“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.
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.”