Kicked: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (98 page)

I suck in a deep breath and try not to think too hard about that. I
am
free already, right? Right?

My eyes stray to the speedometer, to the careful positioning of the needle two miles below the speed limit. That's me, Lyric Lenore Rentz, always safe and slow and steady. There's nothing wrong with that, not really, but … I push the gas down a little harder, enjoying the easy acceleration of Royal's truck.

When I roll the window down and smell the salt of the sea, I can almost forget that I'm nervous about going to an outlaw MC president's house and letting myself in without his permission. At least his dogs like me, right?

I stay on the same road for a couple of miles and then realize that the houses are starting to look less familiar, taking a sharp right at the next corner and circling back around until I recognize a cute little seaside cottage that we passed yesterday. It's only once I get on that road that I realize somebody's following me.

Or at least I think he is.

“What the hell?” A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows me a guy on a bike that I don't recognize, weaving through the narrow side streets with me as I try to puzzle my way out to Royal's house. If I wasn't taking such an erratic route, I wouldn't think anything of it. But I don't know where I'm going and the sharp, sudden turns and circles I'm taking aren't anything that somebody might be copying by accident.

I should've brought my Glock.

That thought scares the shit out of me, enough that I decide that maybe this isn't a good idea. I don't
think
that Royal would send someone after me, but then why the hell am I being followed?

I take a deep breath to slow down my racing pulse and start back in the direction of my house, my fingers inching into the cup holder and grabbing my phone. Even though I shouldn't, I take a moment to glance down at the screen and find Royal's number.

The call rings straight through to voice mail.

Damn it. Okay, so to the police station then?
My house is about six blocks from the Trinidad Police Department, so I keep going, heading back the way I came. When I look in the rearview, my friend's still there, but he's pulled back a little, like he's worried I might've seen him.

There are a million reasons this guy could be trailing me, but most of them aren't any good.
God, what have I gotten myself into?
The fingers of my left hand tighten around the wheel as I scroll through my phone, trying to find the number for the police department. I have it programmed in there somewhere, but I can't remember if it's under Trinidad police or just police. Ugh. I know I'm probably overreacting, but I can't shake the feeling that something isn't right.

When I glance up in the mirror again, I see that there are
two
new motorcycles coming up quick behind the first. That can't be good.

I force my eyes back to the road. It's a narrow stretch right here and the drop off down to the beach is quite literally
feet
away from me. A small swerve and I could drive right into the guardrail … or worse. There are parts here that
have
no guardrail or still have the old wooden fence that was put in when the city was first founded. Getting it fixed is one of my dad's grand projects, but something that's still in the works.

I find the police department's number at the same moment that a phone call from Royal comes in.

Thank God.

I hit the answer button and suck in a deep breath.

“Please tell me these three guys are yours?” I ask and hate the silence that follows that question. “Royal?”

“Three guys?” he asks me, his voice tight. “The hell are you talking about, Pint-Size?”

“There are three guys on motorcycles following me, Royal. Unless there's another outlaw motorcycle club in town that I don't know about, they must be yours, right?” I glance up in the rearview again and … see that there are two bikes missing. I can see them in the background, one of them on its side, its rider lying in the middle of the road. “Oh my God.”

I recognize the wolf's head on the back of that guy's jacket, an image that definitely
isn't
reflected on the other guy's back as he hops off his bike and circles the man's still form.

I flick my eyes back to the road.

“Where are you, babe?” Royal asks, his voice verging on the edge of wild panic. “I'm coming to you.”

“I'm driving,” I say as I come up on a big turn, sand dunes on my left, the ocean still gleaming from down below on my right. “Two of the guys are gone. I think one of them crashed. I'm heading towards the police station unless you have something you want to tell me?”

“Stay on the phone with me,” he says and then there's some yelling in the background as he barks orders at somebody. A few seconds later, I can hear the deep growl of a motorcycle engine. “Don't bloody fucking hang up on me, do you understand? Where are you?”

“I'm about two miles north of my place, on Scenic Drive.”

I come around the corner, faster than I should, panic fueling my speed this time.

And there's a big, black truck parked dead center in the middle of the road.

I scream and slam on the breaks, trying to swerve towards the dunes instead of the guard rail. I'm going to hit the truck either way, but I'd rather not go off the cliff.

“Lyric?” Royal's voice is absolutely wild, frenzied and fractured and broken. “What the fuck is happening over there?!”

The tires squeal as the truck fishtails and turns violently, the wheels getting caught on the loose spray of sand that covers the road, pointing the cab directly into the dunes. The impact is hard, knocking the air out of me as the seatbelt catches and the truck comes to a grinding stop, the bed crumpling against the front of the other vehicle.

I hardly have enough time to blink back the dizziness when shattered glass sprays my face, the driver's side window imploding into the cab, a hand reaching inside and jerking the door open.

“The fuck is this?” a man asks, gun in one hand, a leather jacket on his shoulders. I can't see his face because my head is spinning and my vision's blurring from the sudden stop.
Could've been so much worse,
I tell myself but Royal's still screaming from his end of the line and … wait, why does that man have a gun in his hand?

“Call 911,” I say, worried about somebody else coming around that corner and hitting us.

“I'm on my way, Lyric,” Royal says, but I can barely hear him over the rushing sound of wind and the roar of an engine.
Is he on his phone while he's riding? How does that even work?
“Hold tight, love.”

The man at the driver's side door reaches down and unbuckles my seatbelt.

“There's a woman in here,” he calls out. “This is definitely McBride's truck, but I don't know who the fuck this is.” A big hand grips my shoulder and shakes me. “Hey you, you Royal's old lady or something?”
Old lady?
My eyes go wide and I try my best to focus on the guy's face. He's got dark hair and a long beard, but I don't recognize him. Is he one of Royal's guys? If he were, would he really be asking me that?

“Doesn't matter,” a second voice says. I look up, but all I can see is a cracked windshield and sand. Lots and lots of sand.
Fucking dunes.
“Bring her with us. We gotta get these trucks out of here before somebody calls the cops.” The first man grunts and climbs up into the truck, shoving me into the passenger seat and grabbing my phone. Without taking a second look at it, he pokes his head out of the truck and chucks it as far as he can. I don't have to look behind me to know that it's tumbling down towards the ocean.

“What are you doing?” I ask, still not quite understanding what's happening here. “We should call the police.” A pair of motorcycles revs up behind us and the man who smashed out my window, gives them a quick hand signal.
What are they doing? Why isn't anyone calling the cops?
I struggle to sit up straight, my chest aching where the seatbelt snapped tight. I'm going to have some serious bruising to look forward to.

The bearded man starts the truck, leaning over enough that I catch a glimpse at his back.
Mile Wide,
it says, not
Alpha Wolves.
And there's a picture of a winding road and a sunset.
Ukiah, California.
Ukiah? Who the hell are these guys?

I reach down for the door handle, but a rough hand on my arm jerks me back.

“I don't want any trouble, you hear me? You play nice and this'll go a lot easier for you.” I turn slowly and stare at him as he backs up and starts following the black truck down the road. “You Royal's old lady?” I just keep staring at the guy, my heart pounding hard and my throat tightening with fear.
Am I … is he kidnapping me?

“Where are we going?” I ask, backing up against the passenger side door. What would happen if I opened it and let myself fall? Would I live? Would I roll off the edge of the cliff and never stop falling? I swallow hard as the man revs the engine and keeps close to the other truck.

He doesn't answer me. Big surprise there.

I swallow hard and try to take him in. He's big, as tall and wide as Royal, but older, definitely older. Still strong though. I can see the big round curves of his biceps. He could probably knock me out with a single well-placed punch to the head.

“You want to tell me why you're driving Royal McBride's truck?” the man asks again, clearly annoyed with my lack of answers.

“He left me the keys,” I whisper and the man laughs, running his hand over his beard as he glances over at me.

“You his girlfriend or something?” The look on his face says that's not necessarily a good thing.
What are these guys planning on doing with me?

“I'm his old lady,” I whisper, keeping my hands tucked under my ass. I don't know if …
old ladies
wear rings or not, but … they must, right? They're still somebody's wife. Janae had one, didn't she? “And he's on his way here.”

“Lucky us,” the man says, getting a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lighting up. I stare at his face, wondering if I picked the right answer. “Guess he'll be wanting you back then.”

I wait until we turn the corner, heading away from the road and towards Mill Creek, the houses growing farther and farther apart, the trees looming over us.

And then I lift my leg up and kick the man as hard as I can in the face.

The truck swerves dangerously, forcing him to slam on the brakes as I reach for the door handle and pull, intending on dropping straight to the pavement. I figure my riding clothes were made to protect me from a motorcycle accident, so why not this?

A sharp pain in my skull snaps my head back as the man wraps his fingers around my hair and pulls.

“Let fucking go of me!” I scream, kicking and flailing, clawing at his hands as he tugs me towards him. And then I just start screeching, as loud and piercing as I can get. The noise echoes around the cab and the man starts cursing, getting out that gun I saw earlier and pressing it tight against my temple.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snaps at me. “Jesus Christ.”

“Let me out right now and you can keep the truck,” I say which only makes him laugh.

“Get your ass up and close that door. If you try to make a run for it, I'll shoot you in the leg and take you back home, let the boys pass you around a while. You understand me?” I swallow hard and nod my head, hating the way the gun feels pressed against my skull.

When the man finally releases his grip on my hair, I sit up and bury myself in the corner of the cab.
I should've brought my Glock,
I think again as I glance at Royal's dash and wonder if he'd keep a gun in there. The man's still looking at me though, so I just close my eyes and let loose a few tears. They're real enough, but I'm not giving up yet.

“You're a feisty one, that's for sure,” the man grumbles, waving at the black truck as it circles back around and flashes its lights at us. The motorcycle riders are still behind us, watching and waiting as my kidnapper pulls forward and continues on his way. He whispers something under his breath, but I can't quite hear him over the pounding of my heart.
Oughta be fun.
I think that's what he says. I don't really care to find out.

My tongue runs across my lower lip and tastes blood. I must've bitten it when we crashed.

Think, Lyric. Think, think, think. Royal says he's coming, but how will he find you now?

I open up my eyes and glance at the glove box again. If I open it and there's nothing in there, I'm screwed. This guy might punch me out or make good on his threat and shoot me in the leg.
What other options are there?
I think through a thousand scenarios, but none of them seem right.

In a split second, I make a decision and reach for the glove compartment, wrenching it open and finding a hammer hidden inside.
Better than nothing.
I snatch it in my hand and manage to take a swing before my guy realizes that yes, I really am stupid enough to try again.

The hammer hits him in the arm and he grunts, but it's not enough. He swerves a little, his right hand flying out to snatch the weapon from my hand. He can't hold me back, drive, and go for his gun at the same time.

I let go of the hammer and dive forward, my hand reaching for the gun at the same moment I feel a hard elbow to the gut, knocking the air right out of me as the truck swerves again, skids, clips the edge of a massive redwood tree.

I kick and flail like my life defends on it, fighting the man for control of the gun. He's bigger than me, stronger, more experienced, but none of that matters right now. In the close confines of the cab, the wheel clutched in one hand, he's handicapped enough that he either has to stop and deal with me or continue to struggle.

I get an elbow to the face—
hard—
and my vision blurs, blood streaming from my nostrils as I blink back stars and dig my nails into the man's skin. The truck's slowing down, skidding to the side of the road with a rumble, and I register the exact moment that the parking brake is slammed into place by his boot.