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

by Violet Blaze

“Our shower?” she asks, but she's almost smiling as she slides past me and into the bathroom. I wait until I hear the water running before I leave, moving down the hallway in my bare feet, the sound of the doorbell ringing incessantly in my ears.

  “Alright?” I ask when I fling the door open and find Mia standing there in skintight leather pants and purple heels. She tucks some hair behind her ear and then runs the fingers of her right hand up and down the tattoos on her left arm. When she doesn't respond, I lean into the doorjamb and raise an eyebrow. “What do you want?” I ask, reaching for the pack of smokes on my side table. I slide one between my lips as I wait for a response.

  “Royal,” she starts, looking at me like she's my long-lost lover instead of a casual hookup.

  “You think it's smart to show your face around here after what you did to Lyric?”

  “I was just trying to help,” she blurts taking a step toward me. I don't back up, but when she lifts a hand to touch my chest, I push her wrist away. The makeup around her eyes looks muddled, smeared like she's been crying. I feel bad for the girl, I do. Crap job, crap family, crap apartment. But I can't fix those things for her. “Lyric isn't right for you, Royal.” Mia turns and ruffles her hair, spinning back to me and staring at me from beneath fake lashes. She's a pretty girl this one, but she's not Lyric. Looking at her now, I can't feel even the faintest stirring of interest. “I'm in love with you, you silly idiot,” she says, sniffling a little.

  I light my cigarette and close my eyes for a moment. I'm not out to ruin people's lives or crush their hearts or any of that nonsense, but all I have for Mia now is the truth. I open my eyes up and take a long drag.

  “Listen, I'm bloody sorry things aren't going the way you want them to, but you fucked up, Mia.” She starts to protest, but I step forward, cutting her off with the movement. “You beat up the mayor's daughter on club property, something that could've gone to shit if Lyric had pressed charges. And then,” I pull in a deep breath to try and calm my suddenly thumping pulse, “you had the fucking audacity to attack my old lady in a public place, to humiliate her in view of several security cameras. Mia, I decided to let Lyric handle her own business, but I can't imagine you think you'll be welcome on the compound again.”

  “Royal,” she starts, but I'm done, shaking my head and moving another step forward. Mia stumbles back, down the porch steps until she's standing on the walkway. Tears are streaming down her cheeks, but her purple painted lips are open in a growl, white teeth clenched tight.

  “I'll put in a good word for you at one of the other chapters if you want to see what they're all about, but you, me, this,” I gesture between us, “we're done here, love. And take your friends with you.”

  “You think the rest of the club will like that? If I take my girls with me and go?” she snaps, narrowing her eyes and curling her tattooed hands into fists. “I go, and you'll have nobody left. Royal, think about what you're doing. Some bourgeois bitch? Or me.”

  “You're not going to snooker me into any sort of relationship with you, sweetheart. In fact, you're goddamn lucky that the club decided not to pursue this further. You're a fucking liability, Mia. If you think any of the Wolves want an old lady that jeopardizes the well-being of the club on a whim, you're sorely mistaken.”

  “You mean any of the Wolves except for you.”

  I flick my cigarette to the ground and cross my arms over my chest. Mia stares at me for a long moment and then screams, a loud piercing sound that gets that old geezer next door to come sprinting out his front door. I stand there stoic as a goddamn statue as Mia hits me, pummeling me with her fists as she gets the rage out.

  Wow. She really is lucky. I don't hit women, but some of the old-timers … they're a different breed altogether.

  “Fuck you, Royal!” she screeches as the old man starts shouting about calling the cops on my convict ass. “Piece of shit!” She storms away, pausing next to my bike and sliding her keys from her pocket.

  “Don't do something you'll regret,” I warn her, dropping my hands to my sides. But what am I going to do? Manhandle the woman with that old bastard watching? I have the feds, Mile Wide, and the Saldaña Cartel on my arse. I can't handle a confrontation with the police. “You do this and you'd best find yourself a one-way ticket out of town—somewhere the Wolves don't have a chapter.”

  “Fuck. You.” Mia drags her key along the paint with a screech, moving over to Lyric's car next until she makes her way back to the piece of shit clunker at the bottom of the driveway. I stand stone still, my heart thumping, my blood raging. Did I say I didn't hit women? I want to beat the shit out of Mia right now. She fucking comes to my place after disrespecting my old lady? My club? Me? And now my goddamn bike?

  But I've got enough self-control to know that this is best.

  Mia digs in the front seat of her car and tosses garbage onto my lawn while my neighbor continues to yell at us. At least if he calls the cops now, I'm the good guy. It's all I can do at this point.

  “Enjoy your white collar bitch,” Mia shouts as she slams the passenger side door and moves over to the driver's side. When she climbs in, she rolls the window down and lifts her arm out, middle finger raised as her tires squeal and screech across the pavement.

  I'm fucking irate, but I console myself with the thought that this'll be the last of Mia I ever see.

  Not even that idiot's stupid enough to show her face after the stunt she just pulled. Nobody's that goddamn oblivious.

  “I can't believe she keyed my car,” Lyric says, her voice echoing down the hallway as I wait in the living room with my fingers tucked in the front pockets of my dark wash jeans. That's about all I did to dress up: picked a fresh pair of hole free jeans. Black t-shirt, my cut, riding boots. I hope the mayor likes my evening attire. “Seriously, I know I've said that like a hundred times, but I can't get over the audacity of it. And your bike? That must be, like, some sort of MC taboo. Don't you have to send some prospects to beat her up or something?”

  I laugh as I listen to the sound of Lyric's footsteps moving down the hall. I thought holding her, fucking her, kissing her were the best parts of this new relationship between us. But having her get ready in my bathroom? Spread her soaps and her razors and her hairbrush across my counter? Bloody hell. If I wasn't in love already, I would be now.

  “Kidding, Kidding. Mia might be a psychotic weirdo, but … your guys don't really beat up women, do they?” Lyric's voice moves closer and then suddenly there she is, standing in the entrance to the living room in a red dress and a pair of short, black leather boots. “Royal? Do I look okay?”

  I find myself frozen, my cock rigid and long and painful in my jeans, my heart racing in my chest, my throat suddenly tight. If we weren't already late … oh, hell to that. I think we have time for a quick shag.

  “Okay?” I ask as she moves towards me, running her hands down the knee-length skirt. “Fucking brilliant, Pint-Size. You're a real corker, love.”

  “Corker?” she asks with a snort. “Is that something I want to be?” Lyric looks up at me as she runs her fingers through her short hair, her face lightly made up, just enough to hide the cuts on her cheeks. “Do you think the leather booties are too much?” she asks when I don't answer her previous question, too caught up in staring to do much else.

  “Not at all,” I say as I pull her close, appreciating the way her dress matches my sister's ring. She keeps saying she's not wearing it, but it's still there.

  “I was trying to match your tattoos,” she says, pointing at the red rose on the side of my neck.

  Fuck.

  I don't give Lyric a chance to protest, spinning her around and pushing her over the back of the couch. It's got a high back, high enough that her feet don't quite hit the floor. Perfect. Helps make up for the height difference.

  “Royal!” she yells as I shove her dress up and find myself face to face with … whatever these fancy lace knickers are called.

  “Blimey,” I say softly as I caress the ro
und shape of her ass, kneading the soft flesh with my fingers. Lyric's got on a thong with some sort of black lace skirt over it. I run my fingers over the hook and eye clasps in the back.

  “We're late,” she whispers, but I notice she doesn't struggle, doesn't make any move to stop me. “Just … make this quick.”

  “Holy hell,” I growl as I struggle to get my pants undone, sliding my cock between her cheeks, teasing her already wet folds with the head of my dick. I grind against her, getting my shaft slick and ready before I move to her pussy and pull the thin string of the thong out of my way with a single finger. One quick thrust and I'm in, pumping hard and fast and furious. The way the soft flesh of Lyric's ass jiggles when we slam together is sinfully sexy. “You feel bloody amazing.”

  “God, yes,” Lyric moans in a husky whisper. My tattooed hands grip her bare ass as I drive into her, claiming her, claiming this relationship. Somehow, I feel like we're going to need that tonight.

  “Remember when you're sitting across from the mayor, how I made you come all over me. How I came in you.” I work my cock in and out as Lyric reaches for her clit. The second her fingers make contact, it's over. Her back arches in ecstasy, my fingers leaving bruises where they clamp tight on her ass. It's a frenzied, violent joining and then it's over, quick as it started.

  “My God, Royal,” she murmurs as I pull her back, letting her feet hit the wood floor with a clack. Lyric smoothes her hands down the front of her dress and then shoulders past me toward the bathroom as I grin and slide a pack of cigarettes from my pocket.

  “God, huh? It's not the first time I've been called that.” I wink at her as she moves away and reappears a few seconds later. “You sure you don't want to take my bike with me?”

  “My dad does have a fairly impressive gun collection. Got any Kevlar in your closet? Because if I pull into my mother's driveway on a motorcycle with you, she'll be shooting to kill.”

  Lyric pauses and lifts up on her tip toes to give my stubbled cheek a kiss.

  “And like her daughter,” she says, stepping back and making a gun shape with her fingers. “She's a damn good shot.”

  Looking at the keyed up paint on my 66 Bobber makes me want to scream, but the wind in my hair, the stinging salt smell of the ocean breeze, soothe away the tension. And bloody hell if I haven't been blessed to live in an area like Trinidad, with the ocean on one side and the redwood forest on the other? I don't think I've ever missed living in London. I have no idea how my mum chose this place—to be honest, I was always under the impression that she threw a dart at a map—but I couldn't be any happier.

  That, and I'm pretty sure I found my soul mate. Not that I've ever believed in that crap before, but Christ, Lyric makes me want to believe. She turns on emotions I didn't know I had, makes me feel protective and proud and loving and sexual all at the same time.

  I breathe out and take my bobber around a sharp corner, leaning into the turn, letting my body meld with the metal and chrome of the bike. It's an exhilarating feeling, one that gets my blood pumping, expands my lungs against my rib cage. The only thing that would make this better would be having Lyric on my bike with me. But she respected my traditions, so I'll respect hers.

  “Jesus fuck,” I murmur as I come up on the neighborhood where Lyric's parents live. The place has got swag. Mansions line the street with generous swaths of yard, buried in the natural lush green beauty of the forest. Ferns, redwood trees and rhododendrons fill the landscape, all dotted with dew and drenched in a gentle layer of fog.

  I follow Lyric's red taillights, pulling behind her in her parent's driveway—and enjoying the pun.

  “Holy shit,” I say when I yank my helmet over my head and glance up at the three story Victorian. Puts mine to shame, although it doesn't have the view. “Love the Queen Anne,” I say as Lyric raises her brows at me. “What's the year? 1891?”

  “Ninety-two. How the hell do you know that?”

  I grin and swing my leg over the bike, pausing as I take in the house, the exuberant colors of the paint, the generous porch. This place must've cost a pretty penny.

  “Must pay pretty well to be the mayor, yeah?” I ask Lyric and she smiles wryly at me, shaking her head.

  “This house has been in my family since it was built,” she says as I follow her up the winding stone pathway to the front steps. “Although my parents have promised it to Sully as his inheritance. I'm sure he'll auction it off to the highest bidder.” Without knocking, Lyric opens the door and steps inside. “Hello? We're here.”

  I follow her into the ornate interior, the original wood paneling still present on the walls, the stairs, even the ceiling above my head. It's polished and shining, giving at least a few points to the douche mayor and his family. I suppose if he managed to raise Lyric, he can't be all bad, can he?

  Lyric's mother appears, giving me pause as I take her in and find her looks shockingly similar to her daughter's. Same pert nose, full lips, heart shaped face. Her eyes are big and that same striking green, like crushed emeralds.

  But that scowl on her face? It's a bit of a damp squib.

  “Mrs. Rentz,” I say, moving toward her and pausing with my right hand extended. “Royal McBride.” The woman stares at the roses on the back of my knuckles like they're wilted and covered in rot.

  “Lyric, if you would show your guest to the study. Then you can help me set the table.” She spins away without another word, disappearing down the hallway with a swish of her white skirts.

  “The study?” I ask, trying not to laugh. “And you thought the club was antiquated.”

  “Let's go,” she says, reaching down and taking my arm. “And see what this is all about.”

  Lyric takes me down the hall, turning left at the end and heading down another fork. When she pauses at a set of double doors and reaches for the handles, I realize I can hear several voices inside. The mayor. His son. And Agent Shelley.

  Fuck.

  But it's too late and Lyric's already pulling the doors wide, freezing in shock as she spots both FBI agents sitting next to one another on a brown leather love seat.

  “Dad, Sully,” a pause, “agents,” she says in her most neutral voice. It's full of confidence and authority. Pint-Size would make a damn fine lawyer. “This is certainly an unexpected surprise.”

  Everyone but Sully rises as we move into the study, a place frozen in time. I can imagine lords of old returning from hunting parties to this room, smoking cigars with hounds at their feet and servants bustling in and out. Good God.

  “Mr. McBride, Miss Rentz.” Agent Heather Shelley smiles with her beige lipstick, a color meant to dull the brightness in her eyes, make her more forgettable. There is nothing forgettable about this woman. She gives me a bloody fright. “Your father was kind enough to invite us over for dinner. I hope you don't mind.”

  The look she tosses Lyric makes my skin crawl. Fuck. This doesn't reflect well on her, I know it. And although it's fairly obvious these agents have a motive much bigger than the Wolves to worry about, I'm still uneasy. We need them pointed in the right direction—and quick.

  “Oh, of course not,” Lyric says, pasting a smile across her red rouged lips. “In fact, we're thankful for all you're doing for the community. The last thing any of us needs is a drug cartel in town.” She puts her hand to her chest as I stifle a chuckle. Lyric's eyes are glued to her father's blue ones as he stands tall and stares back at her. Sully sits like a sullen child on the couch opposite the love seat. “I'm assuming you've heard from Agent Shelley about the Saldaña Cartel?”

  “She's been filling me in,” Philip Rentz says as he indicates a pair of chairs opposite the heavy wooden desk. “Please, take a seat both of you. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Yes, please. Whisky neat. For both Royal and me,” Lyric says as she moves forward and takes a seat, folding her legs at the knee. I follow suit and settle in the chair beside hers, my cut rustling against the leather of the chair. It smells like cloves and cigarette
smoke in here, not an entirely unpleasant scent.

  “As I was telling your father, the deeper we dig, the worse it seems to get.” There's a long pause as both Agent Garza and Agent Shelley glance over at me. They're not just here for dinner, that's for bloody sure. “I'm afraid the violence is moving north. Last night we had reports of a shoot-out on Highway 4 in Pittsburg, near San Francisco. Luckily, the county's installed cameras along the roadway for exactly this sort of occasion. Local law enforcement was able to trace the license plates and confirm that the vehicles belonged to known members of a group affiliated with the Saldaña Cartel.”

  A chill trickles down my spine.

  Fuck.

  San Francisco to Ukiah, about two hours drive.

  No doubt in my mind she's talking about Mile Wide.

  “Whatever we can do to help, Trinidad is at your disposal,” Philip says, handing both me and Lyric a glass of amber liquid. I notice his face crinkles with disgust when he sees his daughter take a large swig. “We certainly don't want an increase in crime around here. That's why we've decided to partner with the Alpha Wolves, to ensure things remain peaceful.”

  “Absolutely,” Agent Shelley says as she sits back down and relaxes into the cushions. “And we'll do everything we can to assist you with that. With the extra information you've given us about your attack,” she gestures at Sully, “we might be able to make some connections between Brent's murder and the cartel.”

  I can feel Lyric tensing up beside me, but she doesn't let it show. Her poker face is even better than mine. Sully, that motherfucker. The second the agents' gazes are turned, I draw a line across my throat and watch as Lyric's brother swallows nervously. As soon as I can, I'll distract the agents so Lyric can have some time alone with her family, find out what exactly's been said.

  “Now, Mr. McBride, am I to understand that if another motorcycle club was in town, that you'd know about it? You haven't said a word about Mile Wide to us. But Sully here, he's just remembered that the men that attacked him were wearing vests with a sunset on the back of them. Sounds an awful lot like that group's logo.”