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

by Violet Blaze

  I get why Mile Wide wants to control the 101. It's a hell of a lot easier to traffic drugs, weapons, whatever from down south. Or vice versa. Humboldt County is famous for its weed, and it makes a profitable export. Even with Oregon's recent decision to make pot legal, it's still cheaper for people to buy it on the sly. In fact, it helped business boom because there's less of a worry about being picked up for smoking it. Up here, business has never been better.

  So I get Clayton. And I get FBI Douche. And I get the mayor's dumbass son.

  What I don't get is Landon and Rebecca. The club is life. These men, they're our brothers. So why would Landon run off and into Clayton's arms? He was never going to patch in to Mile Wide. There's no room for a rat in any club.

  “Thanks,” I say as I close my eyes and take a deep breath, opening them back up to find Glacier staring at me with those creepy ass blue eyes of his. They're like chips of ice or something, almost colorless. “Anything else?”

  “Mile Wide was already watching your new girlfriend, looking at her as possible leverage to use against the mayor. Brent Gilman was helping them keep tabs on her in case they needed some bargaining chips in their corner. I have no idea who, but someone was tailing her already.” Glacier smacks his gum and smiles tightly at me. “Now that you're fucking her, man, she's seriously screwed.”

  Oh dear Jesus.

  I slam my laptop closed and fold my hands together on top of it. Looking up motorcycle clubs and old ladies and … wow. What have I gotten myself into? I rake my fingers over the smooth slickness of my hair and adjust my bun before I stand up from my desk and grab my purse.

  “Are you leaving already?” Kailey asks me, materializing in front of my desk with her blond hair curled and hanging perfectly around her shoulders. The way she's staring at me, well, let's just say it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Her green eyes sparkle as she blinks those long, thick lashes of hers, caked with mascara and black as coal. “You're usually the last one out of the office. Do you have somewhere to be?”

  “I'm just tired. It's been a long day.” And it really, really has been. With Brent's death, this new agreement with the Alpha Wolves, and my father's re-election all happening at the same time, I feel mentally and emotionally drained. Or maybe you're just tired because you got virtually zero sleep last night?

  Fucking Royal McBride.

  “Want to tell me why you weren't at home last night?” Kailey asks with a smirk as I try to brush past her and head down the stairs. She trails after me, clearly enjoying the hunt as I take the steps as fast as my heels will allow. My hand slides along the smooth, polished surface of the banister as I hit the first floor and head for the glass doors that lead into the foyer. “I stopped by—twice. Once before I hit the bar and once after. You were gone late.”

  “That's your business how?” I sniff as I keep moving, hoping she'll fade away and disappear. My sister hasn't been known to have the best attention span. “And should you really have been driving after you hit the bar? I don't think Mom could handle another DUI in the family.”

  Kailey waves me off and doesn't stop, like a dog that's caught the scent. She curls her fingers around my car door and leans in, her mouth pink and perfect like a doll's. I was always jealous of that mouth, thicker and fuller and more shapely than my own. Today, I just sort of want to slap it off her face.

  My heart is beating frantically, and I feel like I've gotten caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Then I remember once again that I'm twenty-eight years old, an adult, and perfectly capable.

  “I had a date,” I say, one leg inside the car, the other out. I look up at Kailey and find her raising her eyebrows at me, pink nails tapping against the inside of the glass as she contemplates that statement. I haven't had a date in like two years.

  “It's that biker, isn't it?” she asks and I scoff. “That one, what's his name? Prince? King?”

  “It's Royal,” I say and then cringe as Kailey grins at me.

  “You're fucking a motorcycle club president? O. M. G. I knew it.”

  “I'm not …” I start and then realize this is probably pointless. I'm a crap liar, and Kailey is like a bulldog. Once she's got something in her mouth, she's not about to let it go without a fight. I stare up at her tall, slender frame and narrow my eyes. “Look, does it matter who I went out with last night?”

  “Oh, it matters,” Kailey says as she stands up and releases my door. She got what she came out here for, so she's happy. At least I know that she'll hold onto that information, tuck it close and save it for later. It'll probably come out at the worst possible moment, but at least it's not an immediate concern. “It matters. He is hot though. I mean, I was kind of wondering when you'd go through your slut phase.”

  “I am not going through a slut phase,” I snap through gritted teeth, turning the car on and hoping she'll walk away before I decide to run over her foot. She's wearing Prada today, so I know that'd really piss her off.

  “For a quick fuck, he's the perfect bad boy. Have fun with that, just don't kiss him in the front yard again.”

  “Can you please go away?” I ask as I pull my leg inside and move to shut the door. Kailey grabs it again and looks down at me, her eyebrows pinching together as she stares at me, really stares at me. It takes me a second to realize what it is she's doing. She's looking right at my nose, at the bruise on my face that I spent almost an hour covering up with makeup this morning. Oh, and then moving down to look at the hickeys that Royal left on my neck while I was doing it. I tried to cover those up, too, but I'm not exactly a makeup artist. “I really have to go.”

  “Did he hit you?” she asks me, her tone changing in an instant. I roll my eyes, but she's sticking her stupid nude Prada heel in my door again. “Lyric.”

  “No, he didn't hit me,” I say, my heart thumping as flashes of memory flicker across my vision. Three motorcycles behind me. One on its side. A black truck. Sand dunes. A gun in my face. I blink them away and give her my most evil look. “He would never do anything like that, so please, everything is fine, Kailey.”

  “Wow. Awfully defensive of this Prince guy.”

  “Like I said, it's Royal.”

  “You're not like, in love with him or something, are you?”

  I grit my teeth, but I think I blush. A little. Hopefully the cake of makeup on my cheeks will hide that from her.

  “I met him last week,” I say, but it's not a direct denial. This time, I nudge her foot out and slam the door before she can stop me. I'm already out of the parking lot and down the street by the time I realize it.

  I'm being followed. Again.

  Royal's guy tails me all the way home, parking his motorcycle in the driveway behind my car when I climb out. There's this awkward moment where I look over at him, and he stares back at me. I decide to just go up, introduce myself, get this over with.

  “Hi there,” I say, approaching him with my best office-professional smile in place, the one that says I'm friendly, but not a pushover. It usually works wonders with men. “My name is Lyric Rentz.” I hold out a hand that he shakes with a firm, rough grip.

  “Mug,” he grunts, and that's pretty much it. He stares back at me through a pair of dark sunglasses, a blue and white bandanna wrapped around his red hair. His face is rugged and covered with matching stubble, and his nose is so crooked it almost looks like it's pointing at my neighbor's house. Poor guy, I think as I pull my hand back and let it fall to my side.

  “Well, Mr. … Mug, thank you so much for the escort home, but I can take it from here.”

  Nothing from this guy. He just stares at me like I'm not even there, gripping the handlebars of his bike and smiling with thin lips. I stare back at him for a moment before glancing up and over his shoulder to find Sandra Elden watching me out her kitchen window. This should go over well, I think with a sigh as I turn back to … Mug and force myself to keep smiling.

  “Let me guess? You're here until Royal gets here?”

  “If he gets here,” the
guy tells me as he leans back on his bike and digs out a cigarette. “He's busy. Might be working all night.” There's a shrug of those big, hairy shoulders as the guy lights up and I let out a small sigh.

  “You want a cold beer or something?” I ask and Mug grins with big, white teeth. I think they're probably his best feature. He should smile more.

  “If I drink on the job, the Pres'll kill me,” he says and then chuckles. “But if you got a cup of coffee in there, I'll take it.”

  “Done,” I say with a sharp nod, turning on my heel and waving to Mrs. Elden in the window. I'm sure she'll report this to my mother, how her slut daughter was hanging out with a completely different felon in the front yard. “I should've moved to DC when I had the chance,” I murmur as I step inside and close the door behind me.

  The house is quiet, the bags of nonperishable groceries still sitting on the counter from God only knows how many days ago. I stare at them for a moment before flicking the lock into place and heading into the kitchen. I still have a home phone—I know, I know, so old fashioned—but I also haven't had time to get a new cell, so I pick up the receiver and pull out a piece of paper from my front pocket. My dad has Royal's cell on file in the office, so I waited for Kailey to go to lunch and then snuck over to her computer to copy it.

  Three rings in and he picks up.

  “Hello?” It's a question, a gruff one at that. Royal sounds tired and pissed off, not a good combination. My heart starts to pound, and I hope like hell that nothing new has happened. If last weekend was any indication on how these things go down, I'd like to never see another incident, thank you very much.

  “It's me,” I say, and then immediately follow that up with, “Lyric,” just in case he doesn't recognize the sound of my voice. There's a softening in his and a rough chuckle that curls my spine and does naughty things to my insides.

  “No shit,” he says and I hear the scuff of boots on pavement. “Where you calling me from?”

  “My house phone,” I tell him, leaning back against the counter and kicking off my heels. They're the same ones I wore yesterday, boring, black, plain, unassuming. “I haven't had time to get a new cell.”

  “Don't worry about it. I'll get one for you,” he says, and I raise my eyebrows, standing up and turning around to open the cabinet and grab a bag of ground beans. “How's Mug? He texted and said you were making him coffee. Don't. He's a bit of a dickhead.”

  I laugh, but I don't stop, filling up a pot with water and pouring it into the back of the coffeemaker. It's such a mundane task, but when I'm talking to Royal, it feels exotic, like I'm doing something wrong, something dirty. It's stupid, I know, but I can't help it. Just the sound of his voice is enough to make my toes curl, my pulse skyrocket, my nipples harden. I feel electrified, like I'm plugged in and waiting for a surge.

  “I can get my own cell phone, Royal,” I say as I press the brew button and take a step back. I end up bumping one of the paper bags with my shoulder and knocking it over. Inside, there's a box of condoms I bought on impulse and assumed I probably wouldn't even get the chance to use. But I should. I should be using them.

  “And I'll get you another one. I think you should have a backup, just in case.” There's a pause and I hear the sound of a door opening and closing, some feminine voices in the background. A trickle of jealousy drips down my spine and I shiver. Seriously, Lyric? I think as Royal starts to talk again. “Grab some clothes, your gun, and every single pair of naughty knickers that are in that dresser of yours. I'm getting the truck back from the shop tonight, and I'll bring it over.”

  “Wait, what?” I ask, pausing as I drop the condoms on the counter and search for that extra bottle of wine that should be hiding in here somewhere. “My gun?” I find a bottle of Merlot behind a box of Ritz crackers and pull it out. After the week I just had, I could use a glass. Or two. Or maybe I'll just have the whole bottle. Who has to know? “Did you just tell me to pack a Glock with my crotchless panties?”

  “Oh, you have more of those? Bloody brilliant. Put 'em on now, and I'll see you as soon as I can.”

  “Royal,” I start, but he's already talking to somebody else, his voice muffled and laced with irritation. I'm not exactly sure how he interpreted last night's events, but I don't think I actually agreed to move in with him. I mean, come on. I'm a practical kind of girl; I know how these things work. I've always had this timeline in my head, a way to measure relationships to a ruler of expectations. Casual dating for a month or so before the big Talk with a capital T, the one about sex and STIs and all that good stuff, and then six to eight months before moving in together.

  Suffice it to say, I've never once lived with a guy.

  And I'm not about to start right now.

  “Are you still there?” I ask as I listen to the bubbling of the coffeemaker, staring at the dark drips of liquid as they splash into the pot. I can hear men talking, arguing, the harsh clip of Royal's accent when he snaps at somebody. Things are getting heated over there, aren't they? I hope that has nothing to do with me, I think as I stand up straight and turn around, opening a drawer and drawing out a corkscrew. I pop the top of my wine and fill a goblet sized glass from my crystal cabinet. My mother keeps buying me crystal for every birthday and Christmas. I'm not exactly sure why, maybe because she doesn't know me at all and has no idea what I might actually want.

  Like a big, brutal biker boy.

  I suppose I can't blame her for that one; I had no idea I wanted it either.

  “I'm hanging up now,” I start, but Royal cuts me off.

  “Just stay inside and keep the phone with you, okay love?”

  “That doesn't sound at all ominous,” I tell him as I carry my wine to the window and peek out the curtains at Mug, sitting conspicuously at the end of my driveway. “And is there any way for you to get your boy to park his bike around the corner or something?”

  “No deal, Pint-Size. I gotta go. I'll see you later, alright?”

  He hangs up before I get another chance to protest.

  I sigh and set the phone down on the counter, lifting the wine to my lips with a sigh. I guess our argument will continue in person then. Not good—for me, especially. When Royal's around, my hormones take over my brain and I have a really hard time thinking clearly. Mostly, I just want to be naked and sweaty and moaning.

  I slap a hand to my forehead and shake my head. I guess I can't complain. On Sunday, he'd given me an out and instead of taking it, I invited him in. I made him mine. I promised to be his. In what way, I'm not sure. I keep telling myself this whole thing is casual, but it feels deeper, like we're already bound together somehow.

  “Stupid romance novel crap,” I say aloud, but I don't think I believe it. Not really. Instead, I pop my head out the door. “Hey Mug, how do you take your coffee?”

  “Shitload of sugar, no fucking cream,” he says, looking up at me through his shades. I nod briskly and retreat inside, dumping half my fancy little sugar dish into his cup before I take it outside and pass it over into his big, hairy hands. “Thanks,” he says and I smile.

  “You're welcome,” I tell him as he takes a sip that's really more like a gulp. Half the mug is gone. I wonder if that's how he got his nickname? I stare at the guy, still straddling his bike, his arms hairy and covered in freckles. He shouldn't be intimidating with that shock of red hair on his head, but damn he's huge and wide as a truck. I can see why Royal wanted him to come play bodyguard for me.

  Mug sniffles and finishes off the coffee.

  “If you got anymore of that, I'll take it. Pres says he's gonna be late.”

  “Uh, sure,” I say, taking the cup in my hand as I size this guy up. I'd like to get some more information about this group, Mile Wide. I mean, if my life is in danger, I have a right to know, don't I? A lot of men think of themselves as airtight, locked up, loyal. During my time in law school and politics, I've learned that if they have a dick, they have a lock that can be picked. It's just a matter of figuring out how to go about i
t. “So, are there still members of Mile Wide in town?” I ask casually.

  Mug snorts and runs his hand across his mouth.

  “For their sake, I sure as hell hope not.”

  “Their,” I pause as I search for the right word, “cuts said they were from Ukiah. Why would they come all the way up here to cause trouble? A three hour drive just to hijack little old me?” I laugh, but Mug isn't smiling. Instead, he leans back and tucks his fingers in the pockets of his jeans.

  “You should probably wait for Royal inside,” he tells me, and I feel my lips purse a little. “It's gonna be a while 'fore he gets here.” Taking a deep breath, I reach up and squeeze Mug's hairy shoulder like I'm grateful for his help. Well, okay, so maybe it's a little nice to know he's out here, but I still don't see why Royal thinks it's necessary. The guys involved in the heist are … well, I can't really think about that right now. Especially not about the one that didn't die in the shoot-out.

  I shiver.

  “I'll bring your coffee right out,” I say as sweetly as I can. Mug is finally looking at me, staring at my hand on his arm like he's surprised to find it there. And he appreciated the offer of coffee in the first place, I could tell. He might be an easy nut to crack.

  I head inside, refill his cup, and head right back out.

  “I'm about to cook dinner if you're hungry?” I raise a brow as he downs that cup of coffee the same way he did the first. Two drinks and done. He passes it back over to me, lifting his shades off his face. “I figure you're just as likely to be able to protect me from inside the house as well as out? The fog's rolling in anyway. I wouldn't want you to freeze to death.”

  I keep smiling as I turn away and head across the grass to the front door.

  A few seconds later, Mug gets off his bike and follows me in.

  Royal's right; he doesn't show up until late.

  By the time he knocks at the door, Mug is sitting on my couch with yet another cup of coffee, completely zoned in on some action flick. The second he hears the truck though, he's up and at the peephole with stiff shoulders and fingers diving beneath his cut. I'm assuming there's a gun under there, but I didn't bother to ask. No, I used our dinner conversation for more useful questions. Poor Mug. As far as locks go, he was an easy one to pick.