by Violet Blaze
Several thoughts flash through my mind as the sea foams and thrashes to my left, the grass beneath me coming up towards my face in an emerald blur as I pitch forward. I have my Glock in my purse, I think as I hit the ground with my knees, the impact hard and jarring, making my teeth crash together painfully. Using that here is probably a really bad idea.
Hands go to my hair, snap my head back with a painful snap as Mia comes around to stand in front of me, a flash of silver in her long, slender fingers.
She has a fucking knife.
See why the F-word is my new favorite thing?
“What the hell are you doing?” I gasp as the hands in my hair yank harder, make my eyes flicker with stars. I reach back, dragging my nails down the soft tender flesh of wrists as I thrash and struggle in the awkward position. “Don't do something you might regret, Mia.”
“Oh, believe me, I'll be treasuring this moment for a long time to come.”
She comes at me then, and I think she's going for my throat. I draw my hands back, wrapping my fingers around the exposed flesh as Mia looms over me and kicks me hard in the stomach, the breath exploding from my lungs in a rush. The pointed toe of her leather Harley-Davidson boot digs into my gut as she takes a second blow, clearly enjoying the moment as her purple earrings swing and she leans over, putting the knife to my hair. With a rough, vulgar sawing motion, she cuts at my hair until there's a sudden release and I'm pitching forward.
I twist as I fall, turning onto my back and using both feet to kick at the redhead who was holding onto me. I manage to her in the knees, knocking her down before the brunettes get over to me, grabbing my arms and pinning me to the grass.
In the fall of buttery yellow sunshine that's oh so inappropriately decided to deign us with its presence, I see a flutter of chocolate waves drifting in the breeze, strands of my hair catching air and tumbling over the edge of the seaside cliff.
Mia smirks as she avoids my flailing feet and comes around to crouch next to her friends, reaching out with the knife and casually drawing a sharp line of red across my cheek.
I hiss at the pain, the metal slicing my flesh open like a hot knife through butter.
“You're not made for this life, Rentz. You're the mayor's daughter. You work for the mayor. A girl like you doesn't belong in the life, doesn't belong with the president of an outlaw motorcycle club.” I'm smart enough to stop fighting when she reaches for the other cheek. Thrashing as she cuts me will only make things worse.
I suck in deep, harsh breaths, my heart pounding in my throat, my arms burning from their unnatural position behind me. Mia's dark eyes glitter as she makes another slice, her face turning peaceful in the rush of violent energy.
“Did you really think the club would accept you? You're from the other side of the law, Rentz. How long do you really think you can fool Royal? Trick him into giving you the time of day? Eventually, one or the other of you is going to realize this can't work, and then what? Hmm? Do you think he's going to let you walk away with the knowledge you have?”
Blood leaks hot and thick down my cheeks as I lay there with short, rough strands of hair scraping at my face in unfamiliar ways, my stomach bruised and tight. I aim a kick at Mia and manage to graze her shoulder with my heel.
“Apparently you're not designed for the outlaw life either,” I spit—literally spit—at her face. Mia swipes it off with an angry hand and comes at me again, the redhead circling behind her in a pair of cutoffs and a pink tank, like a well-dressed shark waiting for more blood to fall into the water. “Because only a complete idiot would attack the mayor's daughter outside of his office in broad daylight.”
Mia's knife flashes out and pops the last few buttons on my shirt, drawing a harsh laugh from her throat as she takes in the bright pink lace of my bra. The gold heart charm dangling from the center clinks against the metal as she lifts it with the tip of the knife.
“Seriously, Rentz? Is this for Royal? Do you think this is enough to keep him interested in some plain Jane bitch who works for the mayor of a Podunk town that nobody gives a shit about?”
The tip of the knife drops low, points directly at the tender flesh of my belly. There's a second there where I really and truly believe she's going to plunge it in me, kill me right then and there outside my dad's office. Instead, Mia slices a perfect red line from my bra down to my belly button as I gasp at the white hot burn of pain, breath coming in rough heaves.
“Well that Podunk mayor was at least smart enough to put security cameras on all sides of his building,” I snap as I lift my chin towards the corner of the green and white office. Something like fear passes over Mia's face before she shrugs and moves the knife to my left breast, pushing the blade just hard enough against the soft flesh to split the lace.
“Do you think I give a fuck?” she asks, and maybe she doesn't, maybe she shouldn't care? I know there's nobody watching those feeds right now. They're there more as a deterrent and on the off chance that somebody actually breaks in and somebody needs to review the footage. Later on, this little stunt could really screw Mia in the ass. Right now … she's free to do what she wants. “You're going to stay away from Royal, do you hear me? And you're not going to tell him about this, are you?” She sneers at me, her pale face going red with renewed rage. It almost matches her lipstick. I stare back at her, the feeling of wet warmth sliding down the sides of my belly, dripping to the grass beneath. My arms are starting to go numb, and I hate how helpless I feel right now. Can't use my gun. Can't use my arms. Can't fight back at all.
It's the worst feeling in the world.
“If there's anything the outlaw world hates, it's a goddamn snitch.”
She leans down into my face, her breath smelling like peppermint, a gentle floral perfume mixing with the copper scent of blood.
“Do I make myself clear?”
I hate that I have to do this, but … I nod. I'm too smart to argue with someone who's clearly insane—and who's holding a knife and the leashes of three bitchy thugs.
“Good.” Mia smiles at me as she stands up, her jeans miraculously free of grass stains. Her slender body unfolds above me like a model's. “Because next time,” she points the knife down at me and the sun glimmers off the metal, “I won't be this nice.” Mia nods to her friends. “Lift her up.”
The two girls help me up as I rush to button up my shirt, blood already staining the lavender fabric.
“Lyric?”
Mug's rough voice echoes around the corner in time with the sound of his boots and Mia and her girls are off, rushing around the back of the building and managing to disappear from sight before Royal's admittedly terrible bodyguard gets around the corner and sees me standing there, hair shorn, blood draining down my cheeks and staining my top.
“Jesus fuck!” he exclaims, turning his slow clomp into a jog. “What the hell happened?” He glances over my shoulder and then starts to move, but I reach out a hand, squeeze his muscular forearm hard enough to grab his attention. “Are you okay?” he blurts as his green eyes bug out of his head and he scrubs his free hand through his wild red hair. “Oh God, do you need to go to the hospital?”
“I'm fine.”
“Who did this to you?” he asks as I take a deep breath, my hands trembling as I duck to grab the strap of my purse.
“Mug, I need you to do something for me.”
The poor man looks terribly puzzled as I glance up at him, using every ounce of strength and courage I have to maintain a stoic expression.
“I need you to make sure there's nobody coming out of the office, so I can run to my car. If my sister sees this blood, she'll have a coronary, okay?”
“But—” Mug starts, but I'm already shaking my head at him, gesturing with my chin towards the front of the building.
“Mug, please.” I keep my voice stern, even, laced with an authority that I know I don't have. I'm counting on Mug's fear of Royal to get him moving. He was tasked with protecting me after all, and if Mia had had some other agend
a, I could be dead, maimed, raped by now. “Go.”
The big man listens, his leather cut crinkling as he turns and does what I asked, getting me in my car and on the road without further incident.
I have no idea what I'm going to do about Mia or what I'm going to tell Royal, but right now, I need a first aid kit, a new shirt … and a glass of wine.
The burning tip of my cigarette holds my attention as I frown deeply and try to think my way past all this shit.
I've got two of Clayton Moore's boys in Glacier's basement, and the asshole doesn't seem to want them back. But why? What's going on down in Ukiah that I should know about? I feel like I'm missing something that's sitting in plain sight. Just what the bloody hell is it?
“What do you want to do, boss?” Glacier says as he joins me, tucking his fingers into the front pockets of his too tight jeans, the sun glinting off that halo of golden hair on his head. I glance over, tucking the fag between my lips for an inhale as I consider the choices. First option is to keep the guys here for a while, see if Clayton changes his mind. The second is to clean house, wipe the club's bloody fingers on the long grasses of this piece of shit house that Glacier owns and doesn't live in.
The first proposition is riskier; the second turns my stomach.
But what am I gonna do here? My fucking hands are tied—by Clayton Moore. The blood of these men … it's on him. Fucking tosser.
“Take care of it,” I say as I move towards my bike, the gleaming hunk of machinery crouching on the weed covered driveway like a silent predator, just waiting to roar to life. “Clearly, we've learned all we're going to from these assholes.” I sigh as I pick up my helmet in two hands, lifting my head up to take in the peeling white paint, the empty windows … and the hidden basement that was never in the floor plans for this place. The entrance is cleverly hidden in the pantry, the one that's stocked with dented cans and coated in dust and spiderwebs.
The whole damn place gives me the jitters.
“This is ridiculous,” Dober growls from beside me, resting against his bike and stroking a hand down his beard. “What the fuck can Clayton possibly be up to that his brothers know nothing about?”
“Because they're not his brothers,” I say, thinking of the Mile Wide men that have crossed our path as of late. I didn't recognize any of them. “The Ukiah chapter of Mile Wide isn't that large. All of these guys … they're just thugs. No hang around time, he's just patching in a disposable army to use.”
Glacier and Smoky frown while Dober grits his teeth.
“How do you know that?” he asks, his anger clearly directed at Clayton and not me … not this time. Although the issue with Lyric is going to come to a head at some point, I'm sure.
I shrug my shoulders as the breeze picks up, rustling across the gently sloping hill of the cemetery to our left. Yeah, that's right—Glacier's palace of pain … it's on a wide, overgrown lot next to the town's oldest cemetery. Hardly anyone ever comes here anymore 'cept kids with bottles of booze and pockets of condoms. It's the perfect place to bury bodies. That is, if we decide not to throw them in the ocean …
“I don't, not for sure,” I say as I pull in two thick lungfuls of smoke and let the empty, dark eyes of the house stare down at me. “But if you ask those boys before you're done with them, I bet they'll tell you.”
“You got it,” Glacier says with a grin, his tattoos bright and obnoxious in the afternoon sunshine. Always weirds me when Trinidad pulls a fast one like that … sunshine in winter. Hah.
As Glacier turns to go, my mobile rings and I frown, sliding it from my pocket to find Mug's number flashing up at me.
“What?” I ask as I answer quickly, trying to pretend that my heart isn't pounding in my chest. I know Smoky and Dober are staring at me, judging me, trying to figure out what the fuck's going on between me and this girl. Screw them. I'm fucking worried, can't bloody help it. “What is it, Mug?” I growl when he doesn't answer right away.
“Lyric got jumped,” he mumbles, and I damn near crush that fucking phone in my fist.
“What?” I sound like I'm going to kill someone. Starting with Mug. And then moving on to whoever … “Where is she? Is she okay?”
“She's fine, at her place now. Looks like a couple of cuts is all, but she won't talk about it. I dunno who did it. She won't say.”
“And how in the fuck did that happen if you were watching her?” I roar, not caring that my voice is catching on the wind, twirling through the empty graveyard like a monster. Mug starts to mumble something about a groupie, and I hang up, dialing Lyric and lifting my eyes to meet Smoky's green ones. He has this grimace on his face like he knows his brother's a complete wanker. “Lyric got jumped,” I say and his red brows skyrocket.
When Lyric doesn't answer, I jam my helmet on my head, swing my leg over my cruiser and throttle the engine on my bike.
With a roar and a rush of gravel, I take off down the driveway and burst onto the pavement with a squeal of tires.
“Where is she?” I ask again when I pull up beside Mug and tear my helmet off, tossing it on the grass and standing up with the breath rushing in and out of my lungs in painful bursts, chest heaving, rage curling my hands into tight fists.
“She's inside—” Mug starts as I shove past him, heading towards the front door at a jog. If I try to talk to him now … I might do something I'll regret later.
I don't knock, pushing my way into Lyric's tidy little bungalow with a slam of the front door and the pounding of my boots against the wood floor.
“Hello?” she calls confused from the direction of her bedroom. “Royal?”
I don't answer, swinging around the doorjamb and finding her sitting on the edge of her bed with a glass of wine and a pair of matching pink bandages on either cheek. Her green eyes go wide as I move towards her and crouch down at the edge of the bed, putting my fingers on her knees as I try to control the wild flurry of emotions inside of me. What the hell am I getting so worked up for? I wonder, but I already know. Inside, I know.
This woman right here, she's more than just the mayor's daughter … she's my old lady.
Even if she hasn't exactly accepted that yet.
“What the fuck happened?” I ask, my voice a rough, wild growl as I reach a hand up and play with the sharp, jagged ends of Lyric's hair. “Bloody hell, Pint-Size.” Where before there was a tumbling fall of brunette waves down to her breasts, Lyric's now sporting a ragged bob that falls just below her ears.
I move my hand from her hair to her face, thumb lightly tracing the first of the two bandages.
“It's not that bad, really,” she says, adjusting herself and wincing, a hand settling on her tummy in an unconscious motion. Without waiting for permission, I lift up the hem and catch sight of a pale pink ace bandage wrapped around her midsection.
My stomach twists into knots and my heart plummets to the floor.
“What the …” I start again as Lyric jerks her red tank top back into place with flushed cheeks and a clenched jaw. She's fucking livid, hands shaking and sloshing around the pale color of the wine in her glass as she turns those emerald eyes down to me.
“Mug is a pretty awful bodyguard,” she starts, trying to smile through the rage. Doesn't work on either of us. I feel my own jaw tighten, the fingers of my left hand curling around her knee, digging into the soft flesh of her upper thigh. “It was so awful, Royal,” she exhales, lids fluttering closed for a moment in memory. “I couldn't … I couldn't do anything. I thought I knew how to defend myself …”
“Did you have your gun?” I ask, heart thumping as I try to figure out how to ask the question that's making my throat tight and my stomach twist. Did they … did they do something besides cut you, love? Oh God. Did they rape you?
Lyric gives me a tight smile.
“I did, but I wasn't about to use it outside my father's office. The shot would echo and …” She shrugs her small shoulders like this isn't important; it is. “It doesn't matter. I just … I have a lot to
process right now.”
“Love,” I whisper, trying to contain the wild anger and the violent tenderness I'm feeling right now. The emotions war with each other inside my chest as I crouch there, waiting for the answers I need. “Who was it? Tell me, and I'll deal with it.”
“You want me to snitch?” she asks, and I raise my brows, the leather of my jacket crinkling as I sit back, wishing I could pull her shirt up and examine her further. But first, answers. I need fucking answers.
“Snitch? The hell are you going on about, Pint-Size? Just tell me it was Mile Wide and let's be done with it. You're not a rat if you're telling your ol' man about some fucking punks. Now, let's have it, so I can go outside and give Mug a bloody bollocking and an ass beating.”
Lyric raises a delicate brunette brow at me, sipping her wine and flicking her eyes towards the blinds on her bedroom window, the purple curtains pulled neatly to the sides and tied with fucking bows. Bows.
I can't wait to move her into my place permanently, I think suddenly and then wonder where the hell that thought came from. I'm getting ahead of myself here. Slow down, you stupid plonker.
“A bollocking?” Lyric asks with another of those fake, tight smiles that hide everything and mean nothing. She's clearly upset about this, but she doesn't want to admit it—not to me or herself. “What's a bollocking?”
“Nice try, Pint-Size,” I say, sliding my riding jacket off my shoulders so I'm wearing nothing but my cut and a black Alpha Wolves T-shirt. I run my hand down my face, suddenly realizing I'm drenched in nervous sweat. Christ. “Come on now.”
“It wasn't Mile Wide,” she says, looking me straight in the face with a sad smile and a shrug of the shoulders. I feel a chill skitter down my spine.
“One of my boys?”
Lyric snorts and shakes her head.
“Look, Royal …” There's a long, heavy pause and then, “old man? Did you just call yourself my old man again?”
