“Brent said he was looking for the guy for you, that that's why he decided to stay in town a few extra days. Our police department hasn't nearly grown as fast as the city, and our resources are already stretched thin. A missing biker isn't going to get much attention from the department. He just wants to help.”
“And you're buying that crap?” Royal asks, raising his brows at me. “You think your little FBI boyfriend gives a flying fuck about my missing brother?”
“He's …” I'm failing here, miserably. But I can still salvage this. I'm in politics for God's sake. If there's a valuable skill to be had in that field, it's telling people what they want to hear without really saying anything at all, without committing. “Brent's a good guy, Royal.”
“Awfully defensive of a guy that dumped you,” he says, running his knuckles down my cheek. We need a change of subject, and there's only one other choice topic that I think Royal might be interested in right now: me. It's a strange thought to have—I'm not usually the focus of anyone's attention—but the way he's looking at me right now … It's like he wants to be distracted, like he doesn't want to talk about any of this either.
“Well, he came all the way out here to see my brother and me, so I guess I feel like I owe him a little.” Not a lie, not exactly. Royal's mouth twitches and something else shifts over his face, replacing the anger and the suspicion that was there a moment ago. “He wants to get back together,” I say, like I'm admitting a secret, using the fact that Brent asked me out on a date to bolster that little lie. Maybe he wants to get back together? Or maybe he just wants to sleep with me? I have no idea. “We'd make a good couple, I think.”
“That so?” Royal asks, putting his arm back around my waist and tugging me close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body, smell his rich scent—leather, oil, green things, wet earth. My body responds and I can feel the wetness between my legs growing.
“We would,” I say, biting my lower lip and looking up at him. “He's the exact sort of guy I always saw myself marrying. He's rich and ambitious and handsome.”
“So I'll ask you again: why the hell are you here in my arms and not in his?”
“Because I want to marry a guy like Brent, but I want my wedding night with a guy like you.”
Not a complete lie, not really. In fact, I think the latter's the more truthful portion of that statement.
Royal grins, nice and wide, the hard bulge in his pants proof enough that I've got him right where I want him.
I never thought I'd use sex to get my way—ever. But this is different. This, if I'm honest with myself, is an excuse. I'm not using sex to make Royal forget about our conversation; I'm using our conversation as a reason to sleep with him.
No guilt, no worries, no regrets.
Royal hands me a Budweiser from his fridge while I stand like an idiot in the center of his living room, my eyes darting from the dark stained wood moldings and casings to the comfortable but stylish leather couches, the promised black bearskin rug (I think it's a fake), and the … decorations. Royal has art on the wall—mostly black and white photographs of motorcycles—but the fact that he even took the time to hang anything besides posters of half-naked girls is a shock to me.
Royal McBride might be a biker and a bachelor, but it looks like he's also a grown-up.
I take a sip of my beer, letting the cool liquid soothe away some of the heat that's still prickling my skin. I thought that maybe we might go straight to the bedroom, but then I got lost looking around at Royal's place and ended up glued to this spot.
If he's in any hurry, he doesn't show it. I guess he did just ask me to spend the night. He must mean the whole night unless he plans on packing us both up on that bike afterwards and driving over to my place. I try not to worry about it; Royal's the kind of guy who says what he means. If he wanted to fuck and have me leave afterwards, he'd have told me that.
“How long have you lived here?” I ask as he lays out a package of steaks on the counter and chugs half his beer in one go. When we first came inside, he slipped off his club jacket and tossed it over a chair in the small dining area next to a pair of sliding glass doors. Underneath, his black T-shirt shows the club's logo: a gray wolf with bright green eyes, lip lifted in a menacing snarl. It might be funny if I didn't feel like the warning there was real. Don't mess with the Alpha Wolves.
“Two years,” Royal says, opening the package and liberally sprinkling the meat with seasoning. “Bought it right after I became president.”
That part I did know, about when he became president I mean. My dad's been watching the Alpha Wolves for a long time, since before he was the mayor. The previous president was a real son of a bitch, somebody who would've spit in our faces rather than grant us even a moment of his time. At least Royal's polite enough to pretend. Whether or not he'll sign the papers tomorrow is anyone's guess. And I'm definitely not delusional enough to think that tonight will change his mind in any way. He'll do whatever it was he was going to do anyway.