Savage and Racy: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Bad Boys MC Trilogy Book 3)

by Violet Blaze

  It'd be damn near impossible for my boys to patrol all these areas or to even find someone who didn't want to be found if we did.

  That's where Clint Woodrow and Clayton Moore come in.

  Thanks to Glacier's talents, our little canaries have sung some pretty specific songs as to the whereabouts of some unauthorized dealers in the area.

  We make sure to give the blue house where Lyric was being held a wide berth; there's FBI and police activity in the surrounding area that we can't and won't get involved with. Still leaves five separate residences for us to hit up.

  The first two are empty, clearly abandoned sometime in the last forty-eight hours.

  It's the third one that really intrigues me.

  We're not halfway up the bloody deer path we had to climb to get to the damn place, our bike wheels spinning in wet mud as I ease my red and white Swinger around the rough bark of a tree, when the first shot rings out.

  A shotgun slug buries itself in the side of the tree with an explosion of reddish-brown wood shrapnel. It pummels the side of my helmet as the boys and I take the last hump of the drive with a little air, dropping my bike to the ground next to one of the massive ferns and whipping out my Ruger GP100, taking aim at the front of what looks to be some sort of ratty old camper. Doesn't have wheels anymore though. The ugly arse rubbish heap sits on cinder blocks instead, framing a woman that I recognize but haven't seen in years.

  Dayna Nieves. Rebecca's bloody sister.

  “I want her alive, Saint,” I warn through the mics in our helmets as Glacier's bike—an old school Slim Bobber—spins to the side in a muddy stop, spray droplets of wet, earthy mud and pine needles across the woman in the front doorway.

  The distraction's enough for me to stand up and get a good aim on her dominant arm, taking a clean shot through and through her left forearm. Within a few seconds, a couple of the Portland boys are off their bikes and at the door, removing the shotgun from the woman's reach and dragging her down the steps and into the center of the clearing.

  I remove my helmet slowly and stand up, letting Glacier check the trailer as I move around the back and glance underneath. Nothing but fucking garbage and beer bottles. Bloody hell.

  “It's clear,” Glacier says, his own helmet tucked under his arm as he watches me. It takes him an extra minute to follow my gaze, blue eyes locking onto Dayna and staying there, widening imperceptibly as he makes the connection. “Is that—”

  “Dayna,” I say as I come around the front and find Rebecca's sister in a sobbing heap on the ground, hot red blood oozing into the mud as she curls into a fetal position and whimpers. “Good to see you again, darling.”

  I put my boot out and prop it against her shoulder, pushing her over and onto her back. I always thought it was uncanny, how much like her sister she looked, like they were twins or something. Straight blond hair, blue eyes, a thin long face. Rebecca was always the prettier of the two, but still, Dayna was a looker.

  “It's been a long time, hasn't it? What, five years since I last saw you?”

  Dayna doesn't talk, these long, keening whimpers spilling from her throat. When I look at her, I go cold, shutting off my emotions the way I've always done, the way that gets things done. Lyric's been screwing that all up for me though. When she's around, all I can seem to do is fucking feel. But right here, right now, seeing this woman, I have to do this. If I don't I'm liable to blow the bitch's head off.

  Think about it: Rebecca. Landon. Rebecca's sister, Dayna.

  Not fucking coincidences.

  “The hell are you doing out here in the middle of the woods in this shit hole?” I ask as I gesture at the rubbish bin on wheels. Well shit, I mean cinder blocks.

  “House is full of smack and weed,” Glacier says as he lifts a small white bag up between his fingers and shakes it. When he smiles, his face is tight, the skin stretched taut against his piercings.

  “Looks like somebody was moving a hell of a lot of product. And here I was, starting to wonder if the legalization of pot was what was fucking up our sales.” I rise to my feet as Dayna starts to sweat, curling even tighter in on herself as she clutches at the gaping wound in her arm. The place looks like hell, but the woman herself is clean, pretty, her makeup well cared for. My guess? She holed up here after Monday's incident at the grow house. Maybe even moved product from the two empty places we checked this morning.

  The curious part of it all is why there isn't anybody else here.

  “Drag her down the hill and I'll radio one of the boys to come and get her in the pickup,” I say as I move past the two Portland Wolves and yank the radio off of my belt. “Tell me you've got something, Smoky.”

  “Nothing but two empty houses. You?” I smile wryly as I move up the steps and wrinkle my nose at the smell of mold and mildew instead the decaying trailer. From what I've seen, the cartel doesn't run an amateur operation of any kind. My guess is that this place was a last resort, something off the usual beaten path where they thought they might be able to keep their product out of the hands of the FBI … and the Wolves.

  Too bad they were wrong.

  Clint Woodrow, however he got involved with Mile Wide or the cartel, seemed to know all about this trailer. Said he'd come up here to smoke crack a few times with his girlfriend.

  Pieces start to click together as I kick aside piles of trash and open the cabinets to find tens of thousands of dollars worth of heroin and weed. Well, hell, at least we can move all of this product quickly, recoup some of the costs of this god-awful little war.

  “We've got a new friend and she,” I pause as I close the cabinet and peek into the filthy bedroom. For Christ's sake. I shake my head as I move back to the front door. “She's got a lot of luggage, Smoky. I'll send you the GPS coordinates from my mobile. Get the truck over here and load up.”

  “You got it, boss,” he says as I take a deep breath of the fresh outdoor air, listening to the screams of Dayna Nieves as my boys drag her down the side of the bumpy hill that slopes into the forest.

  “Dayna, huh?” Glacier asks as he moves to stand next to me and props his left fist on his hip. “What the hell does that mean, then?”

  “Clayton said it was Rebecca that got Landon involved in this mess. What if it's a little more complicated than that?” I say as I feel the reality of the situation start to sneak over me. In less than a week, this'll all be done one way or another—Landon, Rebecca, Mile Wide, the Saldaña Cartel.

  And Lyric Rentz.

  Even with the betrayal and the bloodshed, it's easy to tell which one of those things on the list bothers me the most.

  Guess anything but the last one and you're dead wrong.

  There's just enough time for me to stop by my place and shower before I head over to the restaurant, some pretentious breakfast nook that I've never bothered to hit up a day in my life.

  As soon as I get there, pulling into an empty spot in the parking lot and grinning at a couple of overdressed assholes standing next to their Escalade, I make my way up the winding path to the Seabird Café. It sits perched on top of a small outcropping, looking out at the sea and connected to a small fishing dock. It's used mostly in the crabbing season and then left for the rest of the year, giving the restaurant the perfect place to sit their patrons.

  More well-dressed men and woman appear like dots on the horizon as I toss a wink at the hostess and continue on past her station without bothering to stop.

  I know where I'm going.

  I can see Lyric from here, her short, dark hair ruffling in the breeze, her face fresh and almost entirely free of makeup. The outfit she's wearing … it's another one of those bloody jumpsuits. This time, it's in a crisp white that I feel's just begging me to make it dirty.

  “Royal,” she says, blinking wildly up at me as I approach the table and her family's eyes flick over to me. There's an entire mixed bag of facial expressions at that table, but my favorite comes from the mother. She looks like she's two parts about to cry and one part ready to
murder me. I respect her for that one. “You made it.”

  Lyric stands up and for the first time, I notice there's an empty chair to her right waiting for me. With a smirking smile, I move around her father's and brother's chairs and slide into it, the wash of waves beneath the wood of the dock a soothing backdrop for the almost sunny Thursday morning. This is about as nice as it gets in Trinidad in the winter, so even though the sea's a bit choppy and the clouds keep fighting to cover over the sun, everyone around us seems to be in a chipper mood.

  But not the mayor.

  “What the … hell … is he doing here?” Lyric's father grinds out, his blue eyes looking like they're about to pop straight out his skull.

  Brilliant.

  “I'm your daughter's future fucking husband,” I say, trying to stay positive. In the back of my mind though, a fist clenches tight around my emotions and I do my best not to flip the goddamn table. Wonder if her family knows about her plans to leave yet? My fingers drum on the surface of the table as my lips pull back into a grin. “On that note, how are the pancakes here, Dad?”

  From beside me, Lyric snorts, settling into her chair and glancing over at me from under her bangs, green eyes big and beautiful, mouth deliciously kissable. I lean forward without a second thought and capture her mouth with mine, gently resting my hand on the side of her face.

  It's like the seagulls and the ocean itself go quiet for this moment; you could hear a pin drop.

  The other tables must be looking our way because there's a distinct pause in the clink of silverware and the random bursts of chatter.

  I couldn't give two shits less about any of it.

  Lyric's scent washes over me, that sweet mixture of honey and wildflowers cutting through the salty brine of the sea. At first, she's stiff as a board, but after a few seconds of my tongue probing her mouth, she responds, meeting me with a hot fervor that surprises us both.

  I don't pull away until she does.

  “Goodness,” Lyric whispers, and I smile. I like that gentle pinch of prim and proper sprinkled over all the naughty lingerie and the wild fucking. Sexy as hell. My eyes stay on her face as she turns back to her family. When I glance over at them, too, I get a nice eyeful of the mayor with his skin the color of my Gram's boiled prunes, and his son sitting there with his mouth hanging wide open, face still bruised and mottled, cast still on his right arm. “I'll get you a menu, so you can order,” Lyric continues, pretending not to notice that every person sitting on that dock is staring at us.

  Must be big news then, that the mayor's daughter, the most interesting person in Trinidad at the moment, is here … and making out with her ol' man in front of everybody.

  “Sounds brilliant, love,” I say as I lean back and lace my fingers together behind my neck, letting my gaze swing over to Lyric's mother and sister. They're both staring at me with very familiar looking green eyes. Well, one of them's staring. The other one's glaring daggers my way, her long fingers curling around her fork like a weapon. I wouldn't be bloody surprised if she tried to stab me.

  “This is highly inappropriate,” the mayor grinds out under his breath, turning to me with his nostrils flared and his lips pinched tight.

  “Is it? I thought it was normal for a woman's parents to want to spend some time with her betrothed before the wedding. If my mum was still alive, I can fucking promise you that she'd be keen on meeting my future wife.”

  “There will be no wedding,” Philip says, his voice quivering with barely suppressed rage as Lyric returns to the table in her sexy white jumpsuit, a pair of purple suede boots on her feet that turn my cock into a shaft of solid diamond. Maybe I could use it to cut that outfit off, so I could fuck her? Lord knows the spirit's willing. I can already imagine leaving those boots on, feeling the soft rub of the fabric against my back as she wraps her legs around me while I drive into her …

  “Here's your menu,” Lyric says, sitting down and giving me a piece of paper covered in fancy black cursive, foods that I've never heard of in my life. I stare at it for several seconds, wondering what the hell the boys would say if they saw this, and then shrug.

  “Order me whatever you're having, sweetheart.”

  Her smile, when she gives it, is genuine and sweet, and it makes me question everything I ever thought I knew about myself. This is my purpose here, keeping a smile on that heart-shaped face, keeping a frown off of those perfect lips. Lyric fires up every protective instinct in my body, every urge to serve and protect and keep.

  My tongue runs across my lower lip as the waiter returns and pauses awkwardly next to the table.

  “Mom?” Lyric asks as the young man stares at her in the sudden silence and clears his throat. After a few more seconds of glaring, the woman manages to pull herself together and order some food. The rest of her family follows suit and I grin as my old lady orders for me. Damn. I could get used to this.

  As the man moves away from the table, I lean back in my chair, the leather of my cut rustling as I adjust myself and cross my legs at the ankle.

  “So, tell me, what do you lot usually do at these get-togethers?”

  “Well,” Lyric begins when it becomes abundantly clear that nobody else is planning on talking. “Normally, we swap stories, talk about our day to day …” She trails off and pinches her brows together, tapping her fingers against the edge of the empty white and gold plate set in front of her. Each spot is already gussied up with bowls, plates, golden napkins, cups that aren't being used. I don't understand it at all. In my world, the restaurant only brings plates and cups with food in or on them. “In reality, it's usually a platform for my father and brother to discuss business, talk on their phones, or fiddle with their laptops. Sometimes, Kailey whispers gossip in my ear and my mother berates me about something that doesn't really matter.”

  Lyric sucks in a deep breath.

  “Jesus Christ,” Sully curses, giving me a side-eyed glare that he can't hold. As soon as I meet his eyes, his gaze darts away and a visible shiver crawls over his body. Must be hard to look at me, knowing that all those aches and pains he's feeling right now are the result of my hammer.

  “Whatever this,” the mayor gestures in my direction as he looks at his daughter, “is, we can handle it—in private. What happens if the media shows up here?” His voice is an angry whisper, vibrating with self-righteous frustration. It's awful to listen to. No wonder Lyric has so many issues expressing herself.

  “If the media shows up here, oh well. They can watch me sit at a table with my family, with the man whose club the city just agreed to work with to help reduce crime, take the burden off the already strapped PD. I don't see the problem.”

  “The problem is that you were just involved in a very serious incident. The problem is that your brother,” that word is ground out like a curse, too, “just told a lot of very incriminating things to …” The mayor seems to realize he's in the middle of an outdoor seating area, reigning in his temper and taking a long, deep breath. In an instant, the man is nothing but unflappable calm. Clearly, it's all an act, but who I am to judge? If he wants to shut off his emotions, good for him. It'll make this easier on both of us. “You and your brother are involved in a very important investigation; I'm up for reelection. And your mother really doesn't need this extra stress right now.”

  “I have a hard time seeing how my fiancé is causing her extra stress,” Lyric starts, but her mother makes this sound in her throat that's halfway between a hiccup and a sob.

  “Do you honestly believe that any mother would want their daughter dating a criminal?” she whispers, low and even, just loud enough for those of us seated at the table to hear.

  “No, I don't,” Lyric says confidently, crossing her arms over her chest. “And that's fine because Royal is not a criminal.”

  “He's in a gang,” her mother adds, looking right at me like she's not at all frightened by my patches or my position. She should be, but it's admirable that she's not. Maybe some of Lyric's courage came from that si
de of the family? At least that should speak well to any future grandchildren we might give her.

  I feel myself grinning again. Despite the shitty night and the even shittier morning I've had, this is kind of fun.

  “The club is not a gang,” Lyric says before I can speak. “And Royal's never been convicted of a crime thus, not a criminal.” She keeps smiling as she talks, but the expression is tight. “I'm telling you right now that there's nothing you could say that would change my mind about how I feel for this man. If you love me, if deep down somewhere in your hearts, you're glad that I actually managed to live through the chaos of Monday night, you'll sit here and eat your breakfast with us without continuously insulting either myself or Mr. McBride.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Philip mutters under his breath, gathering himself up and sitting with his spine straight, his suit perfectly pressed, his dark hair slicked back. He looks every bit the politician in that moment, like he's trying to get out of his daughter's perfectly reasonable request with a bunch of bullshit. Figures. “You can't possibly expect us to go along with this?”

  “The thing is, Dad,” Lyric says, and I realize that's one of the first times I've ever heard her give him that title. “I do. Don't you care how I feel about all of this?”

  “There's a difference between caring and coddling, Lyric,” he says, and then he's standing up along with his wife. “If you'll excuse me, I have business at the office I need to attend to.”

  The two of them move away down the dock, just as a ray of sunshine breaks through the clouds and lightens up the morning with a golden glow. Unconsciously, I find my hand traveling over to wrap around Lyric's knee for comfort. Frankly, I'd like to chase her father down and beat the ever living crap out of him, but that's not an option, is it?

  “How about the two of you?” Lyric asks as she looks between her siblings, chin held up in a proud position. “Are you going to bail on me, too?”

  Sully grits his teeth, but doesn't make to move, picking up his water glass and looking away, toward his parents' retreating backs. To his credit, even though I beat the little rat up with my hammer, it looks like he might actually stick this thing out with his sister. Looks like he might actually care about her. I might've underestimated the man.