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.
I snap my eyes up as he straightens and tosses a wild grin over his shoulder.
“You're one lucky bird, Pint-Size,” he says, circling his bike and running a tattooed finger over the handlebars. “If you'd scratched up my Swinger, I'd have put you over my knee and spanked you for it.”
“Excuse me,” I say, squeezing the strap of my purse and pretending that seriously didn't just turn me on. “Why did you even bring your … bagger over to my house in the first place?”
“Couldn't very well put a princess like you on the back of my bobber.”
I put the fingers of my left hand up to my temple.
“And a bobber is what?”
“Irrelevant,” Royal says, finishing his circle around the bike and pausing in front of me, far closer than any rational, sane sort of person should get. “I brought you an extra helmet and had Janae pick up some gear for you. Go inside and get dressed, Pint-Size, you and me, we're riding two up tonight.”
“I already told you,” I say, moving back and adjusting my purse to my other shoulder, just so I have something to do with my hands. My lips are desperate to betray my brain and invite Royal inside, drag him to my bedroom and see what he can do in the blush of twilight.
Did I really just think that?
I really did.
“I don't like motorcycles.”
“You get in an accident or something?” Royal asks me, reaching up and threading his fingers through his helmet mussed hair. He's still smiling at me with those full lips of his. It's not fair for a man to have a mouth that nice, lashes that long, and still look so goddamn manly. He has the most perfect five o' clock shadow I've ever seen yet it doesn't look groomed or styled in any way. How does he do it?