by Violet Blaze
“I … I don't know.” I lift up my hammer and Sully collapses back against the car, sliding to the ground with stark terror burning in his gaze. “I have no fucking idea, man! Please, God, don't hurt me. I don't know anything else. I swear to Christ. Oh God, Jesus, shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
“Lyric. She called Brent down here to put pressure on the club, to get us to sign the agreement. Told me herself. Why? What part is she playing in all of this?” I don't realize it at first, but I'm holding my breath. I exhale as I wait for his raddled brain to come up with a response.
“Brent was already planning on coming over here anyway. He was under investigation with the FBI, and he needed an out. Clayton promised to give that to him.”
“So Lyric?” I remind him, gritting my teeth. “She in on this?”
“What? No, no, I don't think so. She wants to be a senator or something, I don't know. Lyric's not … not like this. She's too … no, she just wants my dad's approval. Jesus Christ.”
I exhale and steal a cig from my pocket, lighting up as I look down at Sully. Relief floods through me, cooling some of the wild anger in my heart, putting a dash of logic back in my brain. If Lyric was involved with Mile Wide, there really would be nothing I could do save get her the hell out of Dodge.
Too bad that's not an option for her brother.
I park my smoke between my lips and raise my hammer.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lyric
After Royal leaves, I slump down to the floor and sit there for a while, my heart pounding so hard I can barely breathe.
Just remember how I saved your life today.
My life. I put my life on the line and for what? The club had already voted on my proposition? Why the hell didn't Royal just tell me that? Because he was playing with you, because he's a dangerous man from a different world, because you know nothing about him. Nothing.
Royal McBride is a stranger.
So why doesn't he feel like one? And why does my heart feel so empty and broken? Losing the trust of an acquaintance I met on Monday and pissed off on Friday shouldn't matter, especially not when I'm getting exactly what I wanted in the first place. Signed papers, Dad's re-election, a leg up for my future career.
I put my head in my hands and try to catch my breath. The look on his face … God. Royal's expression was awful. So, so, so, so awful. I might as well have shoved my hand into his chest and ripped out his bloody, beating heart, tossed it onto his dead brother's grave.
A sound escapes my throat, a sad small sound that echoes the rapid thumping of my heart. I'm not stupid; I know that what just happened is a blessing in disguise. Royal knows the truth, knows that it was me that got this all started in the first place. Hopefully that gets Sully and Brent off the hook for whatever stupid thing it is that they've gone and done.
I lift my head up, my eyes focused on the front door.
Royal was a fling, a bit of sexy nothing to enjoy and forget about. Senators can't marry—can't even date—outlaw motorcycle club presidents. I'm sure he thought the same from the start, that I was just another fuck. The mayor's daughter … must've been exciting, right?
I sniffle and force myself to my feet.
This is good. This is what needed to happen. Papers signed, truth out, Royal gone. All in all, it's been in a successful week.
So why do I feel so sick inside, like something bad is just waiting to happen? Or like I already miss him so hard it hurts? I blink away that thought and try to focus on something else. My mind flickers back to our confrontation as I turn and fumble around in my grocery bags until I finally find the missing bottle of wine.
He … you killed your vice president.
My own words echo loudly in my head as I think about that. I said it; he didn't deny it. He didn't deny it.
I grab a wineglass and slosh some Chardonnay into it, not caring that it splashes over the edge and onto the counter. When I lift it to my lips, I drink the whole thing in one go.
Chills climb down my spine, dragging goose bumps up on my arms. I bite the end of my robe's sleeve and close my eyes, trying to get ahold of my emotions. Royal and I … we have a connection, something I've never felt before. It's new and different and powerful enough that when I think really hard about it, I get a little dizzy. I knew things couldn't work between us before, but that was on a logical level.
Now, I'm feeling everything in my gut.
“Shit.” I set my wineglass down and run my fingers through my wet hair. Trying to find Royal, trying to talk to him right now, would probably be a big mistake on my part. Besides, what am I going to do? Walk up to him and ask if he really did kill his vice president? And then ask if he's in love with me, even though he shouldn't be because it's too soon and it's too wrong and it'd never work?
Royal isn't going to tell me anything about anything anymore, and sticking my nose even further into club business is not a good idea. Whatever happened to his previous VP, I can't do anything about it. Not a damn thing. What I need to do is get a good's night sleep, wake up tomorrow and head into the office. It might be Saturday but as my dad always says, politics don't rest on the weekends.
My heart hurts and my conscience throbs with guilt, but if I've ever been good at anything, it's carrying on and pretending things are okay when they aren't.
I pick my wine up, grab my Kindle from my desk drawer and head into my bedroom. By the time I climb under the blankets, there are already tears streaking down my face again. Doesn't matter. I'll let them fall and in the morning, it'll be like they were never there. I'll get up, get dressed and go about my day like normal. Right now, I need to play my part, fill my lot in life the best way I know how, the way I've always done.
Because this, right here, is all I'll ever have.
Sometime later, after I've finally managed to get to sleep, I hear the front door open, my eyes flying wide, my stomach twisting with fear. I forgot to lock the front door after Royal left. I was so caught up in everything that'd just happened that it didn't even occur to me. You piss off the president of an outlaw motorcycle club off and you forget to lock the door?! Not that it would matter, would it? If the Alpha Wolves needed to come into my house, I imagine that a deadbolt and a chain wouldn't stop them.
I fling my feet out of bed and reach into my bedside table for the gun my dad helped me pick out on my eighteenth birthday, the day I moved out of his house and into my first place. It's not loaded, but there is a full magazine in the drawer on the other side of my bed. Without any kids around, I figured this setup was safe enough to prevent accidents but handy enough to use if I really needed it.
Right now, with the slow beat of footsteps moving down my hallway, I'm not so sure.
I roll back across the bed and wrench open the drawer, grabbing the magazine and sliding it into the base of the Glock. I feel ridiculous doing it, but at least I do know how to handle myself properly. Having a hardcore republican father that worships the second amendment can be a good or a bad thing depending on how you look at it. Honestly, the shooting range used to be my favorite place as a teen. It was pretty much the only time my dad looked at me like a human being, spoke to me like an adult and trusted me to make my own decisions.
I stand up, turning to face the door and switching the safety off. My eyes scan around for my phone, but I can't remember where I left it. It's probably dead anyway since I didn't bother to charge it.
I take a deep breath, tensing up as the footsteps near my bedroom door and then pause. It swings inward and then … there's Royal, standing there in the shadows of my bedroom, his tall, wide frame easily recognizable even in the dark.
It takes him a moment to spy me, standing there in the corner with my gun raised.
“You going to shoot me, Pint-Size?” he asks, but there's no humor in his voice at all, just an empty coldness that does nothing to make me want to put the gun down. I take a few steps closer to him, my heart pounding in my chest. He came back to see me? Why? I hate that I even have to wonder if
he's here to hurt me.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, edging my way closer. When I hit the end of the bed, he closes the distance between us, coming up on me fast. The smell of leather and motor oil surrounds him, but so does something else. Is that … blood? I swallow hard as he presses his chest into the muzzle of the gun, leather vest crinkling.
“Well?” he asks, his voice subdued and his breathing heavy. “You've already knocked a few holes in my heart, so why not make it bloody official?”
“Are you …” I begin as my eyes adjust to the darkness and I see that he's wearing that vest and nothing else on top. A faint metallic whiff burns my nose as I try to look and see if he's hurt. Of course, if my sleep addled brain was thinking clearly, my first thought wouldn't be to wonder if he was the one that was hurting. “Is that blood that I smell?”
Royal knocks my dominant hand aside and grabs my wrist, squeezing hard until the gun falls from my fingers and hits the floor. Before I can even think to scream or fight, he's dragging me to him, crushing my body up against his.
Our mouths meet with a violent clash, his right arm encircling my waist so tightly I feel like I'll never be able to catch my breath again. For a split second there, I almost push him away, demand that we talk about everything that's happened, what I've done, what he's done, but then Royal's tongue dives deep and the urge is gone, replaced with something more primal.
My body relaxes into his grip as he angles us back towards the bed and then pushes me down, climbing on top of me, denting the mattress, his lips and teeth at my throat, his hands roaming under my robe and finding my breasts.
I cry out at his rough grip, at his frenzied kisses, at the harsh way he handles me. Something's not right, I know that, but I can't stop.
“Royal,” I groan, loving the way his name slips from my lips, gasping and threading my fingers through his hair as his teeth find my nipple. He bites and nips and kisses his way down, shoving my robe out of his way until he finds my already throbbing clit, the stubble on his face scraping against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs.
“Fuck,” he growls, like he knows he shouldn't be here, like this is a big mistake that he can't stop myself him from making. “Fucking fuck.” Royal shoves his fingers into my wet cunt without mercy, knuckles slamming against me as I bite my lower lip and buck my hips, struggling against the sudden invasion, against the rush of unexpected pleasure. “You're killing me, Pint-Size.”
“S-slow down,” I gasp, but I don't mean it. I want more, him, all of it. My body betrays my words by arching into his touch as his tongue flicks out and tastes my clit. Royal's left hand slides down the inside of my thigh as he tastes me like I'm his favorite dessert, a delicacy made for him and only him.
Nobody else gets a taste.
That's the message I get as his tongue drives me towards the edge and then stops, like he can feel my fingers clutched around the edge of that precipice, about to fall. But not yet. He won't let me fall yet.
When Royal lifts his head up and looks at me, his eyes are shadowed in darkness, mouth downturned, muscles thrumming with need and desperation and … violence. That's the sharp edge I'm getting from him. That's what's wrong. But Royal doesn't release any of that on me, keeping it carefully pinned under his frenzy as he slides his tongue up my belly and then rests an arm above my head.
We stare at each other as he undoes his pants with the opposite hand and then mounts me with one, long, hard thrust.
I see stars as Royal fucks me into the mattress, pinning me there with his gaze and the words that are written all over his face, etched into every hard muscle, hidden in the swirling colors of his tattoos. You're mine, but I can't have you. You're mine, but you betrayed me. You're mine, but this will never happen again. You're mine. You're mine. Mine.
I throw my arms around his neck and bite down on his shoulder as the pressure becomes too much, the feeling of fullness almost an ache as I wait for that sweet, horrible release that'll tell us both that this is it, we're done, it's over.
Royal grunts a few more times, spilling himself inside of me even though he shouldn't because we haven't had any of the adult conversations we should've had yet. That's our relationship right there in a single word. Irresponsible. Or stupid. Or reckless. Dangerous, painful, brief, raw, new, intense, untried, broken, battered.
My lashes flutter as I come hard around him, bearing down with every muscle in my body, sighing against the bite mark on his shoulder. As soon as I relax, as I let go, he slides out of me and stands up, jerking his pants back into place.
“Wait,” I say as I stand up and try to tuck my robe back around me. My legs feel weak and shaky and my head is spinning. “Royal, please.”
He ignores me, his leather vest hanging teasingly over those gorgeous muscles of his, those rock hard pecs, those perfect abs. I can see his tattoos in the muted darkness, and they're brutally beautiful. Almost as brutally beautiful as the expression on his face.
“I realized after I left that I forgot to say goodbye,” Royal says, sliding a cigarette from his pocket and putting it between his lips. “So, goodbye Pint-Size. Cheers. Hope you have a nice life.”
He turns and walks away, boots loud against the wood floors.
I think about following after him, calling out, saying the thing I'm thinking but that I shouldn't be.
I love you. Maybe. Or I could, one day. I don't know.
Instead I sit down hard on the edge of the bed and bury my face in my hands.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Royal
Leaving Lyric is the hardest thing I've ever done. How fucked is that?
“And we stopped here, why?” Glacier asks, leaning back on his bike and giving me a look like he knows I'm up to something I shouldn't be. I ignore him and straddle my own ride, a five hundred pound beast in black and red and chrome, all of the factory extras stripped off and tossed aside until I'm left with nothing but a sixteen inch front wheel, a leather seat, and the machine's wicked metal soul.
My hands are shaking as I light up and pretend I'm not still thinking about Lyric's warm, wet heat wrapped around my cock, her fingers in my hair, the soft, supple smoothness of her breasts—or the gentle yield of her body beneath me as she gave in and gave me everything I asked for.
Mine, I said when I walked in there.
Yours.
That's the only word I needed to hear.
If she wasn't the mayor's daughter, if she hadn't called the FBI on the club, if I was a braver, stronger, better man, she really would be mine.
“Goddamn it!” I flick my cigarette across the yard and grab my helmet, jamming it onto my head as my pulse pounds in my skull. I can't think straight right now. There's too much shit going on. But yet, when we passed by her house, I stopped. Just stopped and climbed the fuck off my bike, walked in there and found her goddamn door unlocked. “Wait here.”
I stand back up as Glacier rolls his eyes and shakes his head at me, watching as I move across the lawn, open the front door and reach in to twist the lock on the front of the knob. When I pause for a second, the sound of Lyric's crying reaches my ears and I almost go ballistic.
Thank God we're on our way to see Brent.
I grit my teeth against the sound and slam the door.
“Did you really just do that?” Glacier asks as I pause in front of him and seriously consider breaking his bloody fucking face. “Did we really just stop here so you could bang the mayor's daughter?”
“You want to do something about it?” I ask him, realizing that starting a fight with my brother is the last thing I need to be doing right now. Glacier narrows his eyes, but doesn't push the matter, shaking his head and waiting for me to climb back on my bike.
“You really shouldn't be here,” he says, which is true. The president isn't supposed to get his hands dirty. It's not my job, none of this is. Finding Landon, dealing with Sully, heading over to the hotel to find Brent. At this point, my hands are filthy when they should be squeaky fucking clean.
But I don't know what Brent might say about Lyric, and I'm not taking any chances. “Why don't you head back to the clubhouse and play with a club whore? There's a new girl that's been hanging around lately, big tits and legs for days.”
“If you don't shut your goddamn mouth right now, I'll shut it for you.” I glance up just in time to see Lyric peeking at me from her bedroom window. Shit. My brain is all arse backwards right now. I need to get the hell out of here.
“Smoky's gonna be pissed.”
“Let him be,” I say, starting my bike and peeling out of there before I can change my mind.
If I do, if I go back in there, I'm never letting Lyric go.
“I don't fucking believe this shit,” I snarl, kicking a toy truck across the living room. It's one of a very few things left in Rebecca and Landon's house, and it's almost as empty as Brent's recently vacated hotel room. “How the hell did this happen?”
“She was gone when we got here,” Smoky says, standing at the front door, a hand on either side of the doorjamb. “Came as fast as we could after our guy called us and said Brent had checked out of his hotel room. I sent a few guys over there and came here myself.” A chill crawls down my spine. If the boys had gotten here before me, I'd be babysitting Rebecca's kids while the boys took her on a little coastal tour of Trinidad Head and sent her for an icy swim. Wouldn't have been a damn thing I could do about it. The Wolves don't make a habit of hurting women, but a rat's a rat. I already saved one woman tonight, saved her life or at the very least saved her from a good, long, painful hurting. There's no way I can put the club on the line for another, even my best friend's wife.
What the hell has happened to my life?
“Find her,” I say, lighting up a cigarette. Two of my prospects, the ones I had stationed here to watch Rebecca, they're gone. Chances of them being alive? Almost zero. There's nothing I can do for her now. “Figure out what happened. If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say Mile Wide's in town.”