by Violet Blaze
I choke and then cough into my hand.
“About last night, why don't we just forget everything that happened?” Royal raises a brow at me as I bend down and let the dogs have the rest of the food on my plate. When I sit up, I check to make sure the blanket I grabbed off the back of the couch is still tucked carefully around me. Bare skin and Royal do not mix together into any sort of logical consistency for me. “I mean, we both said certain things—”
“Are you telling me no again?” he asks as he scratches at the back of his mussy hair and I shift my body, the rustling sound of leather making me blush. I slept in his vest, his cut, the one with all the fancy patches and the word President on it. I think it's kind of sacred or something. My blush gets darker. “Because what I inferred from last night …”
“Was that … I didn't say no,” I tell him and there's the truth of the matter. I didn't say no. Because maybe I want a life beyond his club, but after spending only two short weeks with this guy, I don't seem to want a life beyond him.
I glance down at the ring he gave me, a gorgeous antique piece that's got to be at least a hundred years old. It's big and gold and red and gaudy and I love it. I just don't want to wear it yet. Or at least if I do, I want it to be a looooong engagement. Like, years long. How's the club going to like that?
“Your brothers would be okay with you marrying … a lawyer?” I ask, carefully analyzing my prospects. “A judge? Maybe, if I can keep things cool with my father, the future mayor of the city?” Because I haven't exactly given up the whole idea of politics. If Royal and I keep our relationship quiet, I could definitely swing winning an election for Trinidad. The people here know me, know my father.
“Well,” he starts, and I flick my gaze back to him, examining the banner across his chest that says Raw and Dirty. Yup. That's what last night was. It was brutal and passionate and emotional and … I want to bury my face in my hands so I can think. Staring at Royal's chiseled chest and abs, the roses and pistols and wolves that are inked across his skin, that really scrambles my thoughts. “Maybe they could grow to get used to it? Times are changing,” he says and I watch as he runs his thumb over some of the rings on his fingers. “The club has rules; I can't change that. But there's nothing in our bylaws or the club constitution that says I can't have a lawyer as my old lady.”
Royal lets one of his signature smirks spread across his lips as he scoots close to me, trailing his knuckles down my upper arm. He looks confident, completely full of himself, like he doesn't give two shits whether I say yes or walk out of his life forever.
It's a lie.
I saw the real truth of his feelings for me last night. He says he loves me; I believe it.
I stare at the ring again and draw in another deep breath. I like to plan my route down to the waters of uncertainty, pick my way among rocks, ease myself in inch by inch. This time, I'm jumping headfirst.
“Okay,” I say and Royal raises his brows at me again. It's not a yes, I get that, but this is what I can do right now, today, here, under these circumstances. “For now, we can try this. Quietly.” I stare into his eyes, let myself get lost there for a second. “We can tell the club. Obviously they'll never accept me if I say no now. But we keep this to ourselves, contain it to your people. And then we see how things go from here, with the FBI, with the cartel, with our families. I know it's not a fairy-tale acceptance speech, but … it's real and genuine and it's what I've got for you right now.”
Royal's quiet a long moment, the only sound that of the wolves licking the alfredo sauce from my plate. When they're done, they bow and stretch and flick their tails happily.
“Pint-Size,” he tells me, drawing me into his lap, highlighting the fact that I'm still not wearing anything down below. Royal strokes my cheek, looks into my eyes, tugs me forward so that I'm straddling the hardness of his erection through his jeans. “I want you. I don't care how bloody long that takes. The first second I laid eyes on you, I knew there was something different about you, and I was fucking right.” He smiles at me, reaching down between us to undo his jeans. Already, I can feel my mind unwinding, my body heating with the promise of more, more, more. “So yeah, let's do this. Let's show the world that a boy from the wrong side of the tracks can make himself worthy enough to be with the girl from the right side.”
“Nice speech,” I whisper, as he leans forward to kiss me, stroking his fingers up my spine, rustling the leather of the vest with the movement.
“Now, give your ol' man that morning shag you denied him yesterday.”
“Charming,” I say dryly, but then my body's sliding down the hard length of his and the words die right in my throat.
But it is. And I am. Charmed. By an outlaw.
I might be confused and conflicted and nervous, but … I'm also not sure if I've ever been happier.
If I've ever been happy. Who the hell would've guessed it would take Royal McBride to show me that?
The idea of grilled meat and cold beers has never seemed so terrifying.
I take a deep breath as I pause next to Royal's bike and finger the helmet in my hands. My eyes lift to find Royal staring at me from that earthy brown gaze of his. He holds my stare for a moment and then drops his attention to the ring on my finger.
This is a trial basis, I tell myself and as I savor the salty gray air filling my lungs. Even though it's four o'clock in the afternoon, the sun still isn't out and a sea drenched white mist hangs heavy over the town. For some people, that'd be enough to call off a barbecue. If you live in Trinidad, California though, this is normal enough that hardly anyone blinks a lash.
“This is a trial basis,” I say aloud, lifting my chin and raising a brow so Royal knows I'm serious. I felt so sure sitting on the couch in his dark, quiet house. Standing out here in the open, my nerves are suddenly getting the best of me.
I start to rationalize, organizing my thoughts like a file folder on my computer.
Royal needs to save face in front of his club, and my family needs their protection, and … Jesus Christ. Why am I standing here trying to justify this? I'm wearing this ring because even though I don't need a man to complete me, don't even particularly care about being married, I do care about Royal. I like him. I'm pretty damn sure I love him.
But come Sunday—and that horrific family dinner that's awaiting me—it's coming off. That leap of faith, I'm not yet ready to take. Mom's going to die. Literally up and die, keel over and collapse the second she finds out.
Royal flicks his gaze back up to mine and smiles tightly. Last night was difficult for both of us. Today's just promising to be a bit of a doozy for me. I feel like it's the beginning of a really bad joke: the mayor's daughter walks into a party full of outlaws … And I really don't feel like hearing the punch line.
“Stop stalling and get on the damn bike, Pint-Size,” Royal says with a smirk I'm not sure is real, his position atop the massive horse of gleaming metal making me remember that this is only my second time to ever climb on a motorcycle. Oh, wait. If you count last night, third time.
A flush climbs my cheeks, but I pretend I don't notice it, closing my eyes to get myself together. If I'm honest, it's not the motorcycle that's scaring me: it's the destination. I enjoyed my last ride, I did, but then we weren't on our way to meet a forest full of rabid wolves. I shake my short hair out and take a deep breath, dressed once again in the leather outfit Royal picked out for me. It feels like a uniform, like a football player donning his helmet and pads for the big game.
I can do this.
I'm Lyric Lenore Rentz, twenty-eight years old, and I have a law degree and I passed the bar exam and I've worked for my a-hole father for the last three years without losing my damn mind. Hanging out with a bunch of male chauvinists? No problem. I've been there, done that before. Hanging out with their wives … that's the part that's really scaring the crap out of me.
I push my shoulders back, straighten my spine, and jam the helmet over my head, gazing at Royal through the tinte
d visor before I take a step forward and swing my right leg over the back seat. Don't think I don't know from Google that it's called the bitch seat, but I for one refuse to acknowledge that.
Deep breath.
I lean forward and press my body against Royal's, feeling the warmth of him through his leather vest, his scents capturing my attention even over the salty smell of the ocean. Wet earth, wild growing things, and that faint undertone of spicy soap and leather. Damn him for smelling so good. I'm half-convinced that the man has some sort of secret pheromones that are slowly poisoning my brain. Or maybe it's just the memories of last night, of him fucking me while I was wearing this very vest.
“Ready?” Royal asks, his own helmet in his hands.
I make myself take one last breath, and nod.
Dober's place isn't all that far from Royal's which is kind of a shame since I was really enjoying the ride. Flying down the highway with the sea on one side and towering redwoods on the other? It's a little slice of heaven—especially with Royal's rock-hard body pressed into mine. The growl of the motorcycle slides through me, vibrating my bones, half-convincing me that the thing's alive, some futuristic steel beast that's only partially tamed.
But then we're pulling into a carport with a bunch of other bikes and my heart is suddenly stuck in my throat. Crap.
No, not crap. Fuck. That's my word, remember?
We come to a stop near the side door of the house, some pale blue and white beach cottage that was probably built in the mid sixties. As soon as we come to a stop, I can see through the sliding doors to my left, straight into the kitchen where a cluster of women hover around a small island. The stove top nestled in the laminate counters is covered in pots, steam curling up against the bricks of the fireplace that butts up against it.
The second they hear that engine, their gazes swing my way, a collective stare that chills me straight to my toes. I can see Glinda the Good Witch, Fauna, Janae, and a few other women I haven't had the pleasure of meeting yet. No sign of Mia or her cronies in sight. Royal did promise they wouldn't be here, but it's nice to see that for myself.
“You ready for this?” he asks again, pulling his helmet off and tossing a smirk over his shoulder. I run my leather gloved hands up the patches on his back.
“Ready as I'll ever be,” I say, climbing off the bike and taking my own helmet off. When I lean down next to his ear, I see his hands tighten on the handlebars of the motorcycle. “Now you ready yourself to meet my family. You think this is bad, but you haven't had the pleasure of meeting my grandmas yet.”
I stand up with a smirk of my own, threading my fingers through my short hair and tousling it like I don't give a crap about anything. Inside, I'm screaming. My neatly organized life is a damn mess that I can't fix. I can't run off and take care of some infamous drug cartel, some outlaw motorcycle club. I can't make Royal into the perfect running mate for politics. I just have to roll with the punches I suppose.
Without waiting for him, I move up the two cement steps and through the sliding glass door, plastering a smile on my face and enjoying the way all eyes go to the two lines on my cheeks, the ones I didn't bother to cover up. I've got lipstick on, eyeshadow, mascara, but nothing to hide my battle scars. Read this and weep, bitches.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” I say as I slowly pull off the leather glove on my right hand, pinching each individual finger and drawing it carefully up over my fingertips. “It smells amazing in here. Anything I can help with?”
I notice that big guy with the beard—the infamous Dober—come inside from a set of sliding doors directly opposite the ones I just walked through, the smell of smoke trailing along behind him.
“Howdy y'all,” Royal says, popping in the door to my right, sounding distinctly not British. My mouth twitches as Dober nods at him and Fauna mumbles a quiet hello into the sudden silence. There's an elephant in this room and it's one hundred percent got everything to do with me. “What's with all the mopey faces?” Royal asks, sliding a cig from the pack in his pocket and tucking it behind his ear. The house smells warm and yeasty, like freshly baked bread, so I imagine Janae has some sort of no-smoking inside policy.
My smile turns genuine as I finally get the right glove off and tuck it carefully into the pocket on my jacket. Before I start in on the left, Royal and I exchange a long, lingering look, one that I'm sure every person in that kitchen is watching. It's embarrassing as hell, but I'm not about to let on I'm feeling that way.
Politics. This—every last look, smile, whispered word—it's all politics.
“Oh, look who's bloody bothered to show up!” Glacier says, mocking Royal's accent as he saunters through the door and props one of his black boots up on the bricks of the fireplace. “And how are you today, Miss Deputy Mayor?”
“Bugger off,” Royal tells him, giving me a slight nod followed by a massive grin. This might all be for show, and I might not have said yes, and this might be the biggest mistake either of us have ever made in our lives, but holy shit he looks happy. A warm thrill travels through me and I shiver, yanking the glove the rest of the way off, unable to keep the smile off my own face.
“Ooooh,” Glacier crows, clapping his tattooed hands together and tossing his head back with a laugh. “I guess I should say, how are you today, Mrs. Deputy Mayor?”
“Looks like congratulations are in order,” Glinda pipes up, her southern accent thick as honey, her smile as fake as her press-on nails. Some of the other women, the ones I haven't met yet, have more genuine expressions on their faces, if not a little bit reserved.
“I was going to propose today in front of everyone, but I just couldn't stand the anticipation,” Royal says, his posture loose and easy, his expression radiating confidence and authority. But there's hardly any accent there, a sign that he really is nervous. “What do you think of my old lady?” he asks, snaking his arm around my waist and tucking me in close. I let him do it, reminding myself that this is a different world, that when in Rome, well … you know. Now, when we finally sit down to dinner with my family … things might go a little differently.
“You've really done it this time,” Glacier says, lacing his fingers together behind his blond head, blue eyes sparkling as he watches me with that penetrating gaze of his. The guy is beyond fucking creepy.
“Where'd you get the ring?” Fauna asks, stepping around the island and holding her arms out for a hug. I haven't exactly forgotten her initial reaction to Royal's and my relationship, but I let her pull me in anyway. After a hearty squeeze, she moves over for Janae.
“It was my sister's,” Royal says, and nobody responds to that. I guess they all know the story already? It makes me wonder what other parts of his past they're all privy to that I'm not.
“Congratulations and welcome to the family,” one of the girls says, her face young but strangely similar to Fauna's. Based on the skintight leggings and the tank top covered in skulls, I'm guessing this is the teenage daughter whose clothes I borrowed. “I'm Serenity, by the way.” A big smile. “Nice to meet you, Lyric.”
“I see my reputation precedes me,” I say as introductions are made for the other women in the kitchen. Glinda's the last one to pull me into a hug, her body stiff, shoulders tight. Good. I've managed to twist the bullshit she fed me at the café into a working advantage. Now, instead of me being the one caught off guard, the joke's on the rest of the club.
“Come out and say hi to the boys,” Royal says as a pair of kids run screaming into the house, chasing each other around the small dining table that sits opposite the kitchen. I raise my brows, surprised to see them here. This is the first time I've seen any hint of the family side of club life. Other than the motorcycles and the leather vests, it seems pretty normal so far.
The room is quiet as we move away, the only sound coming from the patter of the kids' feet. As soon as I step foot outside, the gossip'll start; I'm sure of it.
“You look like a bloody goddess,” Royal whispers in my ear, his breath sending goos
e bumps dancing down my spine. I can feel the shape of his hand through the leather on my lower back, scalding a permanent shape into my skin. “Just keep this up and they'll be asking you to their book club by next week.”
“The girls have a book club?”
“How the hell should I know? Chin up, Pint-Size, look lively.”
I do my best not to roll my eyes, my boots stepping out onto a deck that's been worn gray from the unrelenting sea breeze. There's a charcoal grill, a couple of chairs, and a few steps down to the grass where several large picnic tables wait, covered in red and white checkered cloths and bowls with snap-on lids. Against the fence directly opposite me, there's a couple of coolers—probably filled with beer—and a plastic kids' table with six seats.
There's also an entire herd of bikers in leather vests.
Suddenly I find it hard to swallow. Holy crap, this is the real deal right here. I reach down and unzip the front of my jacket, just so I can give my shaking hands something to do. I'm not scared of these guys, that's not it at all, it's just … if I can't make them like me—or at least tolerate me—then Royal and I can never work. It won't be a matter of if I can handle adjusting my idea of the perfect political career, it'll just be a no. Instinctively, I know that.
“Boys,” Royal says, pulling the cigarette from behind his ear and drawing his hand away from my back to light up. It feels cold there, like I'm missing a vital part of myself. Don't be ridiculous, Lyric. “I finally fucking did it,” he continues, like this is all some big joke. Doesn't bother me. It's just more politics. “I got myself an old lady.” He lifts my left hand up and grins around his cigarette, gray curls of smoke climbing up past the raven dark tendrils of his hair.
I watch as the men turn, some of them holding beers, some cigarettes, all of them wearing black leather vests with snarling wolf heads on the back. Alpha Wolves rockers (that's what they call the patches I guess) line the top while Trinidad, CA scrawls across the bottom. On either side, there's a patch that says MC and 1%.
