Kicked: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (78 page)

“Stop calling me that,” I say, pulling my arm from his grip and tottering on my heels a moment. “Makes me sound like a bucket of Ben & Jerry's.” Royal slides his arm around my waist, helping me catch my feet. Unfortunately, he also helps me lose my breath, tugging me close and knocking the air right from my lungs.

Our bodies are pressed tight, hot and sweaty from the press of the crowd and the crush of bodies. Through the thin fabric of my dress, I can feel a hard bulge in Royal's jeans. I might work in the mayor's office, but I still know what that is.

“Stop pressing your dick into me,” I mumble, realizing that my speech is just that much off.

“It's not on purpose, love,” he says, leaning in, his breath hot against my hair as he tugs me closer. “I'm just checking out the talent.”

“What the hell does that mean?” I ask as Royal slides his fingers up to the nape of my neck.

“Dance with me,” he growls, his voice taking on a deep, animalistic rumble that curls my toes and makes me shiver. “Just one dance and we can talk shop.”

I should say no.

I should.

“Okay,” I say, my own voice dropping into a near whisper. My fingers move up Royal's chest of their own accord, curling over his muscular shoulders and drinking in the hard perfection of his body as he scoots us back into the crowd, letting the rumble of the music guide our bodies into the center of the room. This time, when a small bubble forms around us, I'm pretty sure it's not
me
that everyone's avoiding; it's Royal.

The rock music above us blares, loud and crude, the bass shaking the building with each pounding beat as I relax into Royal's touch, letting his tattooed hands keep me on my feet, his arms like steel bands around my waist.

The way he looks down at me … I'm not surprised that Toni Gladstone lost her skirt.

His eyes are so dark and deep, just waiting for someone to dive in and discover what's hiding underneath. This close up, I can see his eyelashes, nice and thick and dark, especially for a guy.
Holy crap. Is that a tattoo?
A bit of color peeks up above the neckline of his T-shirt, teasing me with a hint of hunter green, an invitation to reach fingers up and tug fabric down.

I've had enough whiskey that I start to do just that before I realize my hands are moving.

“Whoa there, Pint-Size,” Royal says, catching my hand in the act and pulling it away, kissing my fingertips with his soft lips, the roughness of the stubble on his chin a startling contrast. “I think you've had a little too much to drink.”

“I just need to work it off,” I say, letting him pull me even closer, sandwiching the softness of my body against the hardness of his. My breasts squish against the muscles in his tummy while the bulge in his jeans rubs up against my dress, making the fabric bunch up and drawing the hemline up a few precious inches that it can't afford.

I reach down to tug it back into place, but Royal beats me there, sliding his hand to my ass and massaging my cheeks with rough fingers.

“Holy fuck,” he groans, like the words are involuntary, ripped from his throat like the riffs from the guitars blaring above our heads. When Royal leans forward and runs his tongue along my lower lip, the spell breaks and I jerk back like I've been slapped.

Only that's not it at all.

I suddenly want his lips on mine, his tongue in my mouth, his hands … everywhere.

I feel like I've been drugged with a heavy dose of Royal McBride. But if I take another hit, I'm afraid I'll be addicted. And I can't. This man is bad for me in so many ways.

“I need to go,” I say, untangling myself from his grip. “I already rescheduled our meeting with your secretary.” I take a deep breath of leather and wet earth, tasting Royal's scent on the back of my tongue, watching as his eyes roam over my face, searching for something that I'm not sure I'll be able to figure out until it's too late. “Make sure you're not busy this time.”

And with that, I turn on my heels and walk away.

CHAPTER FOUR
Royal

What the hell happened last night?

I've been asking myself that question all goddamn day, and I still can't figure it out. Lyric Rentz is screwing with my head and I haven't seen or heard from her since last night. Thing is, her car's still parked in front of my clubhouse. I'd be worried if Smoky hadn't told me she'd called a friend to come and pick her up.

How responsible.

It's not at all a trait I'd normally apply to the girls I date. I like fun, flirty, wild. Lyric, she doesn't seem to be any of those things, so what the hell came over me last night? I was drawn to her like a moth to flame, one who's completely and utterly aware that if he gets too close, his wings will fall to ash. The mayor's daughter. Not a woman I should play around with.

But I can't stop thinking about her, and I went to bed alone for the first time in a long time last night.

Interesting.

“You have a new meeting scheduled for Friday at eight fifteen,” Janae says, bringing me back to the present. She gazes up at me with raised black brows and a million questions dancing in her eyes. “Did you need to reschedule again?” she asks, and I shake my head.

“No, that's fine.”
Three days away, but fine.
I have other shit to worry about right now—like swearing in my new VP.
Time for church.
“Let me know when she comes to pick up her car,” I say, pushing open the door to the office and stepping into the brief splash of sunshine warming up the compound. Won't last though, not in February. Trinidad's as gray and bleary as bloody London. Worse, actually.

I slide a cig from my pocket and light up, closing my eyes against the brightness for a moment and then opening them to find Smoky striding towards me with a scowl blooming across his pale face.

“Bad day?” I ask as he pauses next to me and leans his head back with a sigh.

“One of the hang-arounds dropped an entire case of beer and flooded the kitchen floor. I swear to Christ, I'll let him clean it up, but then he's out. We're not prospecting some clumsy asshole who can't carry a box from the van to the goddamn kitchen.”

“You know, everyone looks at you and thinks with those freckles and that ginger colored hair of yours that you must be a pushover. In truth, I think you're the biggest asshole I've ever met. Let's go. We're late.”

“
You're
late. I came out here to grab you. Stop stalking the mayor's daughter and remember, you're still the president of this club.”

“Fuck off.” I flick my cigarette at him and head towards the clubhouse, watching in grim satisfaction as a couple of hang-arounds struggle to clean up last night's mess. If they ever want to be a part of this club, they'd best go at it with a smile on their faces.

“You said she was plain,” Smoky remarks absently as we move up the steps to the deck and towards the front doors—two big slabs of solid wood carved with a pair of wolf heads. A little gaudy, not quite my style, but the former president was a bit of a showman.

“Who?” I ask, knowing perfectly well who he's talking about.

“Lyric Rentz. Mayor's Daughter. You said she was plain. She looked anything but last night.” The wistful note in Smoky's voice draws my eyes over to him. Without even realizing it, I narrow them on my friend and find myself gritting my teeth.

“Plain or pretty, she's still off-limits,” I snap and Smoky raises his brows at me. But he knows better than to say anything; I don't take shit from anyone.
Anyone.

We move through the rest of the clubhouse in silence, straight through the dining room and bar area, past the kitchen and outside. Technically, the chapel—the club's meeting house—is in a separate building from the clubhouse, but the long pergola that connects them makes it seem like one. Above us, red and purple flowers twine around the wood, filling the air with a sweet scent that seems so out of place here. The Alpha Wolves Compound is anything
but
sweet. If we were talking realistically here, it'd smell like blood and smoke and ashes.

A sigh escapes my lips as we approach the front doors—a matching set to the ones on the front of the clubhouse. I pause for a moment outside of them, my mind snagging on a hundred memories of walking through these very doors with Landon by my side.

“You did what you had to do,” Smoky says, and I know he's not just trying to placate me. My sergeant-at-arms would sooner kick me in the balls; he's just being honest. I
did
do what needed to be done, but that doesn't mean I have to be happy about it.

“Let's just get this over with.” I put my palm against the solid wood of the door and push. It swings inward with a hushed whisper, like even the lifeless wolves staring back at me are aware of how sacred, how important, this room is.

There's a small foyer with windows on either side, potted plants lining the edges and in full bloom. I don't know shit about flowers, but Janae is Dober's wife and a gardening fanatic. Technically, she's not allowed inside of the clubhouse, but she peeks in the windows and barks orders at Dober when they're home alone.

I almost smile.

But then I open the wooden doors to the next room and see the empty seat near the head of the table.

Landon's seat.

I squeeze my hands into fists my by sides, knuckles so tight that I feel like the bones could burst straight through my skin in a spray of blood. Wouldn't that be a sight to see?

“Boys,” I say with a slight nod of my head. I get a few nods in return, but everyone's either hungover or still hurting from Landon's betrayal. “I hear we have business to take care of this morning.”

I force a wild grin to my face. Confidence. It's won me more than a few battles in my lifetime—and one of the few reasons I'm standing up here when men in their forties, fifties, and sixties are staring back at me from the long black table that fills the room. It's a beast this fucking table, took ten guys to get it in here without screwing up the walls.

“The hell is wrong with all of you?” I ask, lighting up and leaning over the back of my chair at the head of the table. A few of the guys sit up a little straighter in their chairs, adjust their cuts, square their shoulders.
That's better.
I stand up and tap my cig on the edge of a nearby ashtray. “You ready to take a vote or what?”

“I hope you're ready to deal with all of the crap that Landon left behind,” I tell Dober as we walk across the compound, past paying customers who smile and wave, who look at us and superimpose Charlie Hunnam over our faces. Good for them. Fall in love with a dream, and I'll deal with the nightmares.

“What I want to know is
why
we're still climbing into bed with the mayor's office at all. If we've already got the feds sniffing around, then what's the point? We're all behind you, Royal, but nobody gets it. If you don't start explaining yourself a little better, then some of the old timers are going to get antsy.”

I nod; Dober's not telling me anything I don't already know. Our previous pres, he'd have been as likely to shag the mayor as enter into any kind of agreement with him. But Trinidad's growing and the rich idiots flooding our forests aren't going to like knowing that a good portion of the city's economy is controlled by the Wolves. Unless, of course, we can convince them that we're an open book, that everything's out on the table and allying with us is in their best interest.

“Let me worry about the mayor,” I say as I pause at the passenger side door of my truck and reach up to pat my dog, Lake, on the side of her muzzle. A second later, Alloy's at her side, licking my fingers, the gray of his face a stark contrast to Lake's darkness.

I open the door and they leap out onto the concrete, their movements making it very apparent that the word
dog
is somewhat of a joke. I mean, technically they've got some shepherd blood in them, but if we're not counting pennies then my dogs … they're wolves.

“If you don't want me to deal with the mayor, then what do you want from me, Royal? You can't run the club all by yourself, even if you wanted to.”

“We have a shipment coming in from Seventy-Seven Brothers,” I say, referring to another MC from down south. “Take care of it. Smoky knows the details.”

I pause as a black sedan pulls up next to Lyric's Chrysler and a smile curves my lips. Without even realizing it, I start walking towards her, the dogs at my heels.

“Dumb shit.”

Normally, I'd beat a man's ass for less. This time … Dober's right.

If I think anything's going to happen between me and this girl, I really am a dumb shit.

CHAPTER FIVE
Lyric

Get in the car and go.

That's my mantra when I climb out of my sister's black Taurus and try to make a quick getaway.

“Lyric.”

Shit.

“Yeah?” I ask, pausing as my sister rolls down her window and peers out at me through her sunglasses. Calling her last night was humiliating, but at least I know she won't tell Dad. At this point, that's all I care about. I just want to get whatever business I have left with Royal over with and never see the man again.
Hurry up, Kailey.
“Don't forget that Mom's birthday dinner's tonight at Larrupin's.”