But then Landon somehow got in contact with him and things started rolling from there.

  Now the man's missing and his wife is calling the police.

  “The boys are swearing in a new VP tomorrow.”

  I can still hear Janae's sugary soft voice giving me the cheerful news. Maybe … hopefully Landon just realized the mistake he'd made and fled.

  Somehow I doubt that.

  My mind's in such a fluttery panic that I make myself stop at the store to grab coffee for tomorrow morning and a jar of pesto and a bottle of wine for tonight. By the time I come out, I feel better, like I can breathe again.

  Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself? Maybe this is nothing at all and I'm overreacting?

  For all I know, Brent could pack up tomorrow and go back home to D.C. Then again, he did ask me out to dinner. I made up some crap about a friend in crisis and hightailed it out of there. I used to think Brent was the ultimate catch—rich, ambitious, good-looking—but every time he smiled at me today, every time he reached across the table and touched his fingers to the back of my hand, I thought of Royal.

  Shit.

  That stupid man's gotten himself stuck in my head and I can't seem to clear it. Ridiculous considering the sex wasn't even that good.

  I swallow hard and swerve a little, straightening out the car and doing my best to keep my attention on the road. How stupid. Of course the sex wasn't good … it was phenomenal. I can only imagine how good it might be if we had all night, if my sister wasn't waiting outside for me, if … if … if. If I could ever let myself do something like that with Royal again.

  But I won't.

  I'm so caught up in making these personal declarations that I don't see the bike sitting in my driveway until I bump into it with the front bumper of my car.

  Oh. Shit.

  I slam on the brakes and then reverse to put a few feet between me and the gleaming hunk of machinery I just crashed into. I switch off the ignition and shove open my door, standing up straight and staring in
disbelief at the motorcycle before I let my gaze drift towards the front of my house.

  “Well, fuck,” Royal says, flicking a cigarette onto my front walkway and crushing it out with his boot. “You bumped my bagger.”

  “Your … bagger?” I ask, hauling my purse out of the passenger seat and slinging it over my shoulder. I know bikers are really protective over their motorcycles, so … I have my cell phone in the front zipper pocket just in case something happens. Further proof that I shouldn't let myself get tangled up with this man. If I even have to wonder for half a second that I might need to call the cops, that should be enough to tell me this is a bad idea.

  “A bagger's a bike with saddlebags, babe.” He moves over to stand next to me in a pair of dark wash jeans and an unzipped leather jacket with his club's patches on the back. “To put it simply.” Royal leans down and inspects the side of his bike while my eyes drift straight to his ass. I can't help it. It's right there and it's so tight and his pants fit so well.

  I snap my eyes up as he straightens and tosses a wild grin over his shoulder.

  “You're one lucky bird, Pint-Size,” he says, circling his bike and running a tattooed finger over the handlebars. “If you'd scratched up my Swinger, I'd have put you over my knee and spanked you for it.”

  “Excuse me,” I say, squeezing the strap of my purse and pretending that seriously didn't just turn me on. “Why did you even bring your … bagger over to my house in the first place?”

  “Couldn't very well put a princess like you on the back of my bobber.”

  I put the fingers of my left hand up to my temple.

  “And a bobber is what?”

  “Irrelevant,” Royal says, finishing his circle around the bike and pausing in front of me, far closer than any rational, sane sort of person should get. “I brought you an extra helmet and had Janae pick up some gear for you. Go inside and get dressed, Pint-Size, you and me, we're riding two up tonight.”

  “I already told you,” I say, moving back and adjusting my purse to my other shoulder, just so I have something to do with my hands. My lips are desperate to betray my brain and invite Royal inside, drag him to my bedroom and see what he can do in the blush of twilight.

  Did I really just think that?

  I really did.

  “I don't like motorcycles.”

  “You get in an accident or something?” Royal asks me, reaching up and threading his fingers through his helmet mussed hair. He's still smiling at me with those full lips of his. It's not fair for a man to have a mouth that nice, lashes that long, and still look so goddamn manly. He has the most perfect five o' clock shadow I've ever seen yet it doesn't look groomed or styled in any way. How does he do it?

  “I've never ridden one before,” I say and then wonder if that was a mistake when his brows go up.

  “Never ridden a motorcycle before,” Royal starts and then his grin gets a little wider. “So you're a virgin biker, eh?”

  “I'm not a virgin anything,” I say and then almost get caught up in his laughter when he chuckles at me. I can sense a dangerous energy, something that deep down that screams Don't fuck with me! from a primal level. At the same time, his humor's infectious. “You should know that.”

  “Oh, should I?” he asks as an unbidden smile curls my lips.

  “What are you doing here anyway?” I ask again. “And how did you know where I lived?” I mean to sound angry and indignant, but it doesn't work. I've already forgotten about Brent and the feds and the missing VP.

  What a big mistake.

  “I stopped by your office today and found that pretty blonde sister of yours. She has a big mouth, that one.”

  I purse my lips and narrow my eyes. Kailey gave Royal my address. It should surprise me that my older sister would give an outlaw biker that kind of information, but it doesn't. Not one bit.

  “You came all the way over here to ask me if I wanted to ride on your motorcycle with you?”

  “Reality check, Pint-Size,” Royal says, grabbing a helmet off the leather seat of his bike and tossing it to me. “I'm not asking. This is an order. Change into some leather and denim and get your ass on that bike.” He grins while he says it, but I get the idea that this is a man who isn't used to having his orders ignored.

  And I'm a woman who doesn't like to be told what to do, especially from sexy British men with too many tattoos and a leather jacket with a snarling wolf's face on it.

  “I have a date tonight,” I lie—I'm getting a little too used to lying lately—but then decide to make it the truth instead. “With a bottle of wine and a jar of pesto.”

  “Sounds smashing. We'll break into that when we get back.” Royal gestures at my house with a jerk of his chin. “Your gear's on the porch, but if you want to invite me in, I can help you slip into it.”

  “I haven't agreed to anything yet, Mr. McBride.”

  “Mr. McBride?” Royal says, his dark eyes twinkling. “So we're back to that? I thought proper etiquette suggests that any man who's seen that naughty little red thong of yours gets to be on a first name basis?”

  “Etiquette would suggest,” I say in my most haughty voice, “that any man who's seen said thong in question would refrain from mentioning it in the lady's front yard.”

  “My apologies, Pint-Size. It's just … ” Royal runs his tongue across his lower lip. “That thong … and all the deliciously little naughty bits beneath it have been on my mind since yesterday. I kicked myself all day today for letting you leave last night.”

  “Letting me leave? Look, I don't know how these groupies of yours act around you, but I'm not the kind of woman who anyone lets do anything.”

  “And I'm not the kind of man who takes no for an answer,” Royal says, stepping towards me and sweeping his arm around my waist. Before I can protest, his mouth is covering mine, hot and desperate and wanting, turning my entire body into a greedy mess. I want him so bad I can hardly breathe, my fingers sliding up the leather front of his jacket and curling around his big shoulders. This is probably a bad idea, making out in my yard like this. Trinidad might be growing at an exponential rate, but it's still got that small town feel. A lot of my neighbors know my dad's the mayor.

  But right now?

  I. Don't. Care.

  For the first time in a long time, I don't give a shit about anything but what's happening to me right here, right now. Royal tastes freedom, like rebellion, like a million other things I've never experienced. I've planned my whole life out from birth to death. I know what I want to do, what I want to achieve, where I want to live.

  I just never knew I wanted this.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Royal

  Lyric's tiny body trembles in my arms, but I don't think she's even aware of it. All of the suppressed need in this girl is stifling in the best of ways. I want to let it sweep over me and drag me under. And then I want to scoop her up in my arms and take her over the back of my bike.

  Maybe later.

  Right now, we're going riding.

  I let my hands roam over Lyric's body, enjoying the way she presses her breasts into me, wiggling that soft, curvy body against mine.

  “Go get your gear on,” I murmur against her mouth and her eyes snap open like she's just realized I'm feeling her up in her front yard. Lyric pulls away and wipes her arm across her mouth like that'll get her to forget me. “It's going to take a hell of a lot more than that,” I growl, grabbing her around the waist again and pulling her close.

  “More than what?”

  “More than an arm across the mouth. Might sound a bit arrogant, but I'm pretty sure I'm the sort of guy you'll never forget.”

  A laugh escapes her throat as a grin curves my lips.

  Remember what you came here for, Royal. My smile falters a little and Lyric notices. Perceptive little Pint-Size.

  “Doesn't sound arrogant at all,” she says, but she's looking me up and down, from my boots all the way up to my eyes, locking our gazes together. “Something just cross
ed your mind. What is it?”

  “Am I that transparent?” I ask, trying to keep the mood light. Should be anything but considering all the fucking shite I've been dealing with lately. Landon is dead. That thought springs up for the hundredth time since that big toothed asshole showed up on my doorstep this morning. Like I really need to be reminded.

  “Not transparent,” Lyric says, tilting her head to the side. “Just moody?”

  “Moody?” I ask, brows raising. “There're a hell of a lot of men who'd be scared shitless to say something like that to me.”

  “That's your answer then,” she says blandly, crossing her arms over her ample chest, as if we weren't just lip-locked and rounding second base. “I am not a man.”

  “So I noticed when you were on your back yesterday.”

  Narrowed eyes and pursed lips.

  “You're feistier than I first thought,” I say, sliding my fingers into my pocket and grabbing a smoke. “A wild woman under wraps.”

  “You must've come over here for something other than riding,” Lyric says and I feel my face split into another grin. I try to keep good humor in all situations, sure, but this girl … there's something different about her.

  “Riding is exactly what I came over here for, but I'm not talking about my bike. I came here to ride you.” Not entirely true, but I wish. “First things first,” I begin, lighting up and taking a drag of my smoke, “do you happen to know a man named Brent Gilman?”

  Lyric's entire body goes tense, a definite yes in my book.

  Damn it.

  I feel my own body tensing in response, my emotions shutting down, all of our playful banter going out the window in an instant. I wanted her to say no. I wanted her to say no so goddamn badly.

  “Brent and I went to college together,” she says and then glances away like she's ashamed. I can't tell if it's an act or not. “We dated for a while.” My fingers clamp down tighter on my cig and my jaw tenses. This girl? She dated Mr. Monotone with the bleach blond hair and matching skin? No fucking way. Lyric looks back up at me, her face almost completely makeup free but still gorgeous. Most of the girls I know refuse to leave the house without an entire cosmetics aisle on their face. “Why? How do you know Brent?”