Risky and Wild: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Bad Boys MC Trilogy Book 2)

by Violet Blaze

  “You have absolutely zero tact, you know that?” she snaps, slinging her purse up her shoulder and unzipping it to dig around for her keys. “First, you tell me you're going to threaten my brother into implicating himself to the FBI, and then you try to romance me by saying that my life is worth nothing when compared to yours?” She lifts her chin in defiance, eyes flashing. “You think that's the only option? For me to give up everything to be with you? Well, you're wrong, Royal McBride.”

  “If there's another option, I'm open to it,” I say, realizing quickly that I've made a total cock-up of the moment, but unable to stop myself. I'm no good at any of this, and it's a pretty steep goddamn learning curve. “But I just don't see it.”

  “Oh, really?” Lyric asks, sniffing disdainfully. “Because I do. My other option—one that you might've considered before insulting me—is to choose my career over you.”

  She spins on her heel and takes off towards the front of the clubhouse before I can stop her.

  “Royal,” Dober starts, but I hold my hand up, moving after her and watching as one of our prospects—Sketch, the boys have been calling him since he spends so much damn time drawing—scrambles to his feet and lunges on his bike, taking off after Lyric's black Chrysler as she squeals out of the parking space and through the compound gates.

  Fuck.

  Glad my mum thought to name me appropriately because I think I just royally fucked things up.

  I head home and kick off those stupid heels, scrub all the makeup off my face. I feel like I'm drowning, being dragged away from everything I've ever known and wanted, pulled kicking and screaming into a new life, one that's so foreign it might as well be alien.

  I rub my hands down my face and sit hard on the edge of my couch.

  Breathe, Lyric, breathe, I tell myself as I lean back and sink into the mountain of throw pillows behind me. Dragging one to my chest, I close my eyes and let the frustrations of the day wash over me. I should be most worried about the FBI, Agent Shelley's penetrating stare, her eyes like melted chocolate. Instead, I'm sitting here thinking about Royal McBride, who I might add, is actually the one at fault for all of this. If I hadn't let myself get tangled in him, then none of this would be happening.

  I put the purple pillow to my mouth and let out a little growl against the sequined fabric. Makes me feel better, if nothing else. Tossing it aside, I rise to my feet, pausing to lift up my left foot so I can rub tenderly at the arch. Wow, that hurts. Back to kitten heels tomorrow it is. Only … I don't want to wear those either.

  Plain unassuming work shoes … sexy red towering stilettos.

  Mayor's daughter and future politician … old lady to the world's hottest outlaw biker.

  None of those things feel like me, like I don't fit into any of those categories.

  “Fuck,” I say aloud, dropping my foot to the floor. My word of the day is about twice as relevant now as it was earlier. Didn't even know that was possible.

  You and me, Pint-Size, we can't work like this. How are you going to keep me a secret forever? I'm part of a national criminal enterprise, love. Outlaws. How are you gonna shake that when you run for state senate?

  Royal's lack of savoir faire aside, he's right. And that's the worst part of this whole thing. For a moment there, I wish I could wave a wand and transport back to Sunday, to that magical moment in his bedroom when we agreed to be together.

  I snort sharply.

  How naïve. And I'm not a naïve sort of person. Lyric Lenore Rentz, she's careful. Prepared. Perfectly put together.

  Or at least she's supposed to be.

  With a sigh, I dig through my purse for my cell, finding several missed calls from Royal and a text that says see you at ten, like we didn't just have a fight in the middle of his clubhouse. I purse my lips and shake my head, moving into my bedroom to snag a pair of slippers with hard soles on the bottom.

  I'm heading to the hospital to talk to my brother in person, see if I can get the whole story instead of the abridged version. I need to know exactly what he and Brent were up to, so I can make a decision about what to do here. Whether things work out with Royal or not, this FBI scandal has to go away. It just has to.

  I head outside, salute the guy on the bike, some young dude with dark hair falling into his face and eyes that look yellow in the waning afternoon light, and climb into my car. I'm determined not to fuss and fret over Royal tonight … but I can't shake his words from my head.

  Royal and me, we are good together.

  But, like I knew from the start—I knew—I'm afraid we'll never work together.

  No, not just afraid. Terrified.

  Because I think I'm falling in love with Royal, and like a wolf who mates for life, I'm afraid that's only going to happen for me once.

  “Sully,” I say with a smile, sweeping into his room and not caring that the nurse at the visitor information desk scowled at my slippers and snapped something about visiting hours being over soon. I plop a vase of pink carnations and a white container of pad Thai on his bedside table and try not to cringe at the swollen purple swells of his face, or his right arm wrapped in a heavy white cast.

  He cracks his bruised lids when I pause next to his bed and cross my arms over my chest, staring at the sleek, shiny waves of his hair. Someone must be taking care of it for him. My mother, maybe, or more probably one of the nurses. My brother's never had any issues attracting women like moths to flame.

  “What do you want, Lyric?” he grumbles, turning his face away, his jawline hardly recognizable behind the lumps and yellow-green bruises. “I'm not really in the mood to chat right now.”

  “Yeah, well,” I start, huffing out a sigh and glancing at the closed door to the hallway. “We have a problem.”

  “A problem,” he mumbles, grudgingly turning his gaze to mine, hands curling into fists in the crisp white blanket over his lap. At the foot of the bed, one of my grandmother's quilts lays folded and perfect, little blue and yellow squares the only color in this awful room.

  It strikes me suddenly that the reason my brother's here, the state that he's in, that's because of Royal. Royal did this. He took a hammer to my older brother and he … would've killed Brent if someone else hadn't gotten to him first. How can I even consider being with this guy? What the hell is wrong with me?

  “Yes. A problem. Those FBI agents that came to talk to you, well, they know that Brent's death wasn't a suicide.” There's a sharp inhale from my brother, followed quickly by a coughing fit. I grab a glass of water from the table next to the carnations and offer it to him, but he waves me away.

  “How do you know it's not?” he asks, that overprotective streak in his voice making me roll my eyes. “Lyric, this whole situation, it has nothing to do with you.”

  “Only that's not true,” I say, glancing at the door again, up at the corner where the security camera crouches like a bulbous eye. I doubt there's any audio to go along with the picture, but I want to be careful here anyway. I look back down at Sully as he reaches up the fingers of his left hand and slides them through his perfect, shiny hair. That's my family in a nutshell: hospitalized and in pain but still put together, groomed, perfect. It kind of … irritates me, but I can't say why. It just does. “They know Brent was killed because of your dealings with Mile Wide MC.”

  “My … what?” Sully chokes, his green eyes cartoonish as they widen in shock. “How … what …” My brother just stops talking, at a loss for words for what's probably the first time in his life. His pale skin gets even paler as the blood drains from his face.

  “I know you and Brent were working with a man named Clayton Moore, that you tried to shakedown the Alpha Wolves,” deep breath here, “that Royal McBride beat you with a hammer because of it.”

  “Jesus Christ, Lyric,” Sully sputters, doing his best to sit up and grunting in pain as he jostles his fractured right arm. His gaze drills into my face, dots of perspiration beading his forehead. He might be kind of a dick—and an absolute idiot at times—b
ut my brother loves me. I can see that in his face, in the tightening of his jaw, the fear that flickers across his expression as he looks at me. “You need to back off, stay away from all of this.” He swallows hard, clearly concerned for me. “If you try to butt into this … this crap that Brent and I started, you could end up like me. Like him.”

  “Sully—”

  “No. Lyric, this isn't the time to be a rebel. Go home and read a book or something, pretend that none of this ever happened.” I grit my teeth at his imperious tone, sucking in a deep breath to calm my nerves, the fluorescent lights contributing to what's already setting up to be a massive headache.

  “I'm dating Royal McBride.”

  I don't mean to say the words. Seriously. They just pop out, hanging in the air like a cartoon bubble attached to my lips. Crap. That's not what I came here to say … or how I meant to say it. But I guess it's out there now, so I roll with it.

  “Somehow, the FBI's gotten it into their heads that I might know something about Brent's death. You can see why that might me a problem for me.”

  “You're …” Sully stares at me in abject shock, his mouth hanging wide, his eyes practically bulging out of his head. “You're sleeping with that … that thug?”

  “Well, I'd hardly call him a thug,” I sniff. “And anyway, I said dating, not sleeping with. You presume much, Sully.”

  His turn to snort at me as he shakes his head in disbelief.

  “A man like that doesn't just date, Lyric. If you're some kind of item with him, then there's sex involved.” He wrinkles up his nose like the prospect of his little sister being anything but a vestal virgin freaks him the hell out. “And … after you found out he did this to me? You're still seeing the guy?” A pause. “Did you see him today?”

  I purse my lips and keep my arms crossed over my chest.

  “You're lucky you didn't end up like Brent, Sully. This beating was a blessing in disguise.” My brother continues to gawp at me, rubbing at his hair and turning that shiny perfect fall of brunette into a tangled mess with his worrying. “Anyway, you're missing the point of this conversation. The FBI is looking at me, okay? That's an issue that needs to be cleared up.”

  “Mom's going to have a heart attack when she finds out,” Sully murmurs, eyes glazing over as he tries desperately to process this information. “Dad will … this could ruin Dad's career. My career. Yours.” Green eyes flick up to my face, like mirrors of my own, darkening with a sudden surge of emotion. “How could you be so stupid?”

  I purse my lips tight as Sully finally notices the cuts on my face, visible without the heaps of makeup I was wearing earlier.

  “What the … did he do that to you?” he roars, sitting up suddenly, looking several inches taller all of a sudden. “And … what happened to your hair?”

  “No, he didn't touch me, Sully. Royal is … he wouldn't hit a woman.”

  Another derisive snort from my older brother.

  “This is unbelievable,” he whispers, looking around the sterile hospital room, anywhere but at my face. “Absolutely unbelievable. My baby sister fucking that diseased biker.” A shudder runs through him, and he reaches for his cell phone.

  With a quick snap of my wrist, I pull it off the nightstand and dance back a few steps in my brown slippers.

  “Sully, you need to calm down for a minute and listen to me,” I start, but he's in panic mode now, swinging his legs over the edge of the metal hospital bed with a groan. “Sully, stop,” I beg, feeling like I'm fifteen again, pleading with my brother to stop acting like my fucking dad. Like my keeper. “You're overreacting.”

  “Overreacting?” He's practically yelling now, lifting himself up to his full six foot three height, impressive even in the ugly hospital gown he's wearing, the white cotton patterned with blue diamonds. “Lyric, you have no idea what you've gotten yourself into. This man, he's the president of an outlaw organization. Criminals, Lyric. A gang.” I start to protest, but Sully isn't having any of it, reaching out for his phone with a shaking palm. “Give me the phone; I'm calling Dad.”

  “Like hell you are,” I snort, wondering how a twenty-eight year old and a thirty-four year old ended up in a squabbling argument like a pair of eight year olds. “You whisper a word about this to Dad and he'll learn all about your little dealings with the MCs.”

  “He ALREADY knows!” Sully screams and my heart plummets down my throat, crashes into my stomach with a splash of acid. This time, it's my turn to feel the blood drain from my face. “Now give me the phone.”

  I'm backing up a step when the door opens and we both pause, turning to glance at an orderly in blue scrubs, a cart in front of him, covered with food filled plastic trays. Dinnertime, I guess. But then the man closes and locks the door behind him. I don't even know where the gun comes from; it's just suddenly in his hand, pointed at my brother.

  Fuck.

  There it is again, that word.

  Guess it's still appropriate for the situation, now isn't it?

  “Sully Rentz?” the guy asks, like he doesn't already know.

  “Lyric,” Sully whispers, his face white, hand trembling as he raises it and tries to block me from the intruder, like he can protect me from the business end of that gun with his broken body. “Stay back and let me do the talking, okay?”

  “Okay, Sully,” I whisper back, but I'm already trying to figure out how to get my Glock from inside my purse without Scrubs noticing what I'm doing. I stare at the man, at the stupid smirk he has on his face, like he thinks he looks cool in ice blue scrubs and nurse shoes. At first I think he's just donned a ridiculous disguise, but then I look a little closer at the badge around his neck and realize that he works here.

  What. The. Fuck.

  This rival MC, this Mile Wide, has nurses in their employ?

  Now I'm totally confused.

  “Lay down in the bed, Mr. Rentz, and we'll see about sparing your sister. How does that sound?”

  My brother nods, face drawn and grim, like he's already accepted the inevitable fact of his death. When he glances down at me, his green eyes are wet. Holy crap, I think as I stare up at him. He really does love me, doesn't he?

  And then he says it.

  “I love you, little sis,” he says with a grim smile, turning his attention back to the nurse, squaring his broad shoulders. “Let her walk out of here and I'll do whatever you want.”

  Scrubs gestures with his gun and his chin towards the bed, his hair blond and clean-cut, military style. He looks as much like an outlaw biker as I do.

  “Get in the fucking bed and I'll see what I can do.”

  “I'm not moving from this spot until my sister leaves,” Sully growls, his determination making me even more certain that I have to save him. I have to. Even if he's an idiot and this whole stupid situation is his fault. “Because you don't want to shoot me while I'm standing here, do you?” Sully continues as I slowly slide the zipper on my purse, shuffling my slippers to try to make up for the extra noise. I play the motion off as a nervous twitch, hiding behind my brother's broad back. “In fact, you don't want to shoot me at all, do you? What did you bring with you? Some morphine? Sodium pentobarbital? How exactly do you think you can get rid of me and make it look like an accident?”

  “I am done with this fucking conversation,” the man snarls, his face tearing apart like a rabid animal, all teeth and spittle and snapping jaws. He gets up in Sully's face and presses the muzzle of his gun against my brother's temple. “Get in the friggin' bed or I'll shoot you in the leg and you can writhe in agony and watch as I see what your little sister is made of.”

  “How about two pounds of steel and polymer, and fifteen 9mm rounds?” I ask as my fingers close around the grip of my Glock 19 semi-auto, whipping it from my purse in a blur of motion. Within seconds—seconds—I have the muzzle of the gun focused directly between the eyes of Scrubs, the outlaw nurse.

  The man stares at me slack-jawed for several long seconds.

  “Back off my brother
or I'll blow your brains straight out the back of your skull,” I say as Sully now takes a turn to gape at me. Yeah, that's right—Pint-Size is packing heat. “Because I don't know about you, but if you shoot him, you still die.” I shrug my shoulders. “If it's worth it to you, then by all means, proceed.”

  Inside, I'm shaking, but it's not fear. Right now, I'm just pissed the hell off. That thing with Mia in the parking lot … that really shook me to my core. I felt so helpless then; I don't feel helpless right now.

  “Drop your weapon and walk out of the room. If you do, then you can get a bit of a head start before I call the authorities.”

  Scrubs stares at me for several long seconds before scowling and taking a step back towards the door, his gun still pointed at my brother. I can see the rage roiling around under his skin, but I can also see the cowardice glinting in his eyes. This man isn't going to risk himself for this job, not by a long shot.

  We keep our weapons trained on their targets until the door is unlocked and Scrubs is ducking through it, letting it slam behind him as he disappears, leaving his cart and the food behind. I take a deep breath, the smell of the pad Thai I brought for Sully teasing my nostrils as I close my eyes to steady myself. The gun drops by my side, but I don't loosen my grip.

  “Lyric?” Sully asks, his voice strained.

  I open my eyes, glance down at the sleek, black body of the Glock and tuck it back into my purse. When I raise my gaze to my brother's, he's still gaping at me and his shoulders are trembling. Looking into his eyes, I can see that he really, truly believed he was going to die tonight.

  We stare at each other for a long moment, time stretching thin and brittle between us. For a second there, I think we're going to have a moment, that Sully might actually acknowledge me for having my shit together.

  But no, of course not.

  I purse my lips as he straightens up suddenly and runs his fingers through his hair.