Kicked: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (93 page)

So why?

“Boss?” It's Smoky, standing at the front of the room and staring at me like he knows what I'm thinking about. I'm not the only one hurting from Landon's death. But I'm sure I'm the only one who wants to take a pint-size little mayor's daughter into my arms and hold her tight, bury my chin in her hair, put a jacket on her shoulders with a patch that says
property of.

My mouth almost twitches into a smile.

She'd never wear it.

That makes me want her even more.

“What is it?” I ask, looking up at him, at the almost blank expression on his face.

Fuck.

“What in the bloody hell is it now?” I ask, standing up from my chair and shoving the pile of papers down the table.

“There's a man from the mayor's office here to see you.”

I raise my brows at that one.

“Who the fuck is it?”

“A
Sully
Rentz this time.”

I snort and shake my head. Great. Just what I need. Another Rentz to throw a wrench in my wheel.

“He as hot as his little sister?” I joke, putting two and two together. Youngest of three. Sully ain't the name of the mayor himself. So this has got to be the big brother.

Smoky smiles at that, a facade of good ol' boy America at its best. Only he can bring down a man twice his size in less than thirty seconds. He's a bloody brilliant sergeant-at-arms.

“I'll let you decide that one for yourself. He's inside now, having a drink at the bar.”

As soon as I see Sully, images of his sister flood my brain, my hands clenching into fists at my sides as I try to reign in the urge to hop on my bike and go after her. They have the same green eyes, pale skin, and dark hair, but Sully doesn't have even an ounce of the fire his sister has.

“The hell do you want?” I ask, lighting up a smoke and tapping my hand on the bar for Fauna to pour me a drink. “I've already got your sister on my dick, so why are you here?” I grin at the pun and enjoy watching as Sully's brows furrow together in confusion.

“Mr. McBride?”

“Call me Royal,” I say, grabbing a finger of Jameson from Fauna's outstretched hand and tipping it back in a single swallow. I slide the glass back over to her for a refill. “Didn't even need a nickname because I am what I am.” I shrug my shoulders and keep smiling. “
Royalty.
”

Sully clears his throat, obviously a little confused and disjointed by my rude welcome. I don't know if he gets it, but that's kind of the point.

“Well, uh, Royal. My name is Sully Rentz and I'm with the—”

“I know who you are and where you come from, Sully. Get to the point and quick. I don't have time to spend all day in meetings with you, your sister, and your goddamn Gram.”

Sully's a quick wit, hardening his face and dropping any pretense of trying to get along with me.

“I need to talk to you,” he says, glancing around conspiratorially. Little does he know that none of my boys give a shit about what he has to say. If it's important, I'll let 'em know. “But we should probably talk in private.”

I sigh and grab my drink, nodding a thanks for Fauna before I gesture at Sully to follow me with a jerk of my chin. He slides off his stool slowly and fixes his tie before bothering to follow, leaving his beer behind.

Once we're outside, I head over to Janae's office and unlock the door, ushering Sully into the warm interior and locking it behind me. It's a Friday evening, so there shouldn't be any customers or staff here right now. I like to let my people leave early on the weekend.

I sip my whiskey, letting the burn block thoughts of Lyric from my mind as I take a seat in Janae's chair, leaning back and crossing my boots on the top of the desk.

“So, how can I help you, Sully Rentz?” I ask as he comes to stand in front of the desk, not bothering to take a seat in any of the chairs lined up against the back wall. I study the man, his perfectly tailored suit and his clean shaven face, his manicured brows and his red tie. Talk about a tool. No wonder poor Lyric's so uptight. Clearly it's a family thing.

“I know my sister's trying to work out some deal between the Wolves and the city,” he begins, sounding like he's rehearsed this speech a time or two before coming over here. “But I don't know if she's mentioned the fact that the FBI's considering opening an investigation into your organization and its business practices.”

I don't respond, letting the man talk at me. But I'm already interested in what he has to say—or how he's going to implicate himself in all of this. Lyric did say he was a friend of Brent's, didn't she? I've been wondering about that for a few days now, trying to decide what to do about it.

“A friend of mine,” he begins, outright admitting his guilt to me, “Brent Gilman, told me he spoke with you a few days ago about a missing club member?” I dig into my pocket for a cig, setting my drink aside and lighting up. I don't usually smoke in the office, but what the hell? Janae can air it out tomorrow.

“Where are you going with all of this, Sully?”

“The thing is,” he begins, his professional smile turning smug, “we know now that Landon isn't just missing.” I crook a brow at that, exhaling like I couldn't give two shits about what Sully's saying. He straightens his tie and squares his shoulders, looking down at me like he's got me right where he wants me.

Poor sap.

What he doesn't know is that he's already dead.

“Mr. McBride, unless you're willing to face charges for the murder of Landon White, I suggest you get in touch with Brent immediately. We've worked out a little deal that I think will be beneficial for all of us.” He reaches into his coat and pulls out a pair of business cards, setting them next to my boots before smiling and turning towards the door. “He's waiting for your call.”

“It's going to be a fucking nightmare,” Glacier says, his chin in his hand and his blond hair bright under the silver light of the moon. “I mean, the FBI guy is actually easier for me to deal with. Whatever happens to him, it'll be blamed on Mile Wide. If the feds already know he's dirty, then that shouldn't be an issue.”

I stare down at the ocean, my arms crossed over my chest, my mouth turned down in a frown. It's not the FBI douche or the mayor's idiot son that I'm worried about; we can deal with them. But I smell another rat—and I have a pretty good idea of who that might be.

“But making the mayor's son disappear? Right before a re-election? When the city knows we're in negotiations with them?” Glacier sighs and shakes his head, rubbing a tattooed hand down his arm. He glances over at me. “I don't know how all that wheeling and dealing is going with the mayor's daughter, but I suggest you sign those papers and fast. Pose for the camera, shake the man's hand. If you don't, this shit is all coming down on top of us.”

I nod my head once, my stomach in knots, a heavy weight on my soul.

I made a mistake with Rebecca, a huge mistake. And I should've known better, too. I've known the woman since high school. She and Landon … they weren't just lovers or spouses or friends, they were partners. In everything.
Everything.

“I'm heading out for the night. Figure out a plan and run it by me before you put anything into action.”

Glacier nods at me, glancing sidelong at my face. If he's trying to read my expression, then good luck. Even I have no idea what it is that I'm feeling right now.

I killed my best friend after he betrayed us all, after he tried to kill me.

And now … what the hell am I supposed to do with his rat of a wife?

My eyes slide shut and I let the cool breeze tease my face for a while. This is one of those times where I really wish I had an old lady, someone I could talk to about everything, someone that I knew I could trust, that I could hold, kiss, fuck. Someone that was all mine.

My mind flickers with images of Lyric's face as I open my eyes and stare up at the stars.

She can never be mine. But that doesn't stop me from wanting her.

“Call me,” I say, pointing a finger at him and making a snap decision, “and if a woman answers, just tell her to give me the bloody phone.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lyric

I wrap my wet hair in a towel and slip into my fluffiest bathrobe, stepping over the pile of leather clothes in my bedroom and refusing to give them a second glance. I'm still not exactly sure what happened between Royal and me, but I know it was … weird. And irresponsible.
And hot as hell.
That's why I'm on my second shower of the day—one before grocery shopping and one after. But it hasn't helped. I can still feel Royal's hands on my hips, his body slamming into mine.

A shiver crawls down my spine and I shake my hands out, trying to draw in a deep breath. Doesn't matter. It's over now. Tomorrow, when he comes here, I won't let things spiral out of control again. I'm going to get him to sign those fucking papers if it kills me.

I ignore the buzzing of my phone. I already called into the office and told Kailey that I wasn't feeling well. Right now, there's nobody that could be calling that I'd even remotely want to talk to.
Not even Royal?
I purse my lips at the thought and stubbornly refuse to look at the phone. What I need right now is a book, a glass of wine, and a night alone on the couch.
Heaven.

I head back into the living room/kitchen area and pause, staring at the sea of grocery bags on my center island. I should probably put everything away, but right now, all I care about is the bottle of Chardonnay and the frozen pizza hidden in there somewhere.

I pad across the room and start digging through them when the doorbell sounds, making me jump.
Is it him?
The fact that that's my first thought disturbs me. Why should I care if Royal McBride is standing on my doorstep? I mean, even if he is, he could just be here to get his truck, right?

I sigh and make sure my robe's secured tightly around me, walking to the door and checking out the peephole.

It's Brent.

Shit. Doesn't anybody call anymore?!

And then I remember that I haven't checked my phone since I left the Alpha Wolves Compound.

I square my shoulders and reach up to run my hands through my hair when I realize I'm still wearing the towel. Tugging it off, I toss it onto the couch and tousle the damp strands, trying to make myself look at least somewhat presentable before I open the door.

“Brent,” I say, feigning false cheer as I open it and find him standing there in a black suit and tan tie, clean cut and gleaming like a new penny. It's as I stand there looking at him on my porch that I realize something.

I think I hate him.

When Brent smiles and looks me up and down, I feel my stomach churn, remembering the day he dumped me and showed up that same night at a party with my roommate on his arm.
Why did I call him anyway?
Because he's just a means to an end, because I need this deal with the Wolves.
Because I'm an idiot.

“Well, hello Lyric Rentz,” he says and it's an effort to make myself keep smiling. No, I don't just think I hate him. I actually do. Hate him, I mean. “I've been calling you all day, but you didn't answer. I was starting to think one of those bikers scooped you up and dragged you back to their cave.” He laughs, but I can't seem to find anything funny in that statement. Partially, I think, because it's almost true.

“I'm kind of in the middle of something, Brent,” I say, gesturing randomly in the direction of my living room. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I was just thinking,” he says, lifting up a bottle of wine in his left hand that I hadn't noticed before. “That we could sit and talk for a while?”

“I'm a little,” I gesture at my robe this time, “indisposed, you know? Maybe we could meet for lunch tomorrow instead?” Brent raises his eyebrows at me, like he's not used to being turned down, glancing over at the big red truck sitting conspicuously in the center of my driveway. I honestly considered dropping my groceries off and then parking it a few blocks away so nobody I knew would see it. But … after the day I've just had, I couldn't bring myself to care. If Mrs. Elden calls my mom and tattles on me, then so what?