Kicked: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (83 page)

But then she pulls away abruptly and the only thing kissing my lips is the salty breeze from the bay.

“I'm not interested in being one of your girls, Royal,” she says and I laugh, standing up straight and tangling my fingers together behind my neck. “Look, I just came over here because my … the mayor's putting a lot of pressure on me to get the job done. If you don't want to talk business, I can go.”

“You didn't seem so interested in business this afternoon? Unless, of course, you're referring to the business end of my cock.” Lyric scoffs and tugs the edges of her denim jacket closer together. Either she's grown out of it, or she bought it just to tease me. That pathetic piece of denim is
far
too small to reach across the swell of her breasts.

“I'll see you on Friday, Mr. McBride,” she says, lifting her chin defiantly. “Good night.”

She turns and walks away, her white sneakers quiet against the pavement.

I pull a pack from my pocket and slip a smoke between my lips, lighting up and watching as she disappears into her car and drives away.

Well, that seals the deal.

I'm getting that woman on the back of my bike if it kills me.

The next morning, I wake to a knock on my door.

Never a good sign.

“Fucking hell,” I groan, tossing back the blankets and climbing out of bed. Better be a woman out there because any guy that knocks on my goddamn door this early in the morning isn't going to walk away without a few bruises to take with him. Wouldn't be any of my brothers. My phone's quiet, no messages, and the guys know not to bother me in the morning. I'll get in when I get in.

I don't even bother to see who's outside before I wrench the door open. No point. Who the hell's stupid enough to bother the president of the Alpha Wolves on his own doorstep?

“What the bloody hell do you want?” I snap, leaning my right arm against the wall and letting the blond douche on my doorstep get a good, long look at me. My sweats hang low on my hips, revealing a few carefully placed tattoos on my lower belly, and my arms are bare in the black wife beater I slipped on last night, showing off a whole host of ink from fingertips to shoulders. And the rings on my right hand? Not for show, love.

“Mr. McBride,” the man asks, his hair the color of used straw, the kind that's trampled down into the mud and covered in horse shite. His skin's the same damn color, turning him into this monotonous blob of yellow and peach. And those eyes? He looks like Dober's husky dog.

“I think you probably know who I am if you're standing on my porch at seven-thirty in the morning,” I say, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from the entryway table and returning to my position at the front door. I light up and blow smoke in the man's face.

“My name is Brent Gilman and I'm with the Federal Bureau of Investigation—”

I cut him off right there with another exhalation of smoke.

“You can use the acronym,
Brent.
I know what the FBI is. Hopped the pond a long time ago.”

Brent smiles at me, his teeth too big and too bright for his little mouth.

“I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. McBride, but I'm actually following up on a phone call from Rebecca White. She reached out to the Trinidad Police Department this morning about her husband, Landon White.” My heart drops, but not because I'm nervous or because this is unexpected—well, an FBI agent is a little unexpected but fuck him. I feel sick to my stomach because I miss Landon every goddamn day. If there was any way I could've saved him, I would've. But a snitch is a snitch, and the boys found him before I did.

“He's a grown ass man,” I say, ashing my cigarette onto the tops of Brent's shiny brown shoes. “And whatever's happening between him and his wife is his business.”

“Are you aware that Landon White is missing? He didn't come home from work last night and Rebecca's becoming concerned.”

I let my lips twitch into a smug smile that I don't feel.
Landon is goddamn dead, and I'll never know why he went to the cops in the first place, why he turned his back on his brothers.

“Landon's thirty-two years old and two hundred and sixty pounds of muscle, Mr. Gregson.”

“It's Gilman,” Brent corrects, but I already know that.

“Look, he was at work yesterday, and I'm sure he'll be there again today. What else do you want me to tell you?”

Brent opens his mouth to say something and then thinks better of it. Yes, technically Landon's been missing for almost two weeks, but the Wolves found him last week and took care of things. Of course, according to his time card and his wife, he's been seen every day up until today. Brent though, he seems to know something more, like maybe how Landon's been unreachable for quite some time.

“Look, do you have a card or something? I'll give you a call if I think there's a reason to get the feds involved in a grown man's personal business.” Brent wrinkles up his eyebrows, like he knows I'm insulting him but isn't quite sure how to respond.

I snap my fingers and hold out my palm, waiting for him to drop a business card in my waiting hand.

I'm going to need that card to keep an eye on this man. I knew Landon was snitching on the club, but I didn't know who exactly it was that he was talking to.

Now I do.

Lucky me.

CHAPTER NINE
Lyric

“Brent!” I say, standing up from my desk with a radiant smile and a tick of nervous energy in my belly. I feel like I'm straddling two worlds, the one I've always known and one I never wanted to know.
That's ridiculous. You had a one-night stand with an MC president. Big deal. Every girl has an experimental phase. Maybe you're just going through yours a little late?
I make a vow to get this job done and get the hell out of there before Royal McBride tries to drag me in any further. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I'd stop by and see if you were free for lunch?” Brent asks, smiling widely at me. He weaves between the other desks in the room and pauses next to mine as we exchange a friendly hug and step back, looking each other over. “You said the new office was nice, but you didn't say how packed it was in here,” he remarks, looking around at the overflowing desks, the people chugging away at computers, chatting on phones, rushing from here to there.

“It's an upgrade from that place on Trinity Street to be sure,” I say, reaching up and tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
A stray strand?
I lift my hands to my bun and find that it's come … undone.

Uh oh.

Feels like an omen to me.

I clear my throat and gather my hair back up, putting my favorite black clip back in place.

“But the city's growing faster than we ever could've imagined, and we've had to hire on a whole new staff.” I glance around the room, at the intricate moldings on the wall, the ornately carved pieces of wood that are original to the house. Once upon a time, this place was a flawless Victorian, gazing out at the sea with pride and grandeur. Now, it's a busy office with the shutters pulled and an ugly blue carpet spread out over the original hardwood floors. “It can get kind of crazy in here.” Brent keeps smiling at me, but his gaze is traveling over me again, taking me in from head to toe like Royal did that first day at the compound. Somehow though, I …
liked
it when Royal looked at me like this. Brent … it doesn't feel right. “Let me grab my purse and we'll do lunch.”

I brush the feeling away and clamp down on the strange guilty feeling in my gut.

I've started this plan in motion, so I'm going to see it through. What other choice do I have? If I quit now, my dad will probably fire me.

And if I tell Royal?

He'd probably kill me.

After my lunch date with Brent, I make up an excuse and flee the office as fast as my heels can carry me.

“
I haven't seen him in almost a week. Of course, interviewing those freaks didn't help. They all claim to have seen him yesterday, but that's bullshit. I know it is. They probably figured out he was talking to me.”

I swallow hard and unlock the doors to my car, climbing in and heading straight home. I need a warm bubble bath and a bowl of pasta. That's it. I just need a break, a moment to think things through and get my head together. I can't do that in the office with my dad breathing down my neck and my sister casting me suspicious glances every couple of minutes. She hasn't outright asked if I slept with Royal, but she will, eventually.

I can't deal with that right now.

“I don't know why I'm even bothering. They probably killed him and dumped his body in the ocean.” Brent clenches his fork in his hand, knuckles white with the strain. “Who am I kidding? I'll never see that man again—dead or alive.”

At least I got a small amount of truth from Brent. When I called in the favor, he started looking into the Wolves and his curiosity got the better of him. Technically, Brent isn't in Trinidad in any official format. According to him, he's on vacation, paid days and all.

But then Landon somehow got in contact with him and things started rolling from there.

Now the man's missing and his wife is calling the police.

“The boys are swearing in a new VP tomorrow.”

I can still hear Janae's sugary soft voice giving me the cheerful news. Maybe … hopefully Landon just realized the mistake he'd made and fled.

Somehow I doubt that.

My mind's in such a fluttery panic that I make myself stop at the store to grab coffee for tomorrow morning and a jar of pesto and a bottle of wine for tonight. By the time I come out, I feel better, like I can breathe again.

Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself? Maybe this is nothing at all and I'm overreacting?

For all I know, Brent could pack up tomorrow and go back home to D.C. Then again, he did ask me out to dinner. I made up some crap about a friend in crisis and hightailed it out of there. I used to think Brent was the ultimate catch—rich, ambitious, good-looking—but every time he smiled at me today, every time he reached across the table and touched his fingers to the back of my hand, I thought of Royal.

Shit.

That stupid man's gotten himself stuck in my head and I can't seem to clear it. Ridiculous considering the sex wasn't even that good.

I swallow hard and swerve a little, straightening out the car and doing my best to keep my attention on the road.
How stupid.
Of course the sex wasn't good … it was
phenomenal.
I can only imagine how good it might be if we had all night, if my sister wasn't waiting outside for me, if … if … if.
If
I could ever let myself do something like that with Royal again.

But I won't.

I'm so caught up in making these personal declarations that I don't see the bike sitting in my driveway until I bump into it with the front bumper of my car.

Oh. Shit.

I slam on the brakes and then reverse to put a few feet between me and the gleaming hunk of machinery I just crashed into. I switch off the ignition and shove open my door, standing up straight and staring in disbelief at the motorcycle before I let my gaze drift towards the front of my house.

“Well, fuck,” Royal says, flicking a cigarette onto my front walkway and crushing it out with his boot. “You bumped my bagger.”

“Your … bagger?” I ask, hauling my purse out of the passenger seat and slinging it over my shoulder. I know bikers are really protective over their motorcycles, so … I have my cell phone in the front zipper pocket just in case something happens. Further proof that I shouldn't let myself get tangled up with this man. If I even have to wonder for half a second that I might need to call the cops, that should be enough to tell me this is a bad idea.

“A bagger's a bike with saddlebags, babe.” He moves over to stand next to me in a pair of dark wash jeans and an unzipped leather jacket with his club's patches on the back. “To put it simply.” Royal leans down and inspects the side of his bike while my eyes drift straight to his ass. I can't help it. It's right there and it's so tight and his pants fit so well.