by Violet Blaze
Lyric … she'd be nothing like that.
A smile teases the edge of my lips.
“When were you going to tell us about your new girl?” Janae asks, her voice promising it's just a joke, that she's just playing around. That look in her eyes is telling a whole different story. For a long time now, she's sort of run the wives, been queen of the keep so to speak. All the gossip goes through Fauna and straight to Janae. The expression on her face right now tells me she's heard everything, and she isn't happy about Lyric being here.
“I was sure you'd hear all about it first thing this morning,” I say as Dober gives me this look that says fuck all this drama and bullshit, we got crap to do. I raise my brows at him and he reaches down to put a hand on Janae's shoulder.
“Maybe you should give Miss Rentz a tour of the compound? I'll check in with you later for lunch.” It's a clear dismissal, one that Lyric would blow off in a second. She'd slap my hand away and keep talking. Janae, she's the perfect club wife. With a nod and smile, she gives Lyric another once-over.
“I'll give you the full tour, the good one with all the behind the scenes stuff.” Janae gestures for Lyric to follow her with a hand of vibrant pink plastic nails. “And I'll get you a mocha from the café. They make real good mochas in there.” Janae gestures again and Lyric follows without so much as glancing my way. Smart girl. This right here, this is a fight I absolutely can't help her with. If Lyric wants the women to respect her, she'll have to earn it.
I watch her ass as she moves away, the dark denim cupping those cheeks like a second skin. Unbidden, my tongue slides across my lower lip.
“For Christ's sake,” Smoky says at the same moment Dober shakes his head.
“You better be serious about this girl,” he tells me, lifting up a thick hairy finger and leveling it at my chest. I blow smoke back in his face. “Because if you're not, then you're making a huge mistake here. With all of this crap that's going on with Mile Wide, you really want to bring the mayor's daughter into the fold? If this just about sex—”
“It's not,” I tell him, dropping my smoke to the cement and crushing it out with my boot. Dober's eyes tell me he thinks I've finally lost it. “You think I'd bet everything on a bloody shag? Well then, you don't know me as well as you think you do.”
“Listen, all I'm trying to say is that the fastest way to tear a club down is to stir up the women. Just look at Rebecca.” I grit my teeth and shove past Dober, glancing sidelong at the wall of windows that show off the compound's café. With the gray glare reflecting off the glass, it's hard to see inside, but I make out Lyric's shape next to the counter before I turn away and head inside, down the hall and over to where Glacier's waiting at the bar.
“What do you got for me?” I ask as I put a hand flat on the black marble surface, listening to Dober's and Smoky's footsteps as they enter the room. Fauna's behind the bar with a sea of binders laid out in front of her, tapping a pen against her lips, the lines on her tanned face crinkling as we exchange a glance. I raise an eyebrow and she looks away, going back to her inventory sheets.
“Well,” Glacier begins, turning slowly in his seat to look at me. “Let's just say I didn't have a very productive night. If there's anything more to the story, these boys don't know the narrative. Trust me, I can be a very persuasive bastard when I want to be.” Glacier flashes his best good boy grin at me, piercings winking at me from either side of his lip, his nose, his brows. “I left both of them alone with a mic, so we'll see what we get while they sweat it out today. Other than that, I'm out of ideas.”
“You still have Clayton Moore's number?” I ask as I pull out my mobile and pass it over into Glacier's tattooed hands. A mermaid tail curls around his wrist and splashes across his knuckles in a sea of blue and bubbles, her bare breasts and wicked smile leading down her arm to a strangled sailor, bleeding to death in an iron grip. I stare at that while I wait for him to punch the numbers in.
“You sure about this?” Dober asks, but I don't answer, just hit send and hold the phone to my ear while I wait. Three rings in and the asshole answers in that thick Southern accent of his, clearly annoyed to be receiving a call from an unknown number.
“Who the hell is this?”
“Mr. Moore,” I say, making myself smile, putting every ounce of confidence I've got into my voice. “This is Royal McBride. I've got a few of your boys staying over at the clubhouse. I thought you might be interested in joining them for the little party I've got cooked up for tonight.”
There's a long pause, harsh breathing on the other end of the line. Angry breathing. Mr. Moore is fucking livid.
“You want to have a meeting with little ol' me, huh?” he asks, schooling his voice into something more pleasant, a practiced Southern drawl that probably drops knickers and cools cops. “Well, I have to say, I am downright fuckin' flattered, Mr. McBride. Tell you what, let me check out a few things and I'll get back to ya.”
“I need an answer now,” I tell him, meeting Glacier's blue eyes. We all know what'll happen to Clayton's brothers if he decides not to show. Let's just say, Saint might be spending the rest of his evening cleaning blood out from under his fingernails. “Yes or no. You want to see your boys or not?”
“Alright, alright, hold your horses there, cowboy. What do you want from me anyway?”
“Well, first off, I'd like a fucking apology.”
Clayton laughs, but the sound's still pleasant, like he doesn't give two shits about me or mine. Doesn't see us as a threat, despite the fact that we've already disposed of several of his brothers. That should be enough to have him demanding blood and yet, he either doesn't care or is simply a fabulous little thespian. The asshole was angry before, so my money's on him being full of shite.
“Tell you what, I've got things to do tonight, but if you want to set something up for later—”
“There is no later, Clayton,” I say, leaning back against the bar and watching my boys watching me, waiting for what we all assume is an obvious end to this phone call. Clayton will show up here with an entourage and we'll negotiate a return. Nobody here likes to kill people—except maybe Glacier—so if there's a work-around, we'll take it. “Tonight, soon as you can get here. It's what, a three hour drive? Make it two and a half.”
“I'm real sorry, Royal, but that's not gonna happen. I'm playin' the long game here, you understand. Wish I could attend your party, but I'll have to politely decline.”
I stand up straight, my eyebrows raising in shock.
“Are you fucking serious?”
“Absolutely.” There's a long pause, the only sound a slight metallic squeak from Glacier's stool as he adjusts himself. “Hey, how's your new girl, huh? I hear she's real pretty. A dynamite in the sack. You be careful with that one, you hear me? A good girl like that's hard to find.”
Clayton hangs up before I can reign in my roiling temper enough to clip out an insult.
Fuck.
I drop the mobile from my ear and squeeze it tight in a fist.
“He's coming, yeah?” Glacier asks me, snapping his gum and lifting his blond brows in question. “Should we be ready for trouble?”
“He's not coming,” I say, and even to my ears, that's a shock. Dober's eyes go wide and Smoky curses under his breath. The club, the colors, the name, it's supposed to stand for something. Respect. Solidarity. Community. Without that, there's nothing. If Clayton isn't willing to make a stand for his boys, then what the hell else is going on here? The club comes first, always comes first. “He's not fucking coming.”
“That cock sucking scum bag son of a bitch,” Smoky continues as he turns in a tight circle, boots squeaking against the freshly polished floors. “He knows what we're gonna do to them.”
“Without a doubt,” Glacier snaps, his face going dark. Scares the bloody crap out of me.
“He also mentioned Lyric,” I say, hating the way my voice drops into a growl. If I could, I'd leave this bit of information out, but I can't. It's one thing to drag a m
ayor's daughter into the mix; it's a whole other to lie by omission. “I think it was a threat.”
Three sets of eyes stare right back at me, and nobody knows what to do.
Least of all me.
If Lyric were like Janae, and we were married, if she'd proven herself to the club already, woven herself into our daily lives, then they'd be there for her. As things stand, she's a stranger and no magical announcement from me is going to change that.
“Fuck.”
I rake my fingers through my hair and close my eyes against Dober's I told you so look. Don't fucking need to see that shite right now. I can feel my temper raging beneath my skin, and it takes everything I have to stay calm. I'm going to blow that son of a bitch's brains straight out the back of his skull.
My eyes slide open to find our club secretary, Mick, moving into the room with his wife, Glinda the Good fucking Witch, by his side. She looks like the cat that got the cream. Last goddamn thing I need right now. I make myself look at Mick as he unfolds himself into the room, all six foot four of him towering over the rest of us like we aren't the same bloody height. Janae might be the secretary for the businesses, but Mick is the real secretary, the guy who keeps the meeting minutes, safeguards the club constitution, calls roll at the meetings.
“Did I miss something just now?” he asks as Glinda gives me a little wave and moves around the counter to gossip with Fauna—most likely about Lyric. I glance over my shoulder and give them both a feral grin when I find them staring my way. Yep. Most definitely about Lyric. Glinda raises her strawberry blond brows at me, looking all the more like her namesake in a pink leather jacket with a property patch on the back. She used to be a leather lover, still is good friends with Mia. Good luck, Pint-Size.
I try to keep my face neutral as I look back at Mick. His wife works the coffee shop part-time, takes care of their daughters the rest of the week. I'm pretty fucking sure she doesn't work today, which means she's here for the sole purpose of checking out my girl.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
“Clayton Moore just turned down my invitation to the party tonight,” I say, drumming my fingers on the counter and trying to decide what the best course of action might be right now. I have to move carefully here, especially with the addition of Lyric to the mix. I know the club's still not sure about a young guy like me being the pres, some overly progressive upstart little bastard. I've heard them say it. Doesn't bother me much, but the moves I make right now could affect Lyric in a tremendous way.
“That so?” Mick asks, rubbing his hand through his dark hair. “Doesn't sound like the Clayton Moore I know. About ten years ago, Bill had a few of the guys sniff out some dealer downtown who was hawking shady shit. They uncovered an entire underground network of Mile Wide boys, put a few bullets in them, and ended up in an all-out war with Clayton.”
I feel myself frowning. The previous pres never spoke very highly of Clayton Moore; I basically grew up listening to the guy talk shit about the man. To Mick, that story might sound like it puts Clayton in a positive light. As president, I hear things with a different ear. To me, that story says I didn't give a fuck about my guys, sent them up into a dangerous situation where I was damn sure they'd end up six feet under.
“So what do we do?” Glacier asks, curling his pale, tattooed hand into a fist, blue eyes already sparkling with ideas I hope I never have to hear about. I rub at my stubbled chin, noticing the subtle movement of Fauna and Glinda around the bar and out the door.
A rival motorcycle club … or the Alpha Wolves' old ladies.
It's hard to say which problem is worse: mine … or Lyric's.
“Told you the mochas were good,” Janae says smugly, sipping hers as we sit at a little café table near the playground, the sound of waves crashing against the rocks the only thing keeping me calm. I can feel my nails digging into the denim thighs of my jeans, but I smile tightly anyway. Politics. This is just more politics.
I don't like your husband. He seems like a sexist asshole.
That's what I want to say. Instead, “they're almost as good as the ones at Starbucks.” Big smile. Oops, maybe that was the wrong thing to say? Janae gives me a death glare, narrowing her dark brown eyes on me and pursing her lips. She's pretty, petite, unassuming at first glance. Underneath all that though, there's a fire burning. If I want to … date Royal, then I guess I better figure out how to hang around his friends without pissing them off.
I'm about to open my mouth to ask about the businesses when I hear footsteps, glancing over to my left and spotting Fauna walking with some blond girl in a pink leather jacket. She pauses a moment as a customer from the garage yells a greeting, turning to wave. I catch sight of the back of her jacket, spot the three patches there. There's the Alpha Wolves logo in the middle with the words Property of on top and … Mick on the bottom. Property of Mick.
I feel my throat clench tight, my palms get sweaty, my heartbeat start to pound. Some women might find the idea of being 'owned' by a man sexy; I happen not to be one of them. Why, oh why did I decide to fall in love with an outlaw biker? Hah. And I'd sworn off dating male politicians because I thought they were backwards.
I tap my much-less-manicured-than-Janae's nails against my thighs as I wait for the two women to approach us, the watery sunlight from above bathing their faces with gray-yellow light.
“Well, hello there, sugar,” the blonde in the pink jacket says, her accent thick with the south. From where, I have no clue, but it's cute. “When I heard the news, I just had to come in and see for myself. It's not everyday the president gets himself a new girlfriend.” She bends down at the waist, putting her hands on her hips and studying me with sparkling blue eyes, a smear of pink lipstick across her full mouth.
I'm not sure where either Royal or I stand on the whole “old lady” thing, so I decide it's better not to comment on her very purposeful use of the word girlfriend. I turn and stand up from my chair, smoothing my hands own my thighs and briefly missing the comfort of my plain old woolen suits and my slicked back bun. I extend a dry hand and lift my chin up as the blonde straightens.
“The name's Lyric Rentz,” I say, biting back the words Deputy Mayor before they can spill across my lips and ruin any cred I might have with these women. There's no doubt in my mind that they know about my position, but tossing it around like that isn't likely to impress anyone.
“She's the mayor's daughter,” Fauna adds, like there's any way this woman could've missed the gossip. “He know about your little love affair with Royal?”
I ignore the question as I grip the blonde's hand and shake hard. She digs her nails into the back of my hand, but I pretend not to notice.
“Glinda Tenor,” she says, and I almost laugh. Glinda, the Good Witch. Hmm. She even sort of looks like her … “Mick's old lady.” She crosses her arms over her chest with a crinkle of leather, looking me up and down with an assessing gaze. “Mia said you were cute, but I don't think that does you justice, sugar.”
“Mia?” I ask, my skin chilling at the memory of the woman's fist in my face. “I didn't think she'd say anything nice about me at all. I suppose cute is a compliment.”
Glinda smiles tightly, the tanned skin of her face pulling at the edges of her mouth and eyes. She's like Fauna, young at first sight, but when I look a little closer, I see she has to be at least forty.
“Not from her,” she says, waving her hand like it doesn't matter. I can tell it does. I glance over at Fauna, whose kindness has disappeared completely, leaving her face alien and foreign. I feel like I've never even met the woman, like she didn't lend me her daughter's clothes last night. And all this because they think I'm dating their president? Because I'm in politics? Or just because we're strangers and they don't want me invading their perfect little family? “So, tell me, how did you and Royal meet? Seems like just yesterday he was fucking Mia in one of the dorm rooms with the door cracked.” Glinda laughs, a high throaty sound that probably sends men scrambling to attention. “Oh wait? May
be that was two weeks ago, wasn't it, Janae?”
I grit my teeth hard as Janae stands up and moves around me into view, her black and silver coffee cup clutched in one hand. Her face looks a little queasy, like she's not comfortable with the direction this conversation is taking. Huh. Interesting. I make a note of that.
“Must've been, since he's spent every waking second of the last week fucking me.” I turn around without waiting for a reply, grabbing my coffee cup in a steady hand and flicking a smile back at the silent women behind me. “If you'll excuse me a moment.”
I step around them and march away down the pavement, pretending like I know exactly where I'm going. I don't. But I also kind of feel like I need to puke. What am I doing here? I don't belong here. Half of me wants to run screaming through the gates … and the other half is hopelessly and inextricably falling in love with Royal McBride.
I clamp my jaw shut tight and practically faint when I see Royal moving down the steps of the deck, hitting the dew drenched pavement and pausing to put his fingers to his lips. When he whistles, the dogs come running, appearing from the cluster of ferns that line the fence. On their way back to Royal, they veer and come straight at me, slapping their paws against the cement, tongues lolling, tails flicking excitedly.
“Would you look at that?” Royal says with one of those gorgeous grins of his, the kind that take up his entire face and make me go weak at the knees. Jesus, I am so screwed. I swallow hard as his dark brown eyes take me in with a raised brow. “Man's best friend, my arse. You've already won them over, haven't you, Pint-Size?”
I smile as I reach down and rub my thumb against Lake's velvety black ear.
“Well, you know, you left me alone in your bed with these guys all day. I may or may not have shared my ice cream with them.” I force the coffee cup to my mouth and take a sip. It really is a good mocha. Better than Starbucks. Way better than Starbucks. I wait as Royal makes his way over to me, hovering close like he wants to touch me, but isn't sure he should. His eyes flick up and over my shoulder, taking in the ocean, the compound … the three old ladies I can hear moving towards us.