Royally Bad (Bad Boy Royals #1)

by Nora Flite

  He looked so normal here. When I compared him to the man who’d stalked through my hallway, hovering outside my door as I’d gotten naked . . . it was too surreal.

  “Sammy!” Kain grabbed me with one hand, stopping me from crumbling.

  Sweat dotted my forehead; I locked my knees, gripping his firm arm with a grateful smile. “I’m fine. Maybe I should eat that muffin now.”

  “You need to sit.” Guiding me to a chair, Kain helped me into it.

  I noticed I was trembling, but I didn’t want everyone else to see. I nodded at the phone he still held. “Show them.” Give me some privacy over here, I thought, willing him with my eyes.

  Kain understood. Turning, he brought the phone over to the others. “She says this is the guy.”

  Hawthorne folded his arms. “One of the servers?”

  “I doubt he was really a server,” Costello whispered.

  Puffing air through his lips, Maverick said, “I don’t recognize him, could be a disguise or just a hired goon. Go meet with the Deep Shots, find out who he is.”

  I wasn’t watching them, I was hanging my head between my knees and holding my forehead. Footsteps came my way, a hand tucking against my temple, then scooping my hair up and away. Kain looked down on me, his face tight with worry.

  “Here,” he said, offering me the orange juice. “Drink.”

  I didn’t argue, I tilted the glass and let the tart liquid wake me up. “I’m fine,” I assured him. “It was just a blood sugar crash.”

  “Sure.” Kain was polite enough not to push it, but he knew I’d been freaking out. Seeing that man again, remembering everything, it had been too overwhelming.

  I’d been burying the situation under a wave of denial. I couldn’t keep the act up once I saw that damn face. Jameson had seemed nice. Normal. If he could attack me in the middle of the night, then . . .

  “My intuition sucks,” I mumbled. “I had no clue he was dangerous.”

  “I don’t know,” Kain said. “You knew I was no good right from the start.”

  Grinning, I finished off the drink. “A broken clock is accidentally right some of the time.”

  The charming dimples he had went deeper. “You feel better now?”

  “Good enough for a muffin.” Pushing myself up, I headed for the tray of food. There were a few options; I was surprised Costello had bothered to put in the effort. Lifting a pastry, I nibbled the top. “Now that you know who you’re looking for, I’ll need a ride home.”

  No one said anything. I endured a stab of unease, it worked under my ribs, fixing itself into place. Maverick waved Francesca’s phone, saying, “We don’t know who he is. Not yet. You can’t go anywhere until we’ve got this all tied up, Sammy.”

  The phrase “tied up” was hitting too close to how I already felt being here. “This is insane,” I said. My eyes flashed to Kain. “Say something. Tell your dad it’s fine.” I need to get out of here! I wanted to ask Kain how my mother was—if he’d even gone there last night—but I really just wanted to see her myself.

  She needed me.

  Kain’s face was placid, his eyes begging me to understand. “You’re in danger,” he said softly. “Until then, you’re safer here than anywhere else.”

  I never suspected that his answer could cause me so much pain. Overnight, I’d gone from hating this man to relying on him. I knew what it was to ache for Kain. But I’d made the mistake of assuming he was on my side.

  I knew better now.

  Francesca cut the silence in two. “You guys are such assholes. Explain it to her better than that.” Shaking her head, she came my way. “Sammy, look. There are people who hate this family—all of us. They’re jealous, or cruel, or whatever. Doesn’t matter.” She tried to grab my wrist; I let her. “You got pulled into this because of me, no one else. So trust me when I say . . . let us protect you. We’re the only ones who can.”

  Gently but firmly, I pulled my arm away. “You’re probably right,” I said slowly. Lifting my eyes, I watched her from under the loose pieces of my hair. “But since when is it okay to lock someone up just because you think you’re doing them a favor?”

  She actually looked wounded, and I felt kind of bad, but I knew what they were doing was wrong. The path to hell is paved with good intentions, and all that.

  Marching past her, I ignored all of them.

  “Sammy!” Kain’s shout was a bullet that I sidestepped.

  Let him call my name all he wants, I thought bitterly.

  I may be on a leash.

  But I’m not his damn dog.

  - CHAPTER TWELVE -

  KAIN

  “Come on,” Thorne said, opening his car door. “Let’s go.”

  I was in a shit mood—this morning had not gone the way I’d wanted. Stepping out, I slammed the door as hard as I could.

  He winced. “Fuck, man. This baby is new. Be gentle.”

  “Let’s just get this over with.”

  “Fair enough.” Climbing the steps to the front door, Hawthorne gave it a nudge. Sammy hadn’t shut it when she’d burst out of her home last night. “Guess the guy who went after her didn’t lock this up when he left.”

  “If he left,” I mused. “There’s a chance he’s still in there. Be careful.”

  “Careful of what, shadows?” Chuckling, my brother led the way inside. “There’s no way he stuck around.”

  In spite of his confidence, I put my hand under my jacket. I didn’t usually carry a gun, but the warm handle felt comfortable in my grip. I wasn’t going to chance getting shot for my assumptions.

  Stepping quietly through the house, I noticed how sparse it all seemed. There were some boxes in a corner by the stairwell, and as I entered the kitchen, some more were stacked by the far wall.

  I saw the shards on the floor seconds before I might have stepped on them. Under the edge of the sink’s cupboards, there was half of a white coffee mug. Freezing, I glanced at my brother. “Guess this was where she fought him off.”

  Crouching, he nudged some of the pieces. “She’s tough, I’ll give her that. Not many people could take down someone that caught them off guard.”

  “Sammy’s pretty surprising.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Lifting a big piece of the mug, he turned it to show it to me. It was obviously part of a horse’s face, the mane blowing in the breeze. “Surprising is a good word. Is this a fucking pony?”

  “Huh. Maybe she likes riding them.” She’d never mentioned anything about that.

  Grinning, Hawthorne said, “I’ll bet she likes riding something.”

  “If you’re trying to insult me by comparing my cock to a horse, it isn’t working.”

  “Tch.” He stood smoothly, dusting off his jeans. “Let’s scope out upstairs quick.”

  Together we ascended the stairs, the wood creaking as we went. “You come up with any reason this guy might be after her?” he asked me.

  “Not a one.” Gently, I nudged her bedroom door open. “If there’s a connection between this guy, us, and her, I don’t know what it could be.” Bright light caught my attention. The window was flooding the room with sunbeams, they caused the bedspread to glow like a hellish white flare.

  It blinded me, and apparently, it blinded Thorne, too—grunting, he dropped to the ground. Shielding my face, I grinned down at him where he’d ended up sprawled out. “You forget how walking works?” I asked.

  Rolling his eyes, he reached up to grab my arm; I tugged him to his feet. Before he said anything else, he froze, staring down at the floor. We both saw the maid of honor dress that had tangled around his ankles, causing him to trip.

  Carefully, he lifted it between us. “Here’s a thought,” he said, “And call me fucking crazy. But do you think this guy went after her because she seemed close to Frannie?”

  Gripping the dress, I took it from him. My nostrils flared with the scent of Sammy. The room was already an echo chamber of her existence, this just rammed it home. “You might be onto something.”
<
br />   Looking around slowly, Hawthorne approached the window. “Fuck, the sun comes straight in here. Who could even sleep like this?”

  Curling the dress in my fist, I didn’t answer. My mind was roaming around, busy collecting scraps so that I could create a full picture. Is that it? Did this guy want to hurt us so badly that he thought he’d target Sammy, thinking she was Francesca’s best friend? Fuck, it made a terrifying amount of sense. But since when were the Deep Shots so vengeful? Was the attack caused by them?

  Could my dad be wrong, for once?

  “Huh,” my brother mumbled. Shade suddenly fell over the room. Lifting my eyes in confusion, I saw how he was blocking the window with a giant piece of cardboard. “This used to be up here. There’s still tape stuck on the sill.” With one toe, he nudged the pile of broken blinds on the floor.

  Setting the dress on the bed, I joined him. Carefully, I ran my fingers over the window latch. Air was still blowing in through the bottom, where it hadn’t been fully shut. “She said he broke in through her window, yeah.” Lifting the glass pane with a grunt, I leaned out. The fire exit stairs were rusted, but reachable from the Dumpster below.

  Imagining the bastard skulking around Sammy’s home, waiting for her to return . . . it had my knuckles whitening from how hard I choked the sill.

  “Shit!”

  Banging my head on the window, I spun around to see what had made my brother cry out. Even with colors flashing in my eyes, I was groping for my gun. If the attacker had come back, then this was about to get messy.

  Hawthorne faced me, his hands stretching up a pair of silky red panties. “Well, well, well,” he said, smirking sharply. “Your lady friend has some surprisingly nice taste. Was she wearing something like this when you two—hey!”

  Ripping the underwear away, I shoved him backward. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “What’s wrong with you?” he countered. Eyeing me doubtfully, my older brother nodded at the open clothing drawer behind him. “I was just investigating. Chill.”

  “Investigating her fucking panties?” I threw the underwear back in with the others, slamming the dresser shut.

  Hawthorne hadn’t stopped watching me. His voice came out low and cautious. “You’re not just messing around with this girl, are you? Holy shit.”

  “You think it’d be okay to dig through her stuff if I was treating her like a fling?”

  “I think you’d care a whole lot less, yeah.” Shrugging, he leaned on the dresser. “I haven’t seen you like this before.”

  “Sure you have.”

  “Nope.” Shaking his head, he messed with his short hair. “I’ve known you your whole life, Kain. I don’t ever see you talking to the same girl after she does her walk of shame. You can’t fool me, Sammy is more than just a hookup to you.”

  “So what if she is?” I asked suspiciously.

  “That right there,” he laughed. “Defensive as hell. Here’s some advice for you, Brother. You’re massively see-through.”

  Standing taller, I said, “Thanks for the insight. Can I give you some advice, too?”

  “Shoot.”

  I gripped his shoulder solemnly. “It’s creepy to dig through a woman’s lingerie.”

  Pushing me off, he laughed. “Let’s get out of here. Costello is waiting for us down by the Hill.”

  The Hill was a part of the city known for crime. It wasn’t that long ago that people would warn against the area, unless you wanted to get a bullet in your guts. My father had done a lot of good in cleaning the area up—even if his methods were often questionable.

  But why argue with the results?

  Still, even with our thumbs crushing so many of the local gangs, one had recently made it a point to start ruffling our feathers. The Deep Shots were our major suspects in causing the police raid, so they were also our likely suspects as far as attacking Sammy went.

  That meant it was time to meet up with them for a chat.

  If Thorne is right about them trying to use her because they thought she had a personal relationship with our family, Francesca is going to feel awful.

  On the way downstairs, something familiar flickered in my vision. Sammy’s purse was hanging on the back of a kitchen chair. She’d like to have that back, I’ll bet. Snatching it up, I brought it with me outside.

  Hawthorne opened his car door, eyeing the purse. “New accessory. Nice.”

  With a wink, I hooked it on my shoulder. “Thanks. I hope the Deep Shots like it.”

  “I’m sure they will,” he said, starting the engine. “About as much as they’ll like seeing our pretty faces.”

  It had been a sore spot for some time that every strip club in the city was either owned by my family or the owners were being paid by my father to follow his rules. It might sound scummy, but my dad had a good reason for being so controlling.

  Rhode Island had a dirty little secret—one few knew about unless they were in the game or looking to be a part of it. You see, while everyone treated Nevada like it was some magical place that you could go to legally fuck a girl for cash . . .

  It wasn’t some special, unique snowflake like people expected.

  My state had one hell of a law, one that allowed people to pay for play all they wanted—as long as it was behind closed doors. That meant the strip clubs could indeed have full-on sex in the champagne rooms. Or the bathrooms, if someone was really desperate.

  But we didn’t like that law. Not me, and not my family.

  We didn’t want any of the girls working the clubs to feel like they could be forced into sucking a dick for a few bucks. That lifestyle led to bad shit, and my father had worked very hard to keep the bad shit out of our city.

  And so, the sore spot I mentioned.

  Since we owned or controlled the clubs, it meant people couldn’t get their dicks wet. Every big gang in the area wanted to run a piece of the flesh-for-cash game, and we were stopping them.

  Guess who definitely didn’t like us for this?

  Right. Our friends, the Deep Shots.

  All that was left for them was siphoning cash out of dive bars and illegal betting. My dad didn’t care about any of that, though. He always said that you had to let the rebels feel like they were sticking it to you somehow.

  Otherwise, they actually would.

  Hawthorne parked his car in the alley of the shit hole they called a bar. It was the kind of building that was all old brick and graffiti, no windows—no signs. It was magical that the place didn’t crumble in on itself.

  The Deep Shots loved money—who didn’t?—but they were notorious for taking a cut from the businesses they controlled, then never putting anything back in to help them thrive. I wasn’t kidding when I’d told Sammy that I figured we’d been attacked out of jealousy.

  We were the Badds.

  And we owned this city.

  Who wouldn’t hate us for that?

  “Hey,” Costello said, pushing off of the filthy wall by the bar entrance. He was dressed in a leather jacket that had to be making him sweat in this heat. Like always, his face was so calm that you’d think it was October instead of humid, sticky June.

  Nodding at him, I eyed the crusty stairwell that led down to the door. Barnie’s was a refurbished cellar that had been used in the glory days of Prohibition. The bar had a history, it was a place worth taking care of. The Deep Shots didn’t give a shit.

  Putting my hand on my holster out of instinct, I started past Costello. His hand gripped my elbow, freezing me. “You don’t pull your gun,” he said into my ear. The heat of his breath reminded me of a wolf snarling at my throat. “Not unless I do first.”

  “I’m not going to whip it out like it’s a cock-measuring contest,” I said. Staring him in the eye, I cracked a half grin. “Though, if it was, we all know it wouldn’t be fair for me to get involved.”

  Costello didn’t smile. “Keep it in your pants.”

  Shrugging away from him, I reached for the door. “You and Thorne just watc
h for anyone with a happier trigger finger than mine.” Considering that I was expecting to face the people responsible for trying to hurt Sammy . . . they’d be hard-pressed to find someone edgier than me.

  Barnie’s was dark—not like a shadow, but the way the underside of your dirty fridge is dark. In spite of the smoking laws, gray clouds swam through the air, searing my nose and ruining the taste in my mouth.

  Shoved back by a well-worn pool table, our hosts waited for us.

  The table was just big enough to fit three men on one side. In the middle, more nose than much else, was Frock Monroe. He was topped with a mop of curly, red hair that he often shoved beneath a pale brown cabby hat. His thick beard climbed up his jaw like jungle vines. It was the same hair that made him and his son Brick look so similar.

  Both of them were lean; I’d heard that in his twenties Frock had been an underground boxer. While the Deep Shots’ leader was bent forward into the light, his son was reclining into whatever shadows he could find.

  But even that couldn’t hide Brick’s bare chin. I almost didn’t recognize him.

  “Shit,” Hawthorne hissed near my shoulder. “He lose a bet?”

  Ignoring my brother, I scanned the last member of the trio in front of us. The guy on the left, I’d never seen him before. He was wearing a thin, green tank top, his white jacket spread open to show off his hard body. I was sure it was an intentional move.

  The stranger was decked out in corded muscles that matched mine. Sitting like he was—one arm thrown over the back of his chair—he had a casual air to him. Either he was relaxed because he wasn’t scared, or he was too stupid to think about who he was facing.

  He gazed at me without a hint of emotion. As intense as his physique was, the guy had eyes that reminded me of a deer’s. Soft, gentle—aware. It didn’t matter if he was sweet or not, he hadn’t stopped watching my brothers and me since we’d opened the door.

  Guys like that are always deadly.

  Frock spread his hands on the table. “Get them some chairs.”

  From the back wall, two heavily armed men approached with seats for us. Reinforcements. It made sense that the Deep Shots wouldn’t let their guard down, but I was surprised to see so many bodyguards blending into the smoky corners.