“Don't say anything, Lyric Lenore Rentz. Don't … I couldn't bare it.” She glances away from me and lifts her napkin to her lips, dabbing at an imaginary bit of nothing. “I don't know exactly what happened or who you were with, but I don't care.”
“Mom,” I begin again, but she's clearly not done with whatever speech she's prepared.
“I don't want the details, Lyric,” she snaps, far more agitated than I've seen her in years. The last time she looked like this, Sully was being dragged home by the cops for driving drunk. Dad covered that one up, of course, but she was still furious at him for weeks. “Do whatever you need to do in your private life, but don't let it screw up your father's career.” She lifts her gaze and looks straight at me, her pale porcelain face highlighted by a stray shaft of sunlight. “If he gets word of this …” She trails off and shakes her head, her pale blue earrings swinging with the motion. “Well, I've managed to take care of it for now, but I'm trusting you to have better judgment in the future. Do you understand what I'm saying?”
I don't understand. I don't want to understand.
I don't want to be quiet or unassuming or easy going.
I want to be heard.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath.
“Of course. It won't happen again.” Even if I don't like this, don't like being shutdown or told what to do, I can play nice for now. I'm telling her what she wants to hear because I have to do this for me, to make my dreams happen. Getting my dad re-elected, getting the Wolves under control, that's the most important next step in my career. I want to be a state senator, at the very least. At the most … I can't even dare to dream that far right now.
One step at a time.
One single step.
When I get home, I half-expect to find Royal waiting in my driveway for me. What I don't expect is to feel a pang of disappointment when he's not there. This is for the best, I tell myself, because if this guy's managed to get this far under my skin in just a couple of days, how quickly could things escalate?
I don't want to know.
I move up the porch steps and unlock the door, the pile of leather clothes on my couch catching my attention again. I'll change out of this silly sundress and load those up in the car for tomorrow. No sense in keeping them around; there's no way I'm ever getting on the back of a bike.
I pass by them and around the corner to the kitchen, tossing my purse on the counter and grabbing a wineglass from the cabinet. After the week I've had, I could use a drink. I crack open my best bottle of Merlot and pour myself a healthy dose, wrapping my fingers around the stem and carrying it with me into my bedroom.
I sip my wine as I dig through my drawers for a pair of comfy pjs, my eyes straying to my underwear drawer, my thoughts straying back to Royal McBride.
He's a dick, but God, the sex was amazing. And I didn't get a good look at it, but … the way he filled me up, he's got to have a massive …
“Not thinking about Royal's dick,” I say aloud, grabbing a pink tank and a pair of gray sweatpants. I kick off my beige heels and unzip my dress, letting it fall to the floor when my eyes stray to the mirror and catch sight of my body dressed in scandalously sexy white lingerie.
I don't know why I wear it, really. It's not like I have casual quickies often. Usually, when I get laid, it's something I've known was going to happen for a while and I prepare for it. Still, I wear the sexiest underwear and bras I can get my hands on. Sometimes I even wear garters or corsets under my clothes. If I had to psychoanalyze myself, I'd say it had something to do with letting go. On the outside, I can be polished and put together. Underneath … nobody can see that, so I can be as wild and crazy as I want without consequence.
I bite my lower lip and grab my wine again, turning so I'm facing the mirror fully. After a moment, I reach up and let my hair down, watching as it transform my face from plain to … pretty, like a frame for a picture.
My gaze flicks up towards my doorway.
Nobody's here right now, and I just saw my family this morning. It's doubtful that anyone would stop by.
I take another sip of wine.
Fuck it.
I put my glass down and move out to the living room, scooping up the clothes and boots that Royal left and dragging them back into my bedroom. I grab the leather pants first, lifting them up from the pile and rubbing my thumbs across the fabric.
“Well, aren't these biker chick chic,” I say, holding them up to my body and imagining what Royal's face might look like if I slipped these on and showed up at his compound wearing them tomorrow. I run my hands over the legs and feel a pad in the knee area and one at the hip. The tag says they're riding pants, so I guess this isn't just a fashion thing but a safety thing.