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

by Violet Blaze

  I open my eyes, look into his, and smile.

  Inside, I'm screaming.

  “Best fucking lunch break I've ever had in my life,” I say with a smile, sitting on the chaise with an elbow on either knee, watching Lyric dress herself—sans those fancy purple knickers. I drink the sight of her ass in greedily in that tight little red skirt of hers as she bends over and snatches the tiny scrap of fabric from the floor, turning and shaking it at me.

  “These were forty bucks,” she says and I raise a brow.

  “Forty quid? For a pair of knickers? Hate to tell you, Pint-Size, but you've been ripped off.”

  “Please. Like you didn't like them. Guess they served their purpose,” she says as she stuffs them into her pocket and smiles at me. It's a smile tinged with sadness though, and I don't like it. Not one bloody bit.

  I rise to my full height, towering over her and cross my arms over my chest. I'm trying to look intimidating, but Pint-Size just stares up at me like she's the one in charge. Cheeky little twat. My mouth twitches.

  “You hiding something from me?”

  “I want you to think about what I'm telling you, Royal McBride. I might not be able to … kill a dozen men with a crossbow—”

  “Just with a pistol,” I say, lifting up a finger and trying to make light of it. But it's true. Or almost true. I'm not sure how many men she killed in that grow house, but there were about ten bodies down there when I descended those stairs.

  Lyric gives another sad smile and captures my hand in her small, feminine ones. I love the shape of them, the delicate curves of her knuckles, the clear rounded perfection of her nails.

  I'm head over heels in love and acting like a twat, but I can't help it. This girl drags it out of me, kicking and screaming.

  “But I can help in other ways,” she adds, finishing her previous sentence and lifting her chin defiantly. “Tonight … if you do this, then at least strongly consider letting me tell Agent Shelley about the shipment. Siccing the FBI on the main body of the cartel is the smart choice to make, Royal. As a leader, it's the right thing to do, even if the people you're leading don't like the decision. That's what being in charge means sometimes, making the hard choices.”

  I let out a long low breath and put Lyric's palm against my chest, letting her feel the racing gallop of my heart.

  “I'll think about it. Truly. But tonight has to happen. They have our hostages, people that Glacier tortured. That I watched be tortured.”

  Lyric looks right at me, eyes open to the pain and the horror, refusing to look away from it. God love her for that.

  “Don't you dare die on me, do you understand?” she asks, and I can tell there's some small part of her that wants to come with me, ride in on a motorcycle and whip out a pistol in my defense. God love her for that, too. “If you … just please promise that you'll come back. Even if it's a lie, I want to hear you say it.”

  “I'll come back for you, Pint-Size.” I squeeze her hand again and let go. “What are your plans for tonight?”

  “I'm visiting Fauna at the hospital. She's up and awake, feeling much better. Apparently she has a bit of an Olive Garden fetish, too, so I'm cooking up some of my alfredo and taking it with me.”

  I smile, hoping this is a sign that she's leaning towards staying. Hanging out with the old ladies must mean something, right?

  “When I'm done,” I start, licking my lower lip and feeling that familiar heat rise through me. When I see my woman, I get overwhelmed with sensations: lust, desperation, need. I feel possessive and protective and loving all at the same time. Makes me mad as a box of frogs. “When I'm done,” I repeat, “I'll need you.”

  “I'll be waiting at the clubhouse then,” she promises and then pauses suddenly, like she's thought of something important. “Agent Shelley, I saw her again today. She—or somebody else in the FBI—has been watching us. Whatever your plans tonight, please be careful,” Lyric finishes, rising on her toes to give me another kiss. It gets a bit steamier than we'd meant, leaving me desperate and needy and wanting. Bleeding hell.

  I head outside and climb on my bike, wave to my boys across the street, and take off for the clubhouse.

  Sixty guys, loaded up with weapons and riding motorcycles. Not at all conspicuous, right? Fuckin' hell.

  We leave the rest of our brothers either at the clubhouse or with the old ladies at the hospital, splitting the rest into six groups to keep the noise and attention from the public to a minimum.

  “I still think you should stay here,” Dober mumbles, but I've never much been for listening. He strokes his beard with his tattooed hand and glares at me as I check my revolver and spin the cylinder, pushing it back into place with the heel of my hand.

  “Holed up in a fucking foreclosed mansion. Brilliant, yeah? Never would've thought to check with the rich assholes to see if a cartel was hiding amongst their ranks.”

  Dober rolls his eyes and glances at Smoky, Mug and Glacier. Mick's staying to watch the compound along with Hawkins, while Jack's at the hospital with his ol' lady. Mannon, the Seattle Sergeant-at-Arms, will take one group while the rest of the out-of-towners are split up amongst my own boys. Plans are made; weapons are loaded.

  It's time to go and all I can think about is Lyric.

  “Ready?” I ask my officers, noticing that Glacier's grinning wide, his crossbow strapped to his back.

  “Ready,” he says as Mug grunts the affirmative and Dober rolls his eyes and gives me a look like he wants to kick my ass.

  “Then let's get this bloody over with.”

  I climb onto my Swinger and start her up, adjusting my helmet on my head and making sure the mic system built into it is on and ready. It's crucial for a group this large, so we can communicate while riding. No other way to move an army like this.

  We start out the gates well after dark and take separate routes towards a brand-new neighborhood known as Towering Heights, an awful little enclave of mini-mansions carved out of the forest and hidden beneath the towering heights of the redwood trees above them. On the one hand, the thought of rich outsiders moving into my town and buying up undeveloped land makes me physically ill. On the other, I'm excited by the prospect of a big, expensive house with good soundproofing and plenty of land on all sides to hide our activity from the neighbors.

  I think of Lyric's warning, reminding my boys over the mic to keep an eye out.

  “You see anyone suspicious following us, and you stay as far away from the mansion as bloody possible.”

  “Roger that,” Glacier chirps over the intercom, chuckling before Dober tells him to shut the fuck up.

  Our group swings towards the sea first and then south, towards the city, stopping just before the first suburban crawl sneaks out of the trees. We turn east then, moving around the most populated parts of Trinidad before readjusting our direction towards Towering Heights. The routes we're using are back roads, farm roads, logging roads. There's virtually zero traffic, so if someone were following, we'd know.

  When I decide we're clear, we hook a tight right and head directly into the heart of the neighborhood, lights off and cruising at slow speeds. We park our rides in the trees of an adjacent property covered in construction debris and tarps.

  Glacier and I move in first—even if Dober hates me for taking lead. Can't help it. It's in my blood.

  We've both got crossbows—they're virtually silent and the bolts don't go through walls—moving slowly across the wet, spongy earth, past thick green fronds and then over the fence in the back of the darkened house.

  A few rooms show lights, proving the cartel doesn't suspect a thing, definitely doesn't expect anyone to find them here.

  Sons o' bitches.

  We creep through the thick foliage in the backyard and I have to admit, I'm glad the developers decided to leave most of it untouched. There's a small swatch of lawn up ahead, bordering the deck, but the rest of the land remains as it was before. Huh. Maybe if I live through this, Pint-Size and I can sell our places
and buy something a little further out, something with wild land. Then again, I might miss the view of the sea too much.

  “Is your fucking head in the game?” Glacier asks as we kneel behind a large fern and he looks at me like I've bloody lost it. I give him a similar look back and see something in his face I never expected to see before. Indecision. A small crack. Like that shell of frost and ice really is coming undone. Scares the ever living hell out of me.

  “Is yours?” I ask, and I know with all of my heart that he's thinking about Serenity. Fucking. Idiot. “Jesus Christ, Saint.”

  He purses his mouth at me and stands up suddenly, shooting a crossbow bolt into the chest of a man I hadn't even noticed until that moment. Holy hell.

  “Yeah, I know,” he says as the man drops and Glacier drags him into the lush, green foliage. He hand cocks his crossbow and shakes his head. “When we're done with this, I want you to transfer me.”

  “The … hell are you talking about?”

  “Get me the fuck out of here,” he snaps, getting in my face, the muscles in his neck taut with tension, sweat dripping down the sides of his face and over his tattooed neck. “Send me away to a different chapter, at least for a little while. I'm a fucking mess, Royal. I need to get as far from here as possible until I figure out what's wrong with me.”

  I look at my friend, a guy I've known since high school but always secretly was terrified of and wonder if he really is more than just a monster.

  In an instant, Glacier closes his face down, going cold, the piercings in his lips, nose, and eyebrows reflecting back the moonlight for an instant before he turns casually and shoots another bolt into the trees.

  I hear a gasp and a thump, and a chill traces its way down my spine.

  “Send me to Alaska.”

  “Are you fucking serious? Why the hell are we having this conversation now?”

  “Say you'll do it,” he tells me and I grit my teeth as he swings a cold, blue gaze in my direction. Ice and steel, that's all there is in his face now. He might look like a boy band reject gone rock, but he's a walking weapon right now.

  “Hell no. I need you here.”

  Glacier hand cocks his crossbow again and points it at my fucking face.

  “Say you'll do it,” he tells me and I wonder for a second if he really would shoot me. Fuck him.

  “To hell with you, you fucking tosser. I don't give a shit what you want or how crazy you are, I'm the goddamn president of this club. I won't have you or Dober or Hawkins or anyone else telling me what to do. Got it?”

  Glacier looks at me for a long, quiet moment and I honestly consider what I might do if he attacks me. Instead, he grins and turns away, putting his foot on the body near our feet and pulling the crossbow bolt free with the horrific sound of rending flesh and a spray of blood across my boots.

  “Let's do this and we can talk about it later then.”

  I clench my jaw and follow behind him as we skirt our way around the edge of the grass. It's shaped like a fucking neon green jelly bean, creating a dangerous open space between us and the deck where the back door is located.

  Four guards. Plus the two we've already taken out. Six people in the back alone.

  Christ.

  If they've got six guys in the back, probably just as many in the front, then how many people are inside this goddamn McMansion.

  “I'll take the two on the left,” I say, hoping I can match Glacier's skill with the crossbow. It's not generally my weapon of choice.

  “Done,” my blond haired monster of a friend whispers before he steps boldly out into the open and lifts his bow, aiming for a quick second before loosing his next bolt. I move through the shadows and come out a dozen feet to the left, running across the lawn for the best possible shot.

  I lift the bow and line up my aim, noting as I do that the guard I'm about to kill has a fucking machine gun strapped to his back. Bet most of the fuckers in there have weapons like that. Jesus.

  My bolt slams into his chest with two hundred pounds of force, sending his body stumbling back and slumping against the wall with the bright red splash of blood, visible even in the weak gray-silver moonlight from above.

  The second guard on my side barely has the chance to look up before I yank back the string on my bow, arms straining with the effort, sweat rolling down the sides of my face. Holy fuck. Glacier makes it look easy, his lean tattooed arms cocking his bow like it's nothing.

  I manage to hook the string to the notch and slap another bolt in, shooting the man through the throat with zero guilt. Sorry, but this asshole and his group took out several of my brothers. I'm done with these cocksuckers. No mercy from the Alpha Wolves, not when you march into our territory, shoot us up and kidnap our women.

  “Back's clear,” I whisper through the radio as Glacier moves up the steps to the deck and I climb up from where I'm at, sliding under the railing and rising to my feet, recovering both my bolts as we move over to the French doors in the back.

  Instead of a living room or a dining room or some other common space, we find ourselves staring into a bedroom, right at a familiar blond face and the lithe naked form of … Rebecca White.

  My breath whooshes from my chest and my vision blurs for a long, terrifying moment. Rage whispers across my skin and tightens my fingers on the trigger of my bow.

  You twisted motherfucker, I think as my hands tremble and I force myself to take a step back from the window and the gauzy view through the curtains of Rebecca riding Clayton Moore's battered body.

  Glacier did his job on that man, fucked him up with surgical precision. So I'm a tad surprised he's in the mood for sex. Hmm. Might have to turn Saint loose next time. Maybe I'm too lenient on these assholes?

  I move several steps away, holding my bow in one hand and raking my fingers through my hair.

  “This fucking house must have more than one back entrance,” I murmur, my heart racing as Glacier stands by my side, his mouth tight, skin paler than usual. Emotionless frigging Glacier looking like he wants to rip Rebecca and Clayton into pieces. I guess neither of us knows how to process what happened to Landon. 'Spose that proves Saint has some semblance of a heart in his chest then?

  “I'll go check,” he says and then pauses, giving me a blue-eyed look that pierces through the bubble of my rage. It's a look of warning. “Don't do anything stupid, Royal.”

  I nod briskly and run my fingers through my hair again, the redwood trees around us casting strange shadows in the moonlight, striping my arms like I'm wearing an old fashioned black and white prison uniform.

  “There's more than one back entrance,” I whisper into the radio. My voice cracks on the next sentence. “I've got my sights on Clayton Moore and Rebecca White.”

  There's a slight crackle of static; I've told the boys not to respond to my messages. Wouldn't do to have someone overhear our correspondence and blow my cover. In that moment though, I almost wish somebody would fucking say something.

  I pause and glance to my right, watching as Glacier comes back up the steps with red spatters of blood on his pale face.

  “Weird fucking layout. There's another entrance on this side that leads to a second bedroom. Two guards downed there. I'll have to check the other side.”

  “Go,” I tell him, letting the rage I have for Rebecca and Clayton coat my body in a warm sweat.

  I'm going to kill them both tonight.

  Glacier moves to the other side of the deck and down a matching set of steps as I close my eyes for a split second. Maybe not the smartest move in the world considering my position, but I need this.

  I think of Landon, of the squirrelly way he acted those last few weeks, like he was walking on the edge of a blade. His eyes when he looked at me, they were so desperate. Maybe he knew what he'd gotten himself into. Maybe he'd wished for a way out of it. If he'd come to me privately, I … Fuck. Maybe I'd have given him an out. But he didn't give me that choice. He shot one of our brothers and then made a run for it when we came to conf
ront him. He made us chase him down. I tried—I fucking tried—to find him first. If I had, hell, I probably would've given him another goddamn chance. But the boys got there first, and then he pulled a gun on me …

  My left hand clenches into a fist as I spin and move to the door, pausing for a moment as Rebecca laughs and sweeps her hair over one shoulder, bare breasts exposed to the moonlight as she rides Clayton. Several of the man's fingers are wrapped in metal splints and a white bandage covers his right eye, but he still looks like he's enjoying himself. It's in Glacier's nature to start slow and easy, work up to worse and worse tortures until his subjects are broken. It's his art form and I have no stomach for it, so I don't judge.

  Watching this, I wish he'd broken the man's soul on day one.

  And then of course, there's Dayna Nieves, Rebecca's sister to think about.

  If the girls are both involved, then I can only assume that their brother is involved, too. Hell, maybe he holds some kind of power in the cartel because that nurse, Clint, was left for dead while Dayna and Clayton were rescued. At this point, I can only guess. At this point, I don't give a shit.

  I'm about to open the door and shoot them both when I think of Lyric suddenly and my heart stutters inside my chest.

  Lyric.

  I promised I'd come back to her. If I open that door and Rebecca lets out so much as a scream, I'll have the entire house slamming down on me—with no backup.

  My jaw clenches so tight, I feel like I'm pulling muscles in my neck.

  Rebecca leans over and grabs Clayton's face, kissing him hard and deep. Her husband, the father of her kids, her high school sweetheart is dead and she's laughing. Laughing like she didn't twist and manipulate the sad desperations of a lonely fucked-up girl like Mia to attack our old ladies. Mia was a goddamn psycho, but she didn't need to die like that.

  Fuck.

  I turn away and round the corner, finding Glacier in the middle of a fight with a tall, dark haired man. My brother's on top, one hand over the man's mouth, the other pressing down on the guy's throat as he trashes beneath him.