by Violet Blaze
Royal McBride. I can still hear that girl's voice ringing in my head, the mighty punch she packed into the four simple syllables of my name. I have to admit, it was a fucking shock to turn around and find Pint-Sized and Pretty glaring up at me, not even a hint of concern for where she was or who she was talking to.
I liked it.
I run my tongue over my lower lip and Smoky groans.
“Goddamn it, Royal.” I flick my gaze over to my friend and smile. “You're so full of shit your eyes are brown.”
“Yeah, well, you can blame my mum for that one.” My smile turns into a grin as I move away from Smoky and into the crowd. It parts like the Red Sea, bodies shifting aside as I make my way towards the front entrance. I know how to crack a joke and a smile, but I also know how to break a man's ribs without leaving any bruising. There's a reason I'm the youngest president in the club's sordid history, thirty-two years old and the officers twice my age don't have shit to say about it.
“She's here again.”
“Damn it, Dober. I thought I told you I wanted the night off?” I pause just outside, my boots dark against the rich red stain of the deck. A quick scan of the parking lot and there's no black Chrysler in sight. Eh, I don't know why I'm letting myself get so worked up over some bureaucratic government bitch that's just as likely to screw me in the courtroom as the bedroom. She wasn't even very attractive, more plain than anything else. But there was just something about her …
“What do you want me to do? Throw Rebecca and the kids out and close the gates? She's not stupid, Royal. Clearly, there's a party happening here, and as far as she knows, her husband died to protect the club.”
I grit my teeth and realize I've forgotten to ash my cigarette. Gray flakes drift in the breeze and fall to the black leather toes of my boots. I flick it away and grab a new smoke from my pocket.
“He did die to protect the club,” I growl as Dober steps up next to me, arms crossed over his broad chest, his mouth turned down in a frown that I can barely see through that thick brown beard of his. I know because I took care of him myself. Fucking rat. Fucking backstabbing, idiot, blindsiding twat.
I miss him so bad it's like a knife to the gut every time I think about it.
“Yeah, well, what do you want me to tell Rebecca?”
I close my eyes and listen to the heavy bass throbbing in the background, taking a drag on my cigarette as I try to figure out how to handle this. I've already offered to keep paying Rebecca her husband's salary, at least until she gets herself on her feet. Landon might've been a snitch, but he was my VP and, once upon a time, my best friend.
I sigh.
“Where is she?”
“In Janae's office, bawling her eyes out.”
“Lovely.” I snub my cigarette out in a nearby ashtray and ignore the squealing and shouting and jeering that's taking place all around me. My brothers need a party to get their minds off things; I don't have that luxury.
Without another word, I take four steps down from the deck and hit the pavement in front of the parking lot, preparing myself to look Rebecca in the eye and lie through my teeth. No fucking way I'm telling her what really happened between me and Landon. I can still feel his blood on my hands.
I shake the thought away with a growl and jam my fingers through my hair. This surprise visit, last thing I needed tonight.
“Rebecca.” I don't bother to knock, opening the door to the Wolf Cycle office without preamble, slipping in and closing it behind me before one of the guys notices and decides this is any of their business.
“Royal.” Rebecca is a mess. Her blonde hair is tangled and twisted around her face, mascara streaming down her cheeks in two dark lines. Her lower lip is a bloodied mess, all scarred and scabbed from being worried at by those pearly white teeth of hers. It's a habit she's had since high school, one that Landon was always trying to get her to break.
Dober said the kids were here, but I don't see either of them.
“In the back watching TV,” she says with a sniffle and a small smile, one that fades just as quick as it came. “I need to talk to you.”
A crash sounds from somewhere outside, but I don't bother to check on it. I'll leave that to Smoky—he's my sergeant-at-arms and even drunk, he's good.
“What about, sweetheart?” I ask, and I actually feel bad, I do. I killed your husband, I'm sorry. It's what I should say, but I can't bring myself to feel anything but betrayal. He put all of us at risk, all of us, even you.
Rebecca puts her hands on her lower back and turns in a small circle, her brown boots clicking against the cement floor of the office. Even as a grieving widow, she cuts a nice figure in her tight denim and leather jacket. It's not hard to see why Landon was smitten with her from the beginning all the way until the end.
I grit my teeth against the pain, push it back and bury it away. I haven't felt pain in years. I can't. It doesn't fit my job description.
“There are things a man can tell his wife,” she begins and then pauses, breath hitching as she stares at the soft sage green on the office wall's—Janae's pick, not mine. “There are things a man should be able to tell his wife that don't leave the four walls of their home.”
Shit.
When I fed Rebecca the bullshit story about Landon's death, she didn't react. I thought it was shock. But now?
“Look, Becca,” I begin, but she's already spinning around and fixing me with those bright blue eyes of hers. I want to go cold, shut my emotions off like I do when I'm with the club, but the way she's looking at me …
“I know Landon was feeding information to the feds.”
There's a long moment of silence, too long. Part of me knows that Rebecca is a loose end, that she should be taken care of the way the Alpha Wolves former president took care of things, but that's not me. I don't hurt innocent women and children. The fuck kind of monster would I be if I did?
I took my best friend's life to protect the club, but I won't hurt his family.
Fortunately our conversation is over before it starts. Rebecca breaks down into hysterical sobs again, her makeup running down to her chin and dripping on the red fabric of her tank top. Without even thinking about what I'm doing, I step forward and wrap my arms around her, holding her tight until the shaking subsides and she pulls away, swiping an arm across her face.
“Thanks, Royal,” she says, looking up at me with a tortured half-smile on her face. “You always knew how to take the edge off, for Landon and for me.”
I try to smile back at her, but the expression won't come. It's frozen inside of me, trapped down there with all of the other emotions that I fight off, that I push back just to survive.
I take a step back and open my mouth to respond when a flicker of movement catches my eye, the blurred streak of a face at the window.
Who in the bloody hell is that?
CHAPTER THREE
Lyric
Shit, shit, shit.
I knew following Royal over to that office was a bad idea, but I just couldn't help myself. As soon as I pulled through the front gates, I saw him walking towards the bike shop with his leather vest slung over his shoulders, his legs encased in that dark denim. It was almost like there was this magnetic pull between us, urging me onward.
And now …
“Stupid heels,” I mumble as I click across the wet pavement, my arms springing with goose bumps and my teeth beginning to chatter. I feel sort of … naked in this dress. And stupid, too. Why am I even wearing it again? Oh yeah, because I had to prove Janae—but mostly Royal—wrong. I'm not intimidated by a little alcohol or … are those girls topless?
I pause for a moment, my jaw dropping as a pair of shirtless blondes explode from the front door with shrieks of laughter, two men in leather jackets hot on their heels.
Okay, so maybe I am a little intimidated.
“Wait up.”
Boots pound the pavement behind me, and I pick up my pace, wondering how my brand-new studded peep-toe pumps are going to
hold up if I sprint across the wet blacktop while I'm wearing them.
“Hey, you.” Royal's big hand wraps around my bare upper arm, sending thrills of flame through my body that I just have no idea how to interpret. What is happening to me?
“Let go of my arm,” I snap, jerking back on his grasp as I whirl around and come to face him, narrow eyed and panting, the wind fingering that sexy dark hair of his into a mussy mess. Royal lets me go fortunately because there's no way in hell I could get him to let go if he didn't want to.
“What the fuck are you doing over here?” he growls at me, taking a menacing step forward that would have me shaking in my heels if I wasn't so used to men trying to bully me around. “Get your ass back to the party and maybe I'll forget the fact that you were spying on me.”
“Excuse me,” I breathe, my own voice precariously close to a growl. “Get my ass back to the party? Who the hell do you think you are?” Royal gives me a quick once-over and then his lips tilt up at the edges in a slight half-smile.
“Well, hello there,” he says, cocking his head to the side like he's finally just realized I'm wearing a red dress that's about two inches shorter than I'd like it to be. His five o'clock shadow emphasizes the naughty curve of his mouth and makes my thighs clench together when I imagine all of that stubble sliding along them … “Sorry about the outburst, but you caught me off guard. Tell you what, let's go back to one of the dorm rooms and I'll make it up to you.”
“W-what?” I ask, taking a single step back, my heart thudding against my ribcage and my entire body turning to liquid beneath me. I want to melt into Royal's arms, let him scoop me up and show me exactly what he can do in the privacy of the club's dorm rooms. But I won't let him talk to me like that. First rule of business: show no weakness, take no crap. “How dare you speak to me like that,” I snap instead, using the heat and desire that's boiling in my blood and turning it straight to anger. “What on earth would make you think I'd ever want to go anywhere or do anything with you, Royal McBride?”
There's a moment of strained silence as Royal blinks stupidly back at me and lets his mouth fall open with shock. It's a strange look to see on a face as confident and handsome as his. I doubt this man's at all used to being shocked by anything.
“Fucking hell,” he murmurs, running his tattooed fingers over his strong jaw. “Pint-Size, is that you?”
I furrow my brows and cross my arms over my chest. I don't think the action is quite as effective as I'd meant it to be. I'm trying to look imposing here, but all I think I've really done is draw Royal's eyes down to the pale swell of my breasts. Crap.
“I have a name, you know?” I say, feeling my cheeks heat and my body quiver beneath that powerful gaze. My God. If the man hadn't just insulted me, there's a good chance that I'd be leaping into his arms right now. How scary is that? “Lyric—” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“Rentz, I know. I remember you. We only just met this afternoon.” I roll my eyes as Royal flashes me a sultry grin, his teeth white against the dark stubble on his face. “The mayor's daughter. You'd think you'd be here if I hadn't invited you?” His accent is warming up all sorts of places better left cold. Getting involved with this guy—even for a second—would be a very, very bad idea. “I'd been expecting that ugly gray suit jacket of yours. Good God, babe, I didn't even recognize you.”
“Doesn't make what you said any less offensive,” I insert, but I can already see that Royal's moved on. He's circling me like a … well, I hate to make this pun, but like a wolf. I feel like he's studying me with those predator's eyes of his.
I turn with him, refusing to give him an uninterrupted shot of my ass.
“I thought you were a leather lover,” he says, his voice long and drawn out, like he's too caught up in staring at me to think straight. I try to brush the thought away, but it sticks to my mind like a cobweb. Royal … likes what he sees?
“A leather lover?” I ask, blinking back at him as he pauses in front of me. I can smell leather and some sort of rich, deep scent, like wet earth and leaves. I wonder if it's cologne? Aftershave? “What's a leather lover?”
Royal takes a step closer to me, and I fight the urge to step back. I won't let him intimidate me.
“A leather lover,” he begins, reaching over and brushing some of the loose brunette strands of my hair over one ear. I shiver at the touch. “Is what I call the club groupies, the girls who hang around the clubhouse.”
“Groupies?” I ask, my voice sounding strangled and way too naïve. Again, I'm not stupid, but really? “Rock stars have groupies,” I correct, lifting my arms up in an attempt to cover my breasts. Doesn't work. This stupid red dress is too low cut, too stretchy, too tight. I should never have raided my sister's closet. “Not bikers.” I can't help it, but that word slips out with a hint of distaste. Oops.
Royal narrows those dark brown eyes of his, towering over me as his mouth twists down in a slight frown. The expression only lasts for a second, but it freaks me out. This guy … he's got a ruthless streak that I'd like to avoid meeting, thank you very much.
“Hey,” he says, perking up considerably, like it's no effort at all; I can tell it's a technique he's been practicing for years. “To some people, we are rock stars.” Royal smiles at me again. “Don't you watch Sons of Anarchy?”
A slight twitch of my mouth is answer enough.
“Not a fan?” he asks, voice dropping as his gaze catches on my lips, on the bright streak of red that matches my dress. I'm not used to dressing up like this. My usual evening wear consists of a knee-length black dress with cap sleeves, a simple diamond pendant, and some eyeshadow. This is way outside of my comfort zone.
“Not really,” I respond, my breathing deepening as my eyes flick between Royal's mouth and the mischievous little twinkle in his gaze. “Why? Is it an accurate representation of the life?”
Royal laughs again, weaving his fingers together behind his neck and tilting his head at me. I try not to look at his face, thinking that'll help me stay sane around this walking, talking slice of sex, but all it does is put me at eye level with the taut, hard muscles in his chest and abdomen. The tight black fabric of his T-shirt stretches across what's got to be an eight pack. I didn't even know those were real.
“Do you like what you see?” he asks me as I take a quick step back and force my attention back to his face.
“I, uh.” I can't find the words to answer, instead reaching up to catch a stray strand of hair that the wind's tugged free. My non-answer is answer enough.
“Well, I can tell you with complete and utter honesty that I really like what I see. You cut a nice figure, Pint-Size.”
I sweep my hands down the front of my dress and take another step back.
“I should go,” I say, knowing that coming here was a mistake, a side effect of my sometimes too stubborn personality. This is not an appropriate time or place for business, and I'm supposed to be representing my father here. I might be twenty-eight years old, but I can tell you that if he saw what I was wearing, my dad would go completely insane. Probably fire me, too.
“Go?” Royal asks, true puzzlement lacing his voice. “But you only just got here. Don't be so uptight, Pint-Size. Come party with us.”
When he reaches down to take my hand, the contact knocks the air—and any future protesting—right out of me.
Two minutes inside the hot, sweaty interior of the clubhouse and I can already tell that I''m being treated with kid gloves. Nobody talks to me, hardly even touches me. In the thick press of bodies, I'm the only person who seems to have a personal space bubble surrounding me. Or maybe there's some invisible sign above my head that says MAYOR'S DAUGHTER—APPROACH WITH CAUTION.
I sigh.
“Can I get a Midori sour, please?” I ask the bartender, draping my fingers across the black marble bar top and letting my eyes wander around the room. A snort from across the counter draws my attention to a pair of blue eyes and a strange half-smile.
“A Midori sour? P
lease, honey. Take a look around the room.” The woman laughs, her teeth white in her tanned face. “I can get you some draft beer, a Bud, or two fingers of Johnnie Walker. Take your pick.” I flush from head to toe and wish I'd left when I had the chance. Now that I've talked with Royal, I feel obligated to stick around for a while. Back in a jiff, babe. I check my phone. It's been fifteen minutes since Royal left. I don't know about him, but according to Merriam Webster, a jiff is a moment or an instant. Not fifteen of them.
“Yeah, uh, Johnnie Walker?” I say. It comes out as a question.
The woman stares at me with some small amount of understanding and compassion and nods her head.
“Coming right up.”
I climb onto the leather bar stool and listen to the raucous boiling around me. It's absolutely crazy in here. Never in my life have a seen a party like this—not even in college. There's enough alcohol floating around to drown a herd of elephants, and the air is thick with the double scents of tobacco and pot (this is still Humboldt County after all). Plus, if I was the kind of person who kept count … I've seen at least thirty pairs of bare boobs—okay, okay thirty-six—and some couples who look like they should maybe move their activities to a more private area.
“You're the mayor's daughter, right?” the blonde asks me, pouring some alcohol into a glass without even glancing at it. She lifts the bottle up and pushes my drink towards me.
“Is it that obvious?” I ask, thinking about Royal's expression when I first turned around. He really didn't recognize me. The woman laughs and shakes her head, her halter top and tight leather pants giving the impression that she's a regular here. A … leather lover, maybe? An old lady? God, I hate that term. I thought I was dressing the part in my tight red strapless dress and black studded heels, but I look more like a club rat than a biker chick. The girls here have tattoos and piercings, leather jackets and pants that look painted on. I really missed the mark on this one.