Raw and Dirty (Bad Boys MC Trilogy #1) (4 page)

“Yeah, uh, Johnnie Walker?” I say. It comes out as a question.

The woman stares at me with some small amount of understanding and compassion and nods her head.

“Coming right up.”

I climb onto the leather bar stool and listen to the raucous boiling around me. It's absolutely
crazy
in here. Never in my life have a seen a party like this—not even in college. There's enough alcohol floating around to drown a herd of elephants, and the air is thick with the double scents of tobacco and pot (this is still Humboldt County after all). Plus, if I was the kind of person who kept count … I've seen at least thirty pairs of bare boobs—okay, okay
thirty-
six—and some couples who look like they should maybe move their activities to a more private area.

“You're the mayor's daughter, right?” the blonde asks me, pouring some alcohol into a glass without even glancing at it. She lifts the bottle up and pushes my drink towards me.

“Is it that obvious?” I ask, thinking about Royal's expression when I first turned around. He really
didn't
recognize me. The woman laughs and shakes her head, her halter top and tight leather pants giving the impression that she's a regular here. A … leather lover, maybe? An
old lady
? God, I hate that term. I thought I was dressing the part in my tight red strapless dress and black studded heels, but I look more like a club rat than a biker chick. The girls here have tattoos and piercings, leather jackets and pants that look painted on. I really missed the mark on this one.

“Royal said we should be on the lookout for you. Didn't recognize your face and you don't look like a groupie to me.” I try to decide if that's a compliment or not. I think it is.

“So that's it,” I say, looking over my shoulder again at the mass of men in leather vests and jackets, the girls dancing on a small stage in the corner. “Everyone here knows each other?”

“Yeah, well, that's club life for you.” I study the blonde's face, the faint laugh lines around her mouth. At first glance, I thought she was in her early thirties, but really I think she's probably around my mother's age. Wow. It's amazing what a sea of tattoos, some makeup, and a confident aura can do for a person. “You come to talk business?”

I shrug. I'm not exactly sure
why
I'm here. At first, it was because I was just pissed at Royal for blowing me off. Now … now I'm just stuck.

“Sort of,” I say and then shake my head. “I mean, if I can find him in all of this.” I gesture at the craziness behind me with my right hand and slam back the whiskey with the other.

Holy. Shit.

Oh God, that burns!

I slam the glass down on the bar and get a round of cheers from the men seated on either side of me.

“Nobody ever say the mayor's daughter can't hold her booze!” one of them yells and then they all lift their beers and cheer me on as the bartender pours another round in my glass.
Uh oh.

My throat's still burning and my stomach is churning with the sudden rush of alcohol to the system, but now everybody's looking at me. I've never been one to do things half-assed.

“Bottoms up,” I say, not sure if that's the right slang or not. Oh well.

I lift the drink up and down it in one swallow. More cheers.

“Another?” Blondie asks and I shrug.
What the hell.
The men continue to cheer me on, hooting and hollering as I down another round. And then another. By the time that fourth one hits me, I can feel it in my head like a tingling buzz, a swarm of bees in my brain.

“Can I get a soda or something?” I ask and the men groan, going back to their business with a clink of beer bottles and the rustle of leather.
Show's over, boys.

“Name's Fauna,” the bartender says as she pushes a glass towards me. “And you're … ?”

“Lyric,” I say and then hiccup. I clamp a hand over my mouth and glance around, but nobody's looking at me. Why would they? There's a pair of girls on a nearby table doing body shots. “Lyric Rentz, Deputy Mayor of Operations and Government Affairs.” I slide my drink closer and take a deep breath.

Fauna raises a pale brow at me.

“What exactly does a
Deputy Mayor
do anyway?” she asks, her voice holding the same amount of distaste for my job title as I'd had when I said
biker
to Royal earlier.

“Basically whatever the mayor can't be bothered to do,” I say and then cringe, glancing around like my dad might be standing in a sea of drunk motorcycle men. “Anything he doesn't have time for.”

“Like coming to a truce with the Alpha Wolves?” Fauna asks, blue eyes focused on me as I sip my soda from the white and red straw. I can feel a lure being hooked, like she's trying to fish the information out of me.

She can try all she wants; I'm a closed book.

I smile up at her and then move to slide off my stool.

The world tilts and spins around me, making me realize that I'm a hell of a lot more buzzed than I thought I was.
How did that happen?
Wasn't I stone-cold sober just a few minutes ago?

“Careful there, Pint-Size. I don't think your Daddy would look too kindly on the club if you fell and broke your head tonight.” Royal's fingers wrap around my upper arm, steadying me. I turn my gaze to face him and find him smiling at me, not even bothering to try and hide his amusement.

“A jiff is a moment or an instant,” I blurt, and I realize that I must sound ridiculous. “Not twenty or thirty of them.” The president of the Alpha Wolves MC stares at me like I'm crazy for a moment and then laughs, shaking his head at me.

“You're one interesting girl, you know that, Pint-Size?”

“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.

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.