Kicked: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by C. M. Stunich

  “So what? I'll drive you to the compound myself then. That's a good way to make sure we're both late to our own meeting.” I'm smiling, but Lyric isn't when she turns and looks at me.

  “This could never work,” she says as I wrinkle my brow at her. “You and me,” she points back and forth between us. “Would never work.”

  “You and me?” I ask, reaching up and cupping the side of her face. “Whoever said there had to be a you and me? Spend the night with me, love. Have a little fun.”

  “You think spending the night with you would be fun?” Lyric asks, but she's leaning into my touch.

  “I have actual food in my cabinets and a general knowledge of how to put it together. I have two giant arse wolf dogs who are probably scratching the shit out of my front door in an effort to come out here and sniff your crotch.” She smiles a little at that one. “And I have a king sized bed in the back.” Her smile falters a little but she catches her lip on her teeth for a moment in thought. “Or if we don't make it back there, I have a bearskin rug in front of my fireplace.”

  Lyric snorts and that smile shoots back into place with a vengeance.

  “You have a bearskin rug? Talk about a cliché.”

  “Talk about an outlaw biker who actually knows what a rug is. You should see Smoky's place. He has a couch he found on the side of the freeway, a pool table, and an entire cabinet of noodle cups.”

  “The typical bachelor then?” Lyric says and then pauses, shaking her head suddenly like she needs to clear her thoughts with a physical action. “No. No. You're doing it again, distracting me.” She pauses and looks up at me with those big emerald eyes of hers, and I wonder for a split second there if I'd do anything she asked of me.

  The fuck?

  I met the girl on Monday. Today is Thursday. I think I'm in deep shit.

  “So … tonight, we …”

  “Shag?” I supply and her lips twitch.

  “If I stay here tonight, you'll cooperate at the meeting tomorrow?” she asks, playing her politics card. Smart girl.

  “I'll attend the meeting if that's what you're asking. I can't make any promises about anything else that might happen.” Lyric narrows her eyes briefly and then nods.

  “Okay, I can accept that. I stay the night and tomorrow, we have our meeting. You listen to everything I have to say and then make your decision. I hope you make the right one, Mr. McBride.”

  “No more business talk tonight,” I say, reaching around her waist and pulling her towards me. “Save that shit for tomorrow. Right now, we have other plans.”

  “Are we going to have tea time?” she asks, and it takes me a second to realize that she's joking around with me. This girl right here, little mayor's daughter, taking a jab. I love it.

  “Don't make fun,” I say, my smile taking over my face again. “I had a proper English mum who taught me to make a bloody brilliant cup of tea. Keep asking and I'll get out my Gram's silver tea set, serve you some English breakfast with two lumps of sugar and a dash of cream.”

  “That actually sounds kind of nice,” she says and then lets out a deep breath, her chest expanding and brushing against mine. “But a glass of wine might be better.”

  “How about a beer or a shot of Jack?”

  “A beer sounds great, thanks.”

  The wind whips our hair and we both pause for a moment, listening to the ocean crash against the rocks. Tonight's going to be fun; I can feel it. Tomorrow … well, I can just hope for now that tomorrow never comes.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Lyric

  “The gray one's Alloy,” Royal says as he opens the door and the dogs rush out into the yard, tails wagging frantically, heads down as they sniff the grass and take turns peeing on every single bush in sight. When they're finished with that, they come up to me and start licking my fingers. “And the black one's Lake. They're brother and sister, abandoned as puppies by their breeder when his place went into foreclosure.”

  Royal gets out a cigarette and cups his tattooed hand around the end to light up. The wind is picking up and tiny raindrops are starting to drip from the sky.

  “Dumped 'em on the side of the highway on his way out of town. There were two more in the litter that didn't make it,” Royal adds, his voice holding a note of sadness that reminds me that he really is human. My mind conjures up an image of him hugging that blonde woman back at the Wolves' compound. Obviously he has to play the confidence card a lot; I mean, he is the boss of a bunch of bikers. But he's definitely got a heart in there somewhere.

  I almost wish he didn't, that I didn't … like him so much. Ugh. If Royal were pretty much anyone else on the planet, I'd definitely ask him out. He's the kind of person I'd want to date. He has a sense of humor, a well of compassion (even if it's hidden deep down in there somewhere), and knows how to take care of himself.

  Don't forget that he threatened you just yesterday.

  I feel my lips purse a little.

  And he broke into your house.

  I feel my lips purse a lot.

  “They were ugly as sin when they were pups, but then most high content wolf dogs are.” Royal takes a drag on his cigarette and closes his eyes for a moment as I bend down and stroke my hands over the thick, course hair on Lake's back. She's a stunner with long legs, a long muzzle, and a dense winter coat that ripples when she runs. Her brother's gorgeous, too, pretty much the exact replica of every wolf picture I've ever seen on calendars, cards or mugs—gray and brown with dark eyes and a lolling tongue that he can't seem to keep in his mouth.

  “How'd you know the guy dropped them there?” I ask as I smile at Lake and let her lick my cheek for a moment.

  “I had my boys track him down and beat the information out of him.”

  I glance up sharply at that one.

  “You … did what?”

  Royal shrugs like he doesn't give a shit, but I can tell from the tense muscles in his neck and jaw that he does. He really, really does. What the hell is up with this guy? I thought all bikers were crazy, dirty criminals with no morals and zero compassion? I feel a little bad about that, but it's what I was taught.

  “You really love these dogs, don't you?” I ask, standing up straight and moving towards him, the zipper on my boots clinking as I move. Royal watches me, his eyes darkening with lust as he looks me over and takes me in from head to toe again, like he can't get enough. I'm not used to guys—to anyone, really—looking at me like that.

  “You think I'd put up with their crap if I didn't? These fucking wankers chewed up my best pair of riding boots.”

  Royal finishes his cigarette and drops it onto the pavement, putting it out with his boot. I look around, but I don't see any butts anywhere. He must actually clean them up every once in a while. That shouldn't come as a shock, but it kind of does.

  “You're an interesting man, Royal McBride,” I say and he smiles at me. “If you hadn't threatened me yesterday and broke into my house today, I might even like you.”

  “I tried to tell you, Pint-Size, but you wouldn't have any of it. I wasn't threatening you. If I had been, you'd have known.” He looks down at me, his face emptying of humor for a moment. The shift in mood scares me a little, but I stand my ground. “That was an offer of protection, still is. You have something to tell me about that FBI man, and I'll see what I can do. If any of the boys finds out something you don't want them to know—and trust me, they'll be looking for it—then I won't be able to help you.”

  “Help me?” I ask, trying not to sound indignant. I need to tread carefully here. “Help me how? What are you trying to say, Royal?”

  He takes a step toward me and I get a sick feeling in my stomach, like this is a subject I don't want to mess with. My mind reels with the implications of what I've done. Calling Brent … it didn't seem like such a big deal at the time, just a means to an end. Goddamn it, Brent. If he hadn't gone poking around, looking for trouble, this wouldn't be happening right now.

  “Please tell me you don't know
anything else about this, love, and I'll believe you. Look me right in the eye and swear it up and down. If this gets messy, I don't want to see you tangled up in it.”

  “Why did you swear in a new vice president?” I ask carefully. “What happened to the old one?” They probably killed him and dumped his body in the ocean. Brent's words echo in my mind and send a chill down my spine. What am I doing here with this man? He's funny and he's handsome as hell, not to mention good in bed. I want another taste, just one more taste, but this is too dangerous. I need to walk away while I still can. If I still can.

  “Putting two and two together?” Royal asks, tilting his head to the side. “Or working off information you shouldn't rightly know?” He doesn't look happy anymore, his smile gone and replaced with a deep set frown, the weight of the world hanging heavy from his shoulders.

  “Brent said he was looking for the guy for you, that that's why he decided to stay in town a few extra days. Our police department hasn't nearly grown as fast as the city, and our resources are already stretched thin. A missing biker isn't going to get much attention from the department. He just wants to help.”

  “And you're buying that crap?” Royal asks, raising his brows at me. “You think your little FBI boyfriend gives a flying fuck about my missing brother?”

  “He's …” I'm failing here, miserably. But I can still salvage this. I'm in politics for God's sake. If there's a valuable skill to be had in that field, it's telling people what they want to hear without really saying anything at all, without committing. “Brent's a good guy, Royal.”

  “Awfully defensive of a guy that dumped you,” he says, running his knuckles down my cheek. We need a change of subject, and there's only one other choice topic that I think Royal might be interested in right now: me. It's a strange thought to have—I'm not usually the focus of anyone's attention—but the way he's looking at me right now … It's like he wants to be distracted, like he doesn't want to talk about any of this either.

  “Well, he came all the way out here to see my brother and me, so I guess I feel like I owe him a little.” Not a lie, not exactly. Royal's mouth twitches and something else shifts over his face, replacing the anger and the suspicion that was there a moment ago. “He wants to get back together,” I say, like I'm admitting a secret, using the fact that Brent asked me out on a date to bolster that little lie. Maybe he wants to get back together? Or maybe he just wants to sleep with me? I have no idea. “We'd make a good couple, I think.”

  “That so?” Royal asks, putting his arm back around my waist and tugging me close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body, smell his rich scent—leather, oil, green things, wet earth. My body responds and I can feel the wetness between my legs growing.

  “We would,” I say, biting my lower lip and looking up at him. “He's the exact sort of guy I always saw myself marrying. He's rich and ambitious and handsome.”

  “So I'll ask you again: why the hell are you here in my arms and not in his?”

  “Because I want to marry a guy like Brent, but I want my wedding night with a guy like you.”

  Not a complete lie, not really. In fact, I think the latter's the more truthful portion of that statement.

  Royal grins, nice and wide, the hard bulge in his pants proof enough that I've got him right where I want him.

  I never thought I'd use sex to get my way—ever. But this is different. This, if I'm honest with myself, is an excuse. I'm not using sex to make Royal forget about our conversation; I'm using our conversation as a reason to sleep with him.

  No guilt, no worries, no regrets.

  Royal hands me a Budweiser from his fridge while I stand like an idiot in the center of his living room, my eyes darting from the dark stained wood moldings and casings to the comfortable but stylish leather couches, the promised black bearskin rug (I think it's a fake), and the … decorations. Royal has art on the wall—mostly black and white photographs of motorcycles—but the fact that he even took the time to hang anything besides posters of half-naked girls is a shock to me.

  Royal McBride might be a biker and a bachelor, but it looks like he's also a grown-up.

  I take a sip of my beer, letting the cool liquid soothe away some of the heat that's still prickling my skin. I thought that maybe we might go straight to the bedroom, but then I got lost looking around at Royal's place and ended up glued to this spot.

  If he's in any hurry, he doesn't show it. I guess he did just ask me to spend the night. He must mean the whole night unless he plans on packing us both up on that bike afterwards and driving over to my place. I try not to worry about it; Royal's the kind of guy who says what he means. If he wanted to fuck and have me leave afterwards, he'd have told me that.

  “How long have you lived here?” I ask as he lays out a package of steaks on the counter and chugs half his beer in one go. When we first came inside, he slipped off his club jacket and tossed it over a chair in the small dining area next to a pair of sliding glass doors. Underneath, his black T-shirt shows the club's logo: a gray wolf with bright green eyes, lip lifted in a menacing snarl. It might be funny if I didn't feel like the warning there was real. Don't mess with the Alpha Wolves.

  “Two years,” Royal says, opening the package and liberally sprinkling the meat with seasoning. “Bought it right after I became president.”

  That part I did know, about when he became president I mean. My dad's been watching the Alpha Wolves for a long time, since before he was the mayor. The previous president was a real son of a bitch, somebody who would've spit in our faces rather than grant us even a moment of his time. At least Royal's polite enough to pretend. Whether or not he'll sign the papers tomorrow is anyone's guess. And I'm definitely not delusional enough to think that tonight will change his mind in any way. He'll do whatever it was he was going to do anyway.

  “What do you think?” His grin tells me that he knows he's done well. The kitchen is updated but still tasteful and suited to the era of the house. It's cozy in here, definitely masculine but not overwhelming.

  “It's beautiful,” I say, putting my hand on the archway casing between the living room and the dining area. “Usually the trim's been painted in these houses. It isn't often you see the natural wood.”

  “It was painted,” Royal says, picking up the plate of steaks and moving to the back door. He unlocks it and the dogs rush outside ahead of him. “I stripped it, sanded it, stained it.”

  My mouth parts in surprise as I follow him outside to a small deck and a huge yard, way too big to be this close to the ocean. With the recent population boom, a lot of people have been carving up their lots and building houses closer and closer together. But of course Royal wouldn't be one of them.

  “You did all that work?” I ask as he turns on the grill and lets it heat up a moment before laying out the steaks with a sizzle. I can't believe he's actually cooking me dinner. The president of an outlaw motorcycle club. I cross my arms over my chest and try to keep my surprise in check. If this was a first date with a normal guy, I'd be hooked.

  But this is both a first and a last date.

  This sucks.

  I bat that thought away and move over to the porch swing that's hanging under the eaves, safe from the soft fall of raindrops that dot the green grass and the beds of sea grass and flowers that make up Royal's backyard.

  “Don't sound so bloody shocked,” he says, but he's still smiling, so I guess we're okay. “I do have talents that lie outside the bedroom.”

  A thrill chases up my spine as my fingers curl around the edge of the wooden seat. The bedroom. Just hearing him say that word is making my heart stutter and pound, my nipples harden, my thighs clench tight.

  “What about you, Pint-Size? What do you do besides fanny about for the mayor's office?”

  “Are we going to have a real conversation then?” I ask, finishing off my beer and setting it on the deck near my feet. I'm not comfortable talking about myself. There isn't a whole lot I want to say either. I fe
el like my life's just a continual work in progress, like I'm heading for a specific goal but I'm never there. What do I do besides work for my dad? “I thought you brought me out here for other reasons.”

  Royal turns to face me, beer in one hand, spatula in the other.

  “I let you change the subject earlier, but not this time, Pint-Size. Fess up. I want to know something about you, the girl that wears clothes she stole from her Gram and hides dirty lingerie underneath them. We'll get to all those other things I promised soon enough.”

  “Why do you want to know about me? Does it matter?” Royal smirks and then sets his spatula aside, moving over to stand next to me, an imposing sight in his leather riding gear. My eyes stray to his crotch for a moment and then snap up guiltily to his face.

  “You're interesting to me, that's all,” he says, leaning down and putting his arms on either side of my face, palms splayed open against the wall of the house behind the seat. “Fucking fascinating. You seem so uptight at first, but there's a spark in there just waiting to burn you up from the inside out. Don't you ever get frustrated with being so perfect all the time?”

  “Who said I was perfect?” I ask, lifting up my chin and staring into his dark eyes like they don't affect me at all. But they do. They do. They really, really do. “Don't you ever get tired of being the bad boy? Doesn't that get old.”

  “Sometimes,” he says, his voice a gentle purr that raises the hairs on the back of my neck. I want him so bad it hurts, my body filling up with a desperate need and desire that I didn't know I had in me. “But if I wasn't such a raunchy little bastard, I'd have never gotten you into bed.”

  “I knew what you were doing,” I say, even though the words make my cheeks heat. “I'm not stupid.”

  “Oh, I'm well aware,” Royal says, leaning in close, touching his mouth to mine, sliding his tongue slowly, sensually, between my lips, bringing his right hand to my hair, cupping my head in his fingers as he tastes me. I know what he tastes like—fresh and wild and untamed. I wonder what he senses in me? If I have a taste at all.