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

by Violet Blaze

  I pause on the sidewalk outside the office, wishing I smoked so I'd have something to do out here. I end up just fumbling around inside my purse, pretending to look for something.

  “I don't have a lot of time right now. I'm at the office, so spill it. What happened yesterday?”

  My brother sighs, like he's too tired for this shit right now. Too bad. So am I.

  “The agents were really nice. They asked about Brent, if I'd known why he was in town, what we'd talked about, that sort of thing. I told them we were old friends, that you used to date, that we had some beers and played some golf. They think they're here for routine bullshit. Both of them seemed pretty convinced that Brent was here of his own accord—and that he killed himself.”

  There's a long pause as I pull out a stick of gum and pop it between my freshly colored lips. The woman at the store practically begged me to buy the tube of burgundy red lipstick she slathered across my mouth. I think it's called Liquorice. Yeah, the spelling bothers me, too. It's supposed to be Licorice, damn it.

  “Did he?” Sully interjects before I get a chance to speak. “Kill himself, I mean?”

  My pulse thunders hot and quick in my veins, but I clamp down on it. If I start sweating and stuttering every time I need to lie, this whole dating an outlaw thing is going to go south quick.

  “How the hell would I know?” I ask, and then glance over my shoulder at the glass doors to the office. “I've got to go, Sully. I'll try to stop by the hospital later and bring you some takeout. Anything in particular?”

  “Everything sounds good when compared to this garbage they've been feeding me.” Sully sighs and hangs up without saying bye, as usual back to ignoring and underestimating. Good. The attitude that's always bothered me should come in handy right about now. Blend in, be seamless, disappear. I take a deep breath and drop my phone in my purse, heading inside to find Kailey seated at her desk and waiting for me.

  Great.

  “Good morning,” I say as I try to breeze past her. Doesn't work. She rises from her desk and follows after me, heels loud against the wood floors, softening as they hit the carpeting on the stairs.

  “The FBI is here,” she whispers as I pause with one hand on the rail and keep my face forward. The last thing I need is for her to see the cuts on my cheeks and demand an explanation. I'm sure that'll come later, but in this moment, I need to keep my cool. “They're in Dad's office, waiting for you.”

  “Okay,” I say, like I don't much care either way. Professional, businesslike, completely in control. I can do this; I've been groomed for this moment. More politics. I can do politics. “Thank you, Kailey.”

  I sweep up the stairs, chin high, heels high. Yep. I felt … different today, like the thought of wearing subdued kitten heels was going to drive me crazy. I took my craziest 'night out on the town' shoes from my closet and threw the red heels on my feet without a second thought.

  Okay, so maybe I had a millisecond of doubt, but that's passed, and I'm feeling good … if not a little like I might topple over and break my head open.

  “Nice shoes,” Kailey says, sounding confused before she finally retreats back down to the lobby to answer the phone. I suppress a small smile and pause at my desk to deposit my purse and laptop, watching from the corner of my eye as my father steps out of his office.

  “Miss Rentz,” he says, using the same trick I do when I talk about him, distancing our familial relation by calling me by my last name. “There are two agents from the FBI that'd like to speak with you a moment.” He steps out of his office as I shed my wool coat and drape it over the back of my chair, pulling my shoulders back and moving confidently across the hideous blue carpeting on the floor.

  If he notices my new haircut or my uncharacteristically flawless makeup, he hides his surprise well—so well that I'm pretty positive he doesn't notice at all—and motions me into his office with a generous sweep of his hand.

  The door closes behind me as I force a professional smile for the two agents rising from their seats to look at me.

  “You must be Lyric,” the woman says, extending a warm, dry hand for me to shake. Her liquid brown eyes shimmer as she takes me in with a practiced eye, starting at my face and working her way down to my red heels. “I'm Special Agent Shelley, and this is Special Agent Garza.”

  “It's nice to meet you,” the man says, taking my hand in his. Like his partner, his grip is strong and sure, full of confidence and cool, careful professionalism.

  “How can I help you both?” I ask as I move around my father's desk and take a seat in his expensive leather swivel chair. It's a position of power, and I find with an unsurprising twinge that I love sitting in it. This is where I belong, I think, and then, but I'll never get here by dating an outlaw. Fuck. See, that word again. It's the only appropriate syllable.

  “Well,” Special Agent Shelley—I think my dad said her name was Heather yesterday—starts as she takes a seat back in one of the two chairs opposite me and folds her hands over her knee. She's got on black slacks that are eerily similar to mine, a royal blue button-up, and a pair of pearl earrings. Her partner's dressed in much the same fashion—black slacks, white shirt, loose black blazer that hangs off his slender shoulders. “We're here investigating the death of Brent Gilman.”

  I nod my head and plaster a regretful expression on my face. To be fair, I do feel kind of guilty about our last meeting, the way I told Brent off. Granted, he was being an asshole, but … if I'd known the guy was going to be murdered later, I might've been a little nicer.

  “Brent was a wonderful man,” I lie, trying to use the old college infatuation I'd had for him to my advantage, hoping my words sound genuine. “He's going to be missed.”

  “There's no doubt,” Heather soothes, leaning forward slightly in her chair. “I hear you two were close?”

  I affect a small smile as I glance down at my father's desk in remembrance, the black leather top neatly stacked with files and pads of legal paper, a few carefully arranged pens and an ink blotter.

  “We were, once upon a time,” I say with a small laugh, looking back up at Heather and feeling that familiar thump and pulse of my heartbeat. I make myself breathe slow and easy, trying to calm it down. “But he dumped me in college,” I joke, my smile becoming wry. “I'd sort of … well, I'd hoped since he was in town that we might …”

  If Heather knew me, personally, she'd know that I don't often stutter. People that stutter don't get taken seriously. In my line of work, that can be a death sentence for a career. But, Heather doesn't. So I play this to my advantage.

  “Get back together?” Heather supplies for me, sympathy in her voice. Whether it's real or pretend, I'm not sure, but it's a good sign. I glance over at the other agent, José I think his name was, and pretend to be embarrassed.

  “But I guess … that's not why he was in town,” I say and then take a deep breath, letting my eyes flutter shut for a moment, like I'm gathering myself together to continue. When I turn my green gaze back on the agent, it's placid and even.

  Heather nods knowingly, her mouth soft, gaze gentle and molten.

  “Do you think,” she starts sympathetically as I fold my hands in my lap and meet her eyes, “that maybe you guys didn't work out because you're dating the president of an outlaw motorcycle club?”

  Fuck.

  Told you. Word of the day.

  Fuck.

  “Excuse me?” I ask with a small, gentile laugh. Inside, I'm screaming. How is this happening? How the hell do you know about Royal? Why are you still fucking smiling at me? “What did you say?”

  Heather smiles at me, the sympathetic expression falling away to reveal a colder, more calculating look. Her partner remains stoic, but his hands tighten on the arms of his chair. Huh.

  “I asked if your failed relationship with Brent Gilman was the result of your current relationship with Royal McBride?”

  If I were anyone else, I might stumble here, make a mistake, tremble, act outraged … but no. I
am my father's daughter, and I'm a professional first and foremost. Even though my heart starts its gallop again, I remain calm on the outside, curling my lips up at the corners in a sad smile.

  “I'm afraid I don't know what you mean,” I begin, continuing on before Special Agent Shelley can interrupt. “Brent Gilman and I were on good terms last we spoke. In fact, we'd made tentative dinner plans for …” I pause, brows pinching in consternation. “Today, actually. If he was upset about some purported relations with Mr. McBride, he didn't let on.”

  “Are you saying you're not in a relationship with Royal McBride?” Heather asks me point-blank as her partner stares at and through me, like his brown eyes are lasers cutting through my skull. I kind of … don't like him at all.

  “I'm saying,” I begin, and this time it's Heather that cuts me off.

  “Before you answer, I want you to think really carefully about what you're going to say. I understand that a … sexual relationship with a criminal like Royal McBride might seem scandalous to someone like you.” A tight smile thrown my way, Heather's mauve painted lips curving up at the corners. “But lying to the FBI, now that's a real career killer. Not to mention a federal offense.”

  I try really hard not to grit my teeth as I stare at Heather's conservative but colorful makeup, flawless ebony skin, and her deep brown eyes, shimmering and liquid as they take me in from the waist up.

  My words here, they'll mean everything. For me. For Royal.

  My throat gets suddenly dry, but my voice is calm and steady when I speak, the blue walls of my father's office seeming to close in around me. On the walls, the black and white photos of the coast seem to take shape into a tsunami above my head, threatening to drown me. I force myself to look at the potted fern in the corner for a second. Nothing scary or menacing about a fern, right?

  “My father's forensic accountants pored over Royal's club's finances and found nothing out of sorts. As far as the man himself is concerned,” I toss a sweet smile back at Heather, refusing to be fazed by this. Well, okay, for right now I'm refusing to be fazed. Later, I'll probably have a small panic attack. And another bottle of wine. Two bottles of wine. “He has no criminal record, thus the reason the city of Trinidad and the Alpha Wolves have entered into a contract—”

  “A meaningless bit of fluff meant to boost your father's—and the club's—reputations. As far as Mr. McBride is concerned, do you think he became the president of an outlaw organization—one with chapters all over the country—by being a nice guy?”

  “Whatever your thoughts on the man or his way of life, his record is clean, finances are clean, and I hardly see what any possible relationship I may or may not have with the man has to do with Brent Gilman's suicide.”

  “Do you think that one percent patch on your new boyfriend's jacket is just for fun? If so, Miss Rentz, then you are terribly naïve. Looking at you, your education, your résumé, I find that hard to believe. You're a driven, intelligent sort of woman, Lyric. Now, I'm not going to tell you how to live your life because that's your business, but whatever you've got going on with Mr. McBride, I highly suggest you end it quickly.” Heather smiles at me in a patronizing sort of way that makes my teeth hurt, the leather chair beneath her slacks creaking as she leans forward some more. “If he didn't have anything to do with Brent's murder—or if he doesn't know who did—I'd be surprised. There's not a lot that happens in the underground around here that the Alpha Wolves don't know about.”

  “Pardon?” I ask, keeping my worry and my frustration bottled up inside my chest. Breathe, Lyric, breathe. “Did you just say murder? I thought Brent committed suicide?”

  “Do you think Brent would've disposed of his laptop and cell phone before he decided to kill himself, Miss Rentz?”

  “I … what?” I don't have to feign my surprise at any of it, because I'm so floored by Heather's sudden change of approach that I need a minute to gather my thoughts.

  Heather stands up suddenly, like she's taken a shot and hit me right in the chest, and now all she has to do is wait for me to bleed out. Her smile, when she gives it, is full of blindingly white teeth, straight and perfect.

  “This is a lot to take in, I understand, so we'll leave our cards with the front desk and you give us a call if you think of anything. We'll be in touch, Miss Rentz.” Special Agent Garza stands up, still silent, face still and empty as he looks over at me and then turns away, heading for the door. Heather pauses once before exiting to glance over her shoulder and toss out some more advice. “And if I were you, I'd end whatever was or wasn't going on with Royal McBride before you lose something you can never get back: your career, your freedom … or your life.”

  When I see Lyric pull up to the clubhouse, I feel a grin spreading across my face, white teeth flashing ear to ear. When I see her step out of her car … let's just be polite and say all the blood rushes from my head to … well, my other head.

  The mangled mess of her hair's been turned into a sleek, sloping cut that frames her small, narrow face and highlights the thin, pale curve of her throat and the full ripeness of her mouth. And Lyric's makeup … I've never seen her dolled up like that, not even at that first club party. She's fucking brilliant.

  “Whatever you've done,” I say as she approaches me in tall, red heels, “I like it. No, I bloody love it. You look gorgeous, Pint-Size.”

  When I don't get a smile in return, when she crosses her arms under her breasts, I know something's wrong and raise a brow, pausing before I take her in my arms and kiss the hell out of her. She doesn't much look in the mood to be kissed right now.

  “Are you alright?” I ask as those green eyes slide up to my face, searching.

  “It was bad, Royal,” she says as I notice for the first time the cuts on her cheeks. The way she's done her makeup, they're hardly visible. Impressive.

  “What was bad, love?” I ask as she starts moving past me and up the wooden stairs of the deck, unhooking the Employees Only sign and letting the chain clink as it hits the ground. I jog a few steps to catch up with her as she moves inside, past the staircase and the game room, the bathroom and TV room, and into the common area where the bar's located.

  “The FBI,” she whispers, pausing in the doorway and staring at Fauna across the room before she spins around, strands of her newly shortened hair sticking to her lips as her eyes flicker across my face with a sudden panic. “My little chat with the FBI. It went really, really badly, Royal.”

  I feel my fingers curl into fists, my heart thudding against my ribs as I search her face right back. That's when I notice that behind the new, classy haircut, the perfect makeup, the pressed slacks, my Pint-Size and Pretty is trembling slightly.

  I reach my hands up and take a gentle hold of her biceps, her pulse thumping through the white cotton of her shirt.

  “They know we're …” A long pause as she struggles to figure out a word for what she wants to say. “Together. Well, at least that we're sleeping together.” Lyric sucks in a massive breath, letting her lids shutter closed, flashing a gentle sea of dark brown shadow. When she opens them, the trembles have subsided and her spine is straight and strong. “And they know Brent's suicide was murder.”

  I curse under my breath.

  “They said there isn't much that goes on around here that your club doesn't know about. The woman,” Lyric's face screws up in irritation, “Special Agent Shelley, basically implied that you either did it or know who did.” Lyric's mouth tightens, her dark red lipstick inviting and glossy, begging for the rough press of my mouth. With an effort, I hold myself back, determined to focus on the conversation. It's hard with her standing so close to me, my fingers tracing unconscious circles on her upper arms. “And she warned me about you, basically told me I should … get as far away from you as I could while I still had the chance.”

  I stand there like an idiot for several long seconds as I process the information, our eyes glued to one another, both of us searching for God only knows what.

  “I nee
d a drink,” Lyric declares after a moment, pulling gently away from me and turning towards the bar. She takes a seat on one of Smoky's ugly stools and makes eye contact with Fauna. I follow after, watching their interaction as I sit next to Lyric, turning slightly so that our knees touch under the black marble bar top.

  “Johnnie Walker—Double Black,” Lyric states proudly, her voice strong and even as Fauna takes in her face, registers the cuts on her cheeks—even behind all that makeup—and then nods.

  “What can I get for you, boss?” Fauna asks me as she prepares Lyric's drink.

  “Same,” I say as I watch my old lady knock back the amber whisky like it's water, slam her glass down and ask for another. I raise one brow, trying and failing to hold back a small smile. “I like a woman who can hold her drink,” I joke, but it falls flat as Lyric takes yet another slug of liquor and raises her brows at me.

  “How about one who can hold her FBI?” she deadpans as Fauna raises her blond brows at us and moves away, giving us some space to talk. “Because that was … intense.”

  I watch Lyric for long moments, my heart pounding, sweat slicking my palms. And it's not because of Mile Wide, and it's not because of the FBI, it's because I'm afraid that this is it, that our new relationship will be over before it starts. And why shouldn't it be? I think bitterly, fingers curving against the denim on my thighs like talons. This woman in front of me has everything to gain from life—and everything to lose from dating me.

  I stare at her then, and I just know in the back of my mind that she's going to spook, apologize and walk out, through those clubhouse doors and … away.

  “Royal,” she begins, but I don't let her talk, spinning her stool towards me and putting a knee between her thighs as I lean forward, capturing her face between my hands. My kiss, when I give it, is violent and demanding, tongue sliding between her glossed lips, red smearing between our mouths like blood. I dive in deep, moving my hands down the sides of Lyric's throat, over her shoulders, arms, gripping her hips and yanking her towards me.