by Violet Blaze
I sit up with a groan and check out the front window for Sketch. Yep, he's already sitting there. Looks like we might have to actually patch the wanker into the club. I like a man who follows orders.
“Get up and get out of my house,” Lyric says as she breezes past me and into the kitchen, following the familiar gurgling sound of a coffeemaker. “You have a shoot with the Times-Standard today. I imagine a shower might be in order first?”
I sit up with a grunt and run my fingers through my hair.
“Bloody hell. What time is it, love?” I ask as I admire Lyric's ass, the smooth curve of her back, the rounded perfection of her shoulders. I've never see her wear anything like this before, and I'll be honest: I'm fucking mesmerized. “Did you wake me up for a good morning shag?”
“No such luck, Mr. McBride,” she says, pouring a cup of coffee and setting it down on the table next to me. “I'm due at the office. You know, for that job that doesn't mean shit to you.”
I raise my brows as Lyric cringes and then flutters her left hand at me in apology, another cup of coffee clutched in her right.
“I'm sorry,” she says and then sucks in a deep breath. “Look, I just don't have the energy for an argument right now.” Another pause as she glances away. “Sully called me this morning. He decided to talk to my dad before speaking with the FBI. Apparently the plan's on hold until I get to the office; Philip's waiting to talk to me.”
Lyric looks back at me, the injuries on her cheeks carefully covered with makeup, her short hair straight and shiny, lips slathered in red. She doesn't look anything like the girl with the slicked back buns and the brown skirt suits. Come to think of it, she doesn't look anything like the girl in the tight red dress I danced with that first night either. She's … something else entirely. I can't put my finger on it, but it's there.
“Your brother's a fucking prat, you know that?”
Lyric gives me an almost smile and carefully sips her coffee, staining the white mug with her lipstick.
“If I get time today, I'll look into that nurse from last night. I have a few contacts at the hospital who can help out.”
“Pint-Size,” I start, because I feel like all of this business chitchat is just a cover for what's really going on between us. Love. Fuck, there's that. We both said it and even though I'm about half-positive that makes us both mad as hatters, I know it's true. “I don't want to steal the life from your lips, love. That wasn't what that conversation at the clubhouse was all about.”
I swing my boots onto the floor and lean forward to take the coffee mug in my hands. There are so many things I want to say right now. I want to tell her that I know she's different, that she'll never be a club wife like Janae. Lyric isn't like Janae at all. She's not background music; she's a symphony.
Instead, I stare into the darkness of the coffee and tap the toe of my boot against the wood floor.
Shit.
I have absolutely zero experience with this kind of thing. I let my gaze flick up to Lyric's and find her staring at me. I can hear her words from yesterday ringing in my head. “You want me to drop everything, my whole life … just to be your girlfriend?”
Phrased like that … fuck. That was essentially what I was saying, wasn't it?
“We're having the shoot just outside the office. Come pay me a visit?”
She doesn't answer me as I reach inside my cut and draw out my Ruger, laying it on the coffee table next to my mug.
“I can't take that—” Lyric starts, but I cut her off.
“S'okay. There're more where that came from,” I say with a wink, standing up in a rustle of leather and denim. I start to walk past her, catching the subtle scent of shampoo and wildflowers. The smell stops me in my tracks as I look down at Lyric, catching the glimmering emerald perfection of those eyes. When I turn to her, she mimics the motion, dropping her coffee cup to the floor. It shatters into a hundred little white pieces, splashing the toes of my boots in warm liquid.
Neither of us notices because we're too busy touching each other, my hands taking a firm hold of Lyric's hips while hers find my chest and curl in the fabric of my shirt. When our lips meet, I taste coffee and lipstick and a bright pop of mint. Heat sears straight through me, breaking over my body like an explosion. I yank her into me, my hands running up and over the smooth expanse of her bare back.
“What's all this now?” I ask against her mouth. “This outfit? It's bloody brilliant.”
“It's called a jumpsuit,” Lyric whispers as I grin and run my fingers along the side of her jaw, lifting her chin up as I bend low to kiss it. I trail my lips down her throat, tracing my way along the deep V neckline. The soft smooth roundness of Lyric's breasts are just barely visible peeking from beneath the fabric. I'm about half ready to tear the damn thing off.
“Royal,” Lyric says, pulling my face back up and whimpering a little as I catch her lower lip between my teeth. “I need some time to think, okay?” I raise my eyebrows at her and she frowns at me, glancing away quickly. “You make it ridiculously difficult to do that when you're around, you know that?”
“Consider it a speciality of mine,” I growl, pulling her up towards me, sealing our lips together in a long hot kiss, and diving into her warm mouth with my tongue. Lyric flicks her own tongue against mine, fighting for control of this encounter with the firm grip of her hands in my shirt. When she puts pressure on me to step back, I comply, letting my body rest against the front door. I'm hard and thick and ready for her, my eyes tracking her movements as Lyric slides her palm over the bulge of denim and licks her lower lip.
We make eye contact, still standing in the puddle of cooling coffee, when she decides to go for it. Thank fucking God. Sex always solves arguments, doesn't it? At least if she's shagging me, she can't be considering walking away from this, right?
Lyric's got her hand on the button of my jeans when the doorbell rings and she pulls back from me with a curse, burgundy lipstick smeared across the bottom of her face.
“Just a moment!” she calls out, her face flushed and her lips swollen from kissing. I grin at her, and she tosses me a venomous look, heading into the bathroom to fix her makeup as I check surreptitiously through the peephole. I'm expecting Sketch or that dodgy old neighbor of hers, but I'm not that lucky, am I?
Standing outside on Lyric's front porch are two FBI agents.
“Fuck.”
I recognize the woman and the man standing behind her from Lyric's description. I check my mobile real quick for the time. Not quite eight in the morning. What the hell is it with these government types and the butt crack of dawn? I scowl as I tap my fingers against the doorjamb, trying to decide the best course of action here. Clearly, my damn bike's in the driveway, so what's the point of trying to hide? They already seem to know all about Lyric and me anyway.
I make a snap decision and swing the door open, leaning my forearm against the jamb as I peer down at the two agents with my brows raised.
“Something I can help you lot with?” I ask as the woman smiles at me and the man stays stubbornly stoic.
“Royal McBride, I'm Special Agent Shelley and this is Special Agent Garza. As I'm sure you already know, we're part of an FBI task force sent in to investigate the death of Brent Gilman.”
“The slimy little douchebag that offed himself?” I ask, pulling out a pack and slapping it against the palm of my hand. “You musta done something to irk the higher-ups if they're sending you all the way out here for an open-and-shut case.”
“Actually,” Agent Shelley begins, her dark eyes sparkling as she takes me in with a keen interest that sends chills down my spine. I know right then that she's gonna give me hell. “This goes a little deeper than that.” She turns her painted lips up in a small smile. “Do you think we could have a few moments of your time, Mr. McBride?”
The agent pauses at the sound of Lyric's heels moving across the floor, following the direction of my gaze as I glance over my shoulder and find Pint-Size staring at me like I'm mad
as a box of frogs. She schools her expression in less than a second, smoothing her hands down the front of her black jumpsuit as she comes up to stand next to me. We both pretend not to notice the broken mug and spilled coffee on the floor behind us.
The smug look on Agent Shelley's face is fucking infuriating.
“Miss Rentz,” she says, and her voice is cool and calculating. “I apologize for the intrusion, but our investigation is rather urgent, and we just couldn't seem to find Mr. McBride anywhere else.” That smile gets a little wider as the man behind her shifts slightly and sniffles. “Do you mind if we borrow him for a little while?”
“A suicide is rather urgent? Damn.” A small, smug smile of my own. “You really must not have a lot to do over there at the bureau.”
“Mr. McBride, are you aware that your vice president was working with a major Mexican drug trafficking ring known as the Saldaña Cartel?”
I feel the blood draining from my body. I know I should be putting on a poker face, but I just can't. I just fucking can't. I know without even having to ask that she's clearly not talking about Dober.
Landon. This is about fucking Landon.
“The … what a lot of tosh,” I spit because there's no way. I can't make my mind process the information she's just thrown at me. I knew it. Pain in the bloody arse. Agent Shelley keeps smiling at me, but there's a softness in her expression now, and I know I've just given heaps of free information away. He didn't know. That's what she'll be thinking. He's the fucking president of the mother chapter, and he didn't know.
“Landon White. I understand he hasn't been seen in a while? We're afraid he may have been embroiled in some inner violence that's been brewing with the cartels.” Agent Shelley stops smiling and looks between Lyric and me. I can feel Pint-Size staring at the side of my face, but I haven't gotten the energy to move yet.
Fuck.
It all makes sense now. The money, the paid thugs, the turf war. Clayton Moore, Mile Wide, they're working with the cartel and they need the Wolves' territory to expand their business.
Jesus Christ. This is big. Much bigger than I thought.
“You may have heard a little bit about it in the news? The Saldaña Cartel is actually an offshoot of the Villarreal Cartel. They've been having territory disputes for years. A lot of violence, a lot death. The infighting has finally pushed the Saldaña Cartel up north.” Agent Shelley adjusts herself, the fabric of her beige pantsuit rustling with the movement. I can hardly even look at her, can hardly even breathe.
Landon. The man I killed. The friend I shot.
Now I know exactly what he was doing with Mile Wide, but not why. I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever find out the answer to that question.
“What's any of that got to do with Brent?” I manage to say without so much as a stutter. “You think the Saldañas got him, too? That it?”
“Brent Gilman's death is still currently under investigation, but we were hoping you could help answer some of our questions.” Shelley gestures at my bike with her right hand. “The Trinidad Police Department has kindly offered us the use of their facilities while we're in town. If you'd like to follow us over, it shouldn't take more than an hour or two.”
I stare the woman down for a long moment, but what choice do I really have?
Christ.
I thought things couldn't get any worse. The FBI is bad. A drug cartel could be worse.
“I've got a meeting with the mayor at ten,” I tell them with a slow, easy smile that I don't feel anywhere but on my face. “S'long as you can be done before then, I'd be happy to comply.”
The sound of my car door slamming echoes loudly around the mostly empty parking. The mayor and I seem to be the only ones in at the moment. Across the lot, Sketch pulls his red and black bike up along the edge of the street. I watch him park and pull his helmet off before I reach down for the handles on the glass front doors.
This is a nightmare, I think as I move through the foyer and open the second set of doors into the lobby. A serious fucking nightmare. Not only has the realization of being with Royal finally set in, but there's the FBI and a Mexican fucking drug cartel. Seriously? I'm the deputy mayor for a town tucked behind the Redwood curtain, hidden on the Lost Coast. How is this kind of thing making its way all the way up here?
I take a deep breath as I start up the stairs, finding Philip waiting patiently in his office.
“Dad,” I start, but he cuts me off like he always does, gesturing for me to sit in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. The blinds on all his windows are closed, but his face is just as calm and composed as always. I watch his blue eyes track me as I shut and lock the door, perching on the edge of the chair and waiting for him to start this conversation.
My mind though … I'm not entirely sure it's all there in that room. I know Royal can handle himself with Agent Shelley and Agent Garza, but I can't stop fantasizing about what they might be asking him, what he might be saying. For once, I'm glad that Sully didn't listen to me. Maybe, just maybe, if the FBI is looking to pin all of this crap—Brent's death, Landon's death—on the Saldaña Cartel, Royal could get off scot-free.
Although that wouldn't change the source of the argument between us because he's right: I can't have both him and a career in politics. And there's nothing he can do to change that. It's up to me to make this decision alone.
“Lyric,” my father starts, standing up from his expensive leather chair to tower over me. It's a power move, I know that. I can't help but narrow my eyes at him, rising up to my full five foot two height (okay, five five with the heels) to stare him down. “Your brother—”
“You knew?” I interrupt, using his own tactic against him. “About what Sully and Brent were doing? And yet you did nothing to stop it?”
“It's more complicated than that, Lyric.”
“How so?” I ask, putting my hands on my hips. I feel powerful in my jumpsuit. It's a little bit sexier than normal work attire, a little less biker than a body covered in leather. I know it's nothing but black cotton, that in all reality, what I'm wearing has little to do with who I am as a woman, but … it feels good. Like me. “Your son was using his connections to pull strings for a criminal organization, so they could continue to traffic drugs, weapons, God only knows what else. What part of that is complicated?”
“Your brother had nothing to do with Brent's death,” Philip says, his voice a tad edgier than normal, but still in control, even, low. “The man committed suicide. That is all that we know. He has nothing more to say to the FBI.”
“Your son made a serious mistake when he betrayed one criminal group for another. He tried to blackmail the Alpha Wolves, too. Now there's not one but two motorcycle clubs that he's managed to piss off. Did he tell you what else happened last night? How he could've been killed?”
“Your brother told me a lot of things,” Philip continues, his face crinkling up in disgust as he looks at me. Crap. I know where this is going. “If your idea of rebellion is to seek out this … biker, then you'd best put a lid on it.”
My mouth gapes open as my father steps forward, his face going dark.
“Our family has enough problems without you complicating them any further. I thought you knew what you wanted, Lyric. Do you think you'll ever get elected with a stain like Royal McBride on your record? You might think you're being careful, but these kinds of things have a way of coming to light.”
“Actually,” I say, my voice like venom. “I was talking about the nurse-turned-assassin that tried to blow my brother's head off with a semi-automatic.” I make sure my spine is straight before I smile at Philip's slowly crumbling mask. “And how dare you speak to me like that, act like what I do in the privacy of my bedroom is worse than your son helping to traffic drugs over the Mexican border. You should be ashamed of yourself.” I pull in a deep breath, wondering why the hell I rushed over here in the first place. I have more important things to do, like track down the nurse's ID, figure out who he is and where he lives.
And then I need to grab a coffee and a scone and head down to the beach for some serious self-reflection. “I'm leaving. I'll be back for the shoot.”
“If you walk out of this room, Lyric Lenore Rentz,” my father begins, but screw him. I'm twenty-eight years old and I can make my own damn decisions.
“What? You'll fire me? Good luck trying to find somebody that can put up with your shit like I do.” I pause for a moment with my hand on the doorjamb. “You know, I thought it was Royal that made Toni Gladstone quit, but you know what? I think it was actually you. You're an awful person to be around, you know that?”
I walk out the door and down the stairs, listening to see if my father decides to follow me.
He doesn't.
Good for him. Best decision he's made all week.
Trinidad Community Hospital is relatively new and—like everything else in this town—isn't near as large as it should to accommodate the recent population boom. In this case, that turns out to be a particularly good thing. The woman in charge of the human resources department—Loretta Condie—and I went to high school together. It takes me less than five minutes to get the name and address of the man who tried to kill my brother last night. Totally illegal, sure, but Trinidad has that small town feel and those of us that grew up here stick together.
Loretta also tells me that the man, a Mr. Clint Woodrow, called in sick today. How surprising. I'd be shocked if he was still in town. I know if my assassination attempt on the mayor's son went south, I'd be heading south of the border.
I sit down with a cup of coffee at the Beachcomber Café, relieved that—at least for the moment—I'm finally alone. No Sully, no Dad, no FBI agents … no Royal McBride.
With a groan, I lean my elbow on the metal bistro table and put my head in my hand.
Royal McBride. The source of so much trouble in my life. And the source of so much pleasure.