A groan from behind me brings both Glacier and me whipping around, another gun in my hand, snatched from the shoulder holster under my coat. He's brandishing his hammer, the end already dark brown with blood.
The man I hit in the temple is still alive, struggling to stand as he braces himself against the tree.
“Take him back to the clubhouse,” I tell Glacier. Getting information out of unwilling participants is another one of his hobbies. Doesn't relish it like he does the chase, but I'm sure he'll still have a damn fine time. “Figure out why Clayton Moore sent his boys up here to die. And load some of these bodies up before you go. Should be a tarp in the backseat.”
“You got it,” Glacier says as I turn back to Lyric and block the man from her view with my body. She looks up at me with those big eyes of hers and searches my gaze for something. Whatever she sees there makes her relax a little.
“Who are these people?” she asks, gesturing a hand towards the open truck door and the bodies beyond it. I notice she doesn't look. “What's going on?”
“Later sweet stuff,” I tell her, stepping back and waving for Smoky to come over here. “We've got to clean up this mess before anybody stumbles onto it.” Smoky jogs over, his brother—blood related sibling this time—right behind him. Everybody calls the guy Mug because his face is the ugliest damn mug you ever did see. “Call back to the clubhouse and have Dober send a couple of guys out here in one of the loaner cars. We need someone to get these bikes and the other truck out of here.”
“Got it,” Mug says, his cell already in his hand, his bright red hair a jarring sight against the green and brown of the trees. Yep. Another goddamn ginger in my club.
“How do you want us to clean this up?” Smoky asks, giving Lyric a long, lingering look. This is club business, and she's a witness to all of it. Fuck, even if I didn't like the girl, I'd have to make her my ol' lady just to keep the Wolves off her ass.
“Spread 'em out. Park a few in the usual spot and dump the rest in the bay.”
Lyric swallows hard, her body stiffening as she listens to me lay out the facts.
“I'm taking Ms. Rentz here back to my place.”
“Smartest damn thing you've done all week,” Smoky says with a shake of his head. “You're not the sergeant-at-arms anymore, remember? You're the fucking president. Get your ass out of here and wash your damn hands. If I need something, I'll call you.”
“You're a fucking dick, Smoky,” I say, pulling Lyric along with me and pausing next to my bike. Even in my panic, I had the good sense to bring my Swinger so she'd have somewhere to sit. Good for me. I grab my helmet and slide it over Lyric's head. It's way too damn big, but better than nothing. I reach up and tighten the chin strap while she stands there and stares at me with a curious facial expression. “Let's get the fuck out of here, Pint-Size.”
“Why am I still alive?” she whispers, her body beginning to tremble. “How am I still alive?”
I slide my fingers away from the chin strap and down the sides of Lyric's neck until they're resting on her small shoulders.
“Because you're a feisty little tart, that's why,” I say, a grin curling across my lips. “Because, whether you like it or not, you were born for this life, baby.”
The ride back to my place is like a balm for my soul, soothing away the violent seething urges that have been plaguing me since last night. By the time I pull into my driveway and climb off the bike, sliding a pair of shades from my face and tucking them into the front pocket of my cut, I feel better.
I shouldn't, but I do. What the hell is up with that? If I thought I had shit to deal with before, this crap with Mile Wide is even worse. And it's just beginning.
I glance down at Lyric as she pulls her helmet off and takes a deep breath. An impulse strikes me, and I take it, cupping her face in both hands and leaning down to press our mouths together, her tongue hot and needy against my own.
We need to talk, Lyric and me.
But fuck this.
I grab the helmet from her fingers and toss it aside, scooping her up in my arms and carrying her to the front door before setting her down just long enough to unlock it. The dogs assault us with a chorus of excited barks and frantically wagging tails, but I ignore them, lifting Lyric back up and kicking the door shut behind me.
“Royal, I—” she begins, but I cut her off with another kiss, taking her into my bedroom and tossing her on the bed. “We should … I need to know what happened today,” she says, but her head falls back and her breasts arch against my chest as I climb between her legs and press my mouth to the thumping pulse in her neck.