Kicked: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (82 page)

I blink back at him, my heels clutched tight in my fingers. The wood floor beneath my feet feels suddenly cold.

“An informant?” I ask, a sick feeling taking hold in my stomach.

“Yeah, he bragged to me about it over a couple beers last night.” My brother pauses and glances around, like he's never seen my place before. I think he's just never bothered to look. His brows raise up at my massive collection of decorative throw pillows. There are worse things to be addicted to, right? “The vice president or something. Can you even believe that? Guess there really is no honor among thieves.”

“Brent told you all of that?” I ask, my voice breathy and light.
Swearing in a new vice president.
That's what that party was for. So what, exactly, happened to the old one? “Shouldn't all that stuff be confidential?”

“Yeah, well, he's an FBI agent by day and a normal guy by night. We've been best friends since college. The man tells me everything.”

“
We've
been friends since college,” I say, thinking about Brent's bright, easy smile and his honey wheat hair. We dated for a while, but I kind of got the sense from him that he'd rather have a trophy on his arm than a partner by his side. But we've remained in touch all this time. Apparently he's also been in constant contact with Sully.

“Whatever. Does that really matter? I was just in the neighborhood and I wanted to stop by and say … good job.”

My gaze snaps up as my brother smiles down at me.
Good job?
Like I need his approval. Still, it feels better than I care to admit. Maybe a little piece of me still wants my family to think I'm worth something. I thought I'd let go of that wish a long time ago, but it's still here, small and tiny inside of me.

“Dad's proud, too, though I know he'll never say it. You're taking the initiative to get the job done, no matter the cost. That's the only way to succeed in life.” Sully smiles and reaches out to give my shoulder a gentle squeeze. It's almost awkward, but I pretend that it's not. “Looks like we'll be getting rid of the Wolves either way, huh?” My stomach flip-flops and I nod. All I really want is for Sully to leave, so I can think. “Just be careful, okay?” he says as I look up and make myself smile.

“I will.”

I let Sully out and then turn around, putting my back against the door and sliding down until I'm sitting on the floor.

Brent has—had?—an informant? Who … was the vice president? The vice president that
isn't
the Vice President anymore?

I feel sick to my stomach.

What the hell have I done?

Before I even fully understand what I'm doing or why, I've shed my boring black dress and slipped into a pair of blue jeans and a black tank top, tossing on an old denim jacket against the chilly night air that's rolling off the ocean and coating everything in a thick layer of fog.

I want to see Royal. No, I need to see him.

It's such a ridiculous thought that I end up rolling my eyes at myself, but even my own awareness that I'm being stupid doesn't get me to leave my car and go back inside. I should be curled up on my couch searching for a movie to watch to take my mind off things.

Instead, I'm heading to the most dangerous place in town—at least for me.

Not only did I let down my barriers and
sleep
with the MC's president, but I also brought down the feds on top of them. It wasn't on purpose, not really, but I saw the look in Royal's eyes when he questioned me about it. He was dead serious.

Oh, God, please let this go okay.

At this point, I'm not even sure what I'm going to tell him when I get there, but I'll come up with something.

The road follows the curve of the ocean, a sheer drop to my right, the earth plunging away into darkness. I crack my windows for fresh air and the scent of salt and sea teases my nostrils, clearing my senses enough that by the time I pull up to the Alpha Wolves Compound, I've got my head on straight.

I can't tell Royal
anything.

Nothing at all.

If they found out what Brent was up to then I could literally be signing his death warrant.
They wouldn't be stupid enough to kill an FBI agent, would they?
I wonder, my heart pounding as I roll to a stop outside of the gates and consider backing right up and heading home the way I came.

A knock at my window makes me jump, and I glance up to find a guy in a leather jacket glaring down at me.

“Y-yes?” I ask as he looks me over with no small amount of suspicion in his gaze. “Is something wrong? My name's Lyric Rentz. I'm with the mayor's office.” Nothing from this guy. “I'm actually looking for Royal McBride?” The man narrows his eyes at me and I feel a trickle of sweat drip down my spine. What the hell was I thinking in coming out here? These guys are criminals, freaking
criminals.
Just because I lost my mind today and got down and dirty with their president doesn't mean I'm safe here. I am far from fucking safe.

“Hey, prospect!” My heart skips a beat like it's been jumped. That accent … it can't be anyone but. Both the man and I look out towards the front of the car at a pair of approaching figures. They emerge from the darkness into a pool of light from the street lamp above their heads, two dogs trotting by their sides—Royal's wolves. “Step off a little, would you?”

He approaches the car with a cigarette in his fingers and a smug smile curling his lips.

When he leans down, leather jacket rustling, and folds his tattooed arms on the edge of my window, I breathe a small sigh of relief. It's stupid, I know, to think this man is anything
but
trouble, but I can't help it. At least he's not glaring at me like I'm the enemy.

“Fucking prospects, always trying to prove themselves.” Royal turns that half-lidded gaze on me and my stomach muscles clench with the memory of his body moving against mine, inside of mine. And his mouth … I suck in a sharp breath that he takes note of, his smile growing wider as the bearded man from earlier pauses behind him and sends the prospect scurrying away. “Couldn't stay away, could you, Pint-Size?”

“I … was in the neighborhood.” Wow. Good one, Lyric. In the “neighborhood” meant being in the middle of goddamn nowhere with the California coast as a buffer on one side and a sea of trees climbing the mountain on the other. There's Trinidad State Beach to the north and a fairly long drive south into the city. Maybe I should just head over to College Cove and leap off the edge?

“You're lucky you caught me, babe. I was actually on my way out.”

“Out?” I ask, sliding my fingers down the sides of the steering wheel. Royal laughs at me, the smell of leather and wild things drifting into the open window and making my nipples hard beneath the thin fabric of my tank top.

My mind refuses to believe that this man and I … did anything at all this afternoon. Maybe it was a dream? A deluded fantasy brought on by stress? I mean, I didn't even take my clothes off, didn't get to see whatever tattoos are hiding underneath that tight T-shirt of his.

“I don't live here, you know,” he says, voice thick with amusement. “I have my own place; we all do. Some of us even have wives and kids.” Royal raises his brows at me in mock surprise at this revelation. “We've all got to have somewhere to store our naughty red lingerie.”

Crap.

So I guess this afternoon
wasn't
a dream after all.

But that doesn't mean it has to matter. It was a quick little thing between consenting adults. I'm sure Royal has a dozen encounters a week just like that.

I find my hands curling around the steering wheel again.

“Do you want to come over?” he asks me, his voice like warm leather against my skin, soft and buttery and well-worn. I want to wrap it around my shoulders and wear it everywhere.
I'm in big trouble.

“Okay,” I find myself answering without hesitation.

Royal tosses me a wolfish grin in response and stands up straight, the smug look on his face making me wonder what the hell it is that I just agreed to.

CHAPTER EIGHT
Royal

Bringing the mayor's daughter over to my house in the middle of the night probably isn't the best idea I've ever had, but the moment I fucking saw her sitting in her car at the gates, my cock went rigid and everything I had on my mind just up and disappeared.

There's only one thing on my mind right now.

“Are we going to take your truck?” Lyric asks, pausing next to the red Ford as I dig my keys out of my pocket and pass them to Dober. He can take the dogs home with him tonight; I have company.

“What kind of question is that to ask the president of a motorcycle club.” I turn around and manage to catch Dober shaking his head at me. I flip him off when Lyric glances over her shoulder at the row of gleaming bikes in front of the clubhouse. We have a few out of town guests staying in the dorms tonight, and a few guys on watch, but the biggest bike of them all, that one's mine.

“We're … oh God, no. I'll take my car,” Lyric says, taking a step back like the she expects my bike to grow teeth and bite her ass off.
And what a nice ass it is.
“I'll follow you.” She turns and then pauses, giving me a nice uninterrupted view of her curvy body from head to toe.

Lyric Rentz was pretty in her ugly gray skirt suit. She was sexy as hell in that tiny red dress.

In torn up blue jeans and a denim jacket? Bloody fucking hell.

The wind tousles her thick, dark waves around her heart-shaped face, sticks a few loose strands to her full lips.

“Actually, you know what? I think I'll just go home. I don't even know what I was thinking coming over here in the middle of the night.” She turns and makes herself smile at me, a practiced professional smile that means nothing at all. “It's too late to talk business anyway.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Who said I invited you over to talk business?”

Lyric turns to face me fully, her green eyes narrowing as she glares back at me.

“What else would we have to talk about?” she asks coolly, making my lips twitch into a smile. Her blasé attitude is enough to convince me; I'm getting this girl on my motorcycle whether she likes it or not.

“Get on the bike, Lyric,” I say and her mouth drops open, those pale pink lips just begging to wrap around my cock. My sudden urge to take her home suddenly makes a whole lot more sense. Sex. Of course it is. It always comes down to sex. I got a little taste of her earlier, and now I'm hungry for more.

So why the hell does it feel like a bullshit lie?

“I'm sorry, Royal, but no.”

I take a step closer to her, enjoying the way her head has to tilt back to look up into my face. But she doesn't look weak, no not at all. On the contrary, I can feel the strength radiating from her small frame.

“No?”

“I don't like motorcycles,” she says and both my brows shoot up.

“You don't … like motorcycles?” I ask and she nods, reaching up to touch her loose brunette waves, like she's just realized it's not all swept up in one of those atrocious little buns. “Oh, Pint-Size, you really are amusing, you know that?”

“I'm sorry,” she says, glancing around like she expects to get jumped with a switchblade at any moment. Lucky for her, we don't often carry switchblades around here. Or guns. Both of those things are considered weapons in the eyes of the law and that eye always seems to be looking our way. Back in the day, when the previous president was holding my seat, guys would get picked up on illegal weapons charges on a weekly basis. The cops'll do anything to get a Wolf pulled off the street. Thing is, a hammer isn't a weapon, right? It's a tool. So all my boys carry hammers on their belts now. Bloody brilliant, right? “I just don't like them.”

Lyric crosses her arms over her chest, the movement pushing her breasts up and giving me a much better view. It's cold as hell out here and her nipples are pebbled into hard points, visible even through her bra. I'm tempted to bend down and take a bite out of one of them.

“There's your problem then, sweetheart. Nobody
likes
motorcycles.” She gives me a look like I'm crazy, but it only makes me smile wider, take a step closer. “You don't just like your boyfriend do you?”

“I don't have a boyfriend,” Lyric blurts out of instinct. She grits her teeth almost as soon as she says it. I raise my left hand, touching the side of her cheek with fingers dipped in ink, blooming with roses and pierced with thorns. The pair of crossed pistols on my wrist catch the light from the street lamp above us.

“If you did, you wouldn't just
like
him, right?” I run my tongue over my lip and press on before she can stop me. “See, me, I don't just like my girls, and I don't just like my bike. I worship, love, crave, desire, lust.” I slide my fingers against the back of Lyric's neck and she shivers.

“Your bike?” she asks and then steps back, sweeping her arm up and pushing mine away. “Or your
girls?
”

“Both,” I whisper, the leather of my vest creaking as I bend down and breathe hot against her mouth. Lyric pauses, her lower lip trembling and her eyelids sliding to half-mast as she looks at me and leans forward, our mouths brushing.