by Violet Blaze
The question is, do we take the risk?
Because the only person who'll be able to tell me about the FBI … is one of their own.
The flowers in my hands feel cheap as I pause outside the door to Glinda's hospital room and worry at my lower lip. Sitting in a chair nearby is a man in jeans and an Alpha Wolves cut. He looks up at me and smiles tightly before going back to his phone, running his thumb along the screen as I breathe in deep and square my shoulders, lifting my chin and striding to the door.
I knock briefly before letting myself in, pausing as I spot Janae sitting in a chair next to Glinda's bed. The spunky blond is sitting up, but her face is pale and she doesn't look very good. Her GSW is through and through, according to the information Royal got from her husband, Mick, but the trauma of the evening, of knowing her friend is dead, I can see all of that written into every feature of her face.
You killed Mia.
The words whisper through my mind on a dark breeze.
I've never killed anyone before.
My stomach roils with nausea as I step into the room and close the door behind me.
“Lyric,” Janae says as she rises to her feet, a white bandage covering her left ear, purple and yellow bruises crawling across her face. She stares at me for several long seconds before breaking into a brief, sad smile. “I was hoping you'd stop by,” she says and I feel the tension between us start to crack.
Guess saving someone's life sort of forces them to give you a chance.
“I brought some flowers …” I say weakly as Glinda's blue eyes watch me move over to the side table. I set the vase down in a sea of Get Well cards and sprays of other flowers—probably from the rest of the Alpha Wolves' old ladies. With a little chill down my spine, I realize that I am now considered a part of that group. Or at least that I'm in consideration. “Come down to the courthouse with me and let's do it. Marry me.” Royal's words make me shiver, but I decide to push them to the back of my mind. I'll have to worry about that later. “How are you feeling?”
I almost cringe at the cool, robotic tone of my voice. It's how my family deals with crappy situations. We're not particularly emotional people, and everything just has to be okay all of the fucking time. I hate that. I hate it.
I sigh.
“What am I fucking saying? Of course you're not okay. Mia—”
“She made her own bed, sugar,” Glinda says, her voice rough with grief, but her eyes dry. I can't tell if she's putting on a front for me, or if she's already cried herself out. Maybe she's in shock? “When she pulled that gun out …” Glinda trails off and we all go silent. I'm sure we'll all be able to recall the icy cold wetness of that night for the rest of our lives. “The real question is, how are you doing?”
Both Janae and Glinda turn their attention to me, and I can feel them searching, digging.
The deputy mayor, the girl with a law degree, she shot and killed somebody last night. That's what they're thinking—them, and the reporters that I've been dodging all day.
“I can handle it,” I say, and I realize I'm starting to go robotic again. Deep breath. I close my eyes and then open them back up. Janae's dark hair falls in messy waves against the white of the bandage, her eyes dark and shadowed as she looks at me with sympathy. Me. When I'm the only one of the four of us who didn't actually get shot. “It's … Mia didn't deserve to die.”
“Rebecca told me this would happen. So I took the money. I need it, okay? And I'm so sorry.”
Mia's words ring in my head like bells and I realize that I haven't told Royal about them. I mean, I tried, but there was just so much and I was so glad to see him … so glad that we're both alive.
“No,” Glinda says as she shifts and then exhales sharply like she's in pain, reaching up those pink press-on nails of hers to rub her temple. I notice that at least half are missing. “She didn't, but what the hell did she think would happen when she pulled that gun on us? Something had to give and I sure as shit am glad that it wasn't me.” A long pause as Glinda looks at me and gives a begrudging sort of half-smile. “Welcome to the family, Lyric,” Glinda says and I feel myself return the smile. “Might not be the type of welcome you were hoping for, but here's what it is. That's club life for you.”
Club life.
It's never something I intended to sign up for, but here I am: young, dumb, and in love.
Let's just hope those three things don't manage to get me killed.
Heather Shelley is in the same hospital as the old ladies—two floors up and completely unreachable.
There are police officers in the elevator, and I'm told that nobody is allowed up to the top floor. When I pull some favors from a few of the staff, they manage to pass my name along.
Fifteen minutes later, I get an audience.
“Miss Rentz,” Agent Shelley says, smiling warmly at me as I slip into her room and another police officer pulls her door closed behind me. We're the only two people here, and I notice that there aren't any flowers or cards on her side table.
I feel suddenly guilty for not bringing any with me.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asks as I move over to stand next to the bed, my fingers curled around the strap of my purse protectively. Heather looks at me with her flawlessly made up face, a handheld mirror and a sea of cosmetics spread out across the white sheet in front of her. “Shouldn't you be somewhere with a glass of wine and a movie? If I could get the hell out of here, I know I would.”
She laughs and shakes her head, still managing to look both chic and intimidating in a hospital gown that matches the one my brother was wearing when I was last here, white with little blue diamonds on it.
“It doesn't feel as simple as that,” I say, wondering as I'm standing there why I actually bothered to come up here in the first place. I guess I needed to see her for myself, to assuage some of that guilt I feel for hitting her over the head with my gun. The thing is, I'd do it all over again if I had to. I'd do anything to protect Royal, and that scares me. That man … somehow he's managed to get an iron grip around my heart.
I tuck my—you guessed it—gray wool blend skirt under my thighs as I sit down. I needed this today, this boring white button-up and suit jacket. Heather's dark eyes follow my movements as she breathes in deeply through her nose.
“What you went through yesterday, no citizen should ever have to be put in that position, and I'm sorry for that. To be frank with you, Miss Rentz, we may have underestimated both the reach and the desperation of the Saldaña Cartel.”
“So what happens now?” I ask, because I can't just let Royal do this alone. Somehow I have to find a way to help. And this right here, this is what I do. Politics. I can do fucking politics. “I wait around to see if they come back? If they decide to grab my sister next time?” Kailey would never survive the things I've been through. It's not a comment on her character; it's just the truth.
“We can arrange police escorts for you,” Agent Shelley says as she studies my face, the way my hands curl around the strap of my purse. I feel like her dark gaze can see right through me, straight down to my soul. A tiny shiver works its way down my spine, but I keep my poker face. “But that's not what you're really worried about, are you? This is about Royal McBride?”
My lips tighten, but I fight to keep the expression from taking over the rest of my face. Is this about Royal? It is, and it isn't. As much as he considers this his city, I consider it mine. I need to fight for this; I just have to.
“The Wolves aren't involved with the cartel,” I say, and I wonder how far I should take this. Royal might've unofficially appointed me as the liaison between the mayor and the club, but he never said anything about talking to the FBI. Still, if I try to live my life seeking a man's permission for everything I do, I might as well call off my relationship with Royal right now. I can't live like that; I won't. “You know that already though, don't you?”
“An awful lot of men died up in those woods yesterday, Miss Rentz. One would have to assume t
hat Mile Wide and the cartel came to a disagreement. The problem is, we both know what happened to the rest of the cartel members in that grow house. Where were their reinforcements then? And why did they pick up their dead and run? The Saldañas aren't concerned with keeping a low profile. If they'd lost men on that field, they'd have left them there.”
“I know what you think of me,” I say as I brush back the short strands of my hair. Heather's eyes track across the scars on my cheeks. I did the best I could to cover them up this morning, but the woman has eagle eyes and I definitely don't have a skilled hand when it comes to makeup. “You think I'm some silly naïve yes-woman, as much Royal's pet as I am my father's.”
“That's where you're wrong,” Heather says as she shifts a little and then sucks in a deep breath. The bandages on her shoulder are hard to see beneath the gown, but I remember the sound of the gun, the way she jerked back but didn't stop fighting. I have serious respect for this woman—even if we are technically on different sides. “That's why I'm having so much trouble reading you, Miss Rentz. I told you before that you seemed like a smart woman, and I meant that. My real question was, what are you doing here in Trinidad? Working for a man like your father? You could move to any large city, to Washington, and get hired in an instant. You could do much bigger things.”
My throat gets tight, but I have no idea how to respond to that. She's both insulting and complimenting me at the same time.
“And Royal McBride …” There's a long pause as the two of us exchange a look. “Listen, I've been around the block more than once, Miss Rentz.”
“Lyric,” I say before she can go any further. “Please call me Lyric.” Or even Pint-Size. I'm really starting to appreciate the nickname. My mouth twitches a little.
“Lyric, I've been in love before. Several times, actually.” Heather takes a deep breath and starts to gather up her makeup, putting it all inside of a black zippered bag. “I can only imagine what you're feeling right now, especially for a man as handsome and rugged as Mr. McBride. The issue here is, what happens if it ends? What happens if he's not the man that you think he is?”
I open my mouth to answer, but I'm not sure what to say. The doubts she's giving voice to, those are the ones I've been nursing all along, and I still don't quite have the answers. I lift up my left hand and turn it around so Heather can see the ring on my finger. I'm sure she noticed it the moment I walked in the door anyway.
“Do you think if you tried to walk away now, that the club would let you go?” Heather asks me before I can come up with the words I want to say. She doesn't sound judgmental, just curious.
“I don't know,” I answer honestly as I drop my hand back to my lap and meet her gaze. “But I know Royal would. I think he would die for me.” A pause. “I think, if it came down to it, that he might … that he'd defy the club for me.”
“The Alpha Wolves might not be working with the Saldaña Cartel, but they still move illegal drugs. They sell assault rifles to criminals. They make people disappear. Lyric, think really carefully about your next moves—and not just in reference to this investigation.”
My mouth gets tight as I stand up and wonder what—if anything—I accomplished by walking in here.
A second later, there's a knock at the door and the officer stationed outside opens it to let in a man in scrubs.
A man that I recognize as the guy who pulled a gun on Sully and me.
Clint Woodrow.
My entire body goes stiff as the man turns around and lifts his blue eyes to mine. The recognition is there in an instant; Agent Shelley sees it, too.
“Lyric?” she asks, as I reach into my purse for my Glock … and remember that I don't have a gun with me at all. My semi was confiscated by the guards outside. Obviously they're not about to let me bring a handgun in here.
I have no idea what to do.
Clint doesn't look like he has a lot of ideas either.
If I call him on the incident from before, Agent Shelley's likely to get someone to look at the security cameras. And then everyone will see me not call the police, see Royal and his guys show up. I can't let that happen.
I smile tightly at the man as he lifts the food tray from the cart.
“Ms. Shelley,” he says as he comes over and moves a rolling table next to the bed. “I take it you're comfortable?” Heather watches me watching Clint, but she doesn't say anything about it.
“Everything's fine,” she tells him as he gets her set up with the tray and then heads back into the hallway. I wait until the door closes before I turn back to Heather Shelley.
She's still looking at me, and I know I have to say something.
“Hospital food's crap; if I were you, I wouldn't eat any of that.” I turn and head for the door before she can respond, letting myself out and collecting my gun from the officer outside. When I look around, I find that Clint Woodrow's disappeared completely.
Tucking the Glock into my purse, I head in the most logical direction—toward the elevator. If I were Clint … okay, if I were the guy I would've split town a long time ago, but taking the scenario for what it is, if I were him, I would run like hell.
I find his cart abandoned in the hallway next to the stairwell and pull my phone out to call Royal, shouldering my way through the door and starting down the steps at as rapid a pace as my kitten heels will allow.
“Pint-Size?” His voice is strained and tense, heavy with responsibility … but it's also tinged with fear. For me. “You still at the hospital?”
“I am. And so is Clint Woodrow.” It takes Royal a second to put the name to the right person and then he swears in an accent just dripping with British charm. In any other circumstance, it would probably make me go weak at the knees. “I'm heading back to the girls' rooms to check on them.”
“Don't chase after the guy, yeah? Find my boys on the floor and let them know. I'll give 'em a call, too, and then I'll be right there. Don't take any chances.”
I hang up quickly and slide my phone back into my purse, shoving my way onto the second floor where Glinda and Janae are; Fauna's one more floor down in the surgical wing.
I move as quick as I can, pausing as the Wolf outside the girls' door glances up at me.
“There's a man here,” I tell him, quick as I can. “Clint Woodrow. He's the nurse that attacked my brother the other night. He was just in with the FBI agent, but I don't know where he is now.”
The man rises to his feet and nods—a split second before his phone rings. When he takes the call, I turn on my heel and hurry toward the elevator. I get about two feet before a hand wraps around my bicep.
“Royal says you should stay here,” the guy tells me as I wrench my arm from his grip and he purses his lips at me. “You've got a gun, right?” I nod, but I really don't like being told what to do. Still, I take a second to breathe before I step forward and open the girls' door. “I'll be back in fifteen,” the man tells me and then disappears as I slip inside.
“Miss us already?” Janae asks as I close it behind me and turn to face them.
“Last week, a nurse pulled a gun on my brother while he was here recovering from …” I don't need to say it again, do I? Maybe these women know, and maybe they don't. It's not really something I'm keen to share. “The man is back. His name is Clint Woodrow and he works as a nurse.”
The girls exchange a look and then Janae holds up her purse, lifting the flap and flashing me a silver revolver before she tucks it away again.
“What's he look like?”
“Big. Sandy haired. Beard. Blue-green scrubs. The man outside just left to chase him.” Glinda and Janae exchange a look and then glance back at me. “Guard the door and don't let anybody in,” I tell Janae, and then I'm leaving before they can make any protest to stop me.
I take the elevator down a single floor and race across the polished linoleum toward Fauna's room—only to run into the two dark suited FBI agents from this morning.
Fuck.
When I get to the hospi
tal, I find my boys exactly where I left them.
“Where's Lyric?” I ask as I pause next to my man, Luca, and cross my arms over my chest. My brother looks up at me and runs his tongue along his lower lip in a nervous gesture. For fuck's sake … “Well?”
“She left with two FBI agents about fifteen minutes ago; Fetter went with her.” I grit my teeth and take a deep breath, closing my eyes against a violent outburst. What good will that do for anyone anyway? “But we found the guy in his car. Dean's sitting outside with him.”
I nod my head.
Clint Woodrow, huh? What a bloody prat. The man had a get of town free card and he just blew it. Talk about losing the plot …
“Did Lyric leave in a car with the agents?”
“She left in your truck,” Luca tells me as I check my buzzing mobile. Only message I have is from Fetter, telling me that the agents have taken Lyric to the Trinidad PD building. Well, fuck. I suppose I don't have much of a choice except to wait. When it comes to the FBI, I can't exactly throw my weight around. The Wolves need to keep as low a profile as possible if we want to hit the cartel with all our strength.
“Have Dean drive our friend's car to College Cove and leave it there; I'll have somebody pick him up.” Luca nods at me and pulls out his own phone while I dial up Dober and have him get another guy out here to meet Fetter at the police station; two escorts isn't nearly enough for Lyric, but it's all I've got right now. She should be safe enough at the PD. Still …
Christ, I hate this dance. It feels like the pin's been pulled and we're all just waiting around for things to cock-up.
As I leave, I give Glacier a call and let him know to meet me at the house. We need to get Clint situated with his new roommate before the feds get it in their minds to start tailing us. It hasn't happened yet which is a fucking blessing, but I can't see them leaving us alone for long. We might've cleaned up our mess from the shoot-out, but somebody's bound to have noticed the fact that all the dead belonged to Mile Wide.