Risky and Wild(13)

“Did he hit you?” she asks me, her tone changing in an instant. I roll my eyes, but she's sticking her stupid nude Prada heel in my door again. “Lyric.”

“No, he didn't hit me,” I say, my heart thumping as flashes of memory flicker across my vision. Three motorcycles behind me. One on its side. A black truck. Sand dunes. A gun in my face. I blink them away and give her my most evil look. “He would never do anything like that, so please, everything is fine, Kailey.”

“Wow. Awfully defensive of this Prince guy.”

“Like I said, it's Royal.”

“You're not like, in love with him or something, are you?”

I grit my teeth, but I think I blush. A little. Hopefully the cake of makeup on my cheeks will hide that from her.

“I met him last week,” I say, but it's not a direct denial. This time, I nudge her foot out and slam the door before she can stop me. I'm already out of the parking lot and down the street by the time I realize it.

I'm being followed. Again.



Royal's guy tails me all the way home, parking his motorcycle in the driveway behind my car when I climb out. There's this awkward moment where I look over at him, and he stares back at me. I decide to just go up, introduce myself, get this over with.

“Hi there,” I say, approaching him with my best office-professional smile in place, the one that says I'm friendly, but not a pushover. It usually works wonders with men. “My name is Lyric Rentz.” I hold out a hand that he shakes with a firm, rough grip.

“Mug,” he grunts, and that's pretty much it. He stares back at me through a pair of dark sunglasses, a blue and white bandanna wrapped around his red hair. His face is rugged and covered with matching stubble, and his nose is so crooked it almost looks like it's pointing at my neighbor's house. Poor guy, I think as I pull my hand back and let it fall to my side.

“Well, Mr. … Mug, thank you so much for the escort home, but I can take it from here.”

Nothing from this guy. He just stares at me like I'm not even there, gripping the handlebars of his bike and smiling with thin lips. I stare back at him for a moment before glancing up and over his shoulder to find Sandra Elden watching me out her kitchen window. This should go over well, I think with a sigh as I turn back to … Mug and force myself to keep smiling.

“Let me guess? You're here until Royal gets here?”

“If he gets here,” the guy tells me as he leans back on his bike and digs out a cigarette. “He's busy. Might be working all night.” There's a shrug of those big, hairy shoulders as the guy lights up and I let out a small sigh.

“You want a cold beer or something?” I ask and Mug grins with big, white teeth. I think they're probably his best feature. He should smile more.

“If I drink on the job, the Pres'll kill me,” he says and then chuckles. “But if you got a cup of coffee in there, I'll take it.”

“Done,” I say with a sharp nod, turning on my heel and waving to Mrs. Elden in the window. I'm sure she'll report this to my mother, how her slut daughter was hanging out with a completely different felon in the front yard. “I should've moved to DC when I had the chance,” I murmur as I step inside and close the door behind me.

The house is quiet, the bags of nonperishable groceries still sitting on the counter from God only knows how many days ago. I stare at them for a moment before flicking the lock into place and heading into the kitchen. I still have a home phone—I know, I know, so old fashioned—but I also haven't had time to get a new cell, so I pick up the receiver and pull out a piece of paper from my front pocket. My dad has Royal's cell on file in the office, so I waited for Kailey to go to lunch and then snuck over to her computer to copy it.

Three rings in and he picks up.

“Hello?” It's a question, a gruff one at that. Royal sounds tired and pissed off, not a good combination. My heart starts to pound, and I hope like hell that nothing new has happened. If last weekend was any indication on how these things go down, I'd like to never see another incident, thank you very much.

“It's me,” I say, and then immediately follow that up with, “Lyric,” just in case he doesn't recognize the sound of my voice. There's a softening in his and a rough chuckle that curls my spine and does naughty things to my insides.

“No shit,” he says and I hear the scuff of boots on pavement. “Where you calling me from?”

“My house phone,” I tell him, leaning back against the counter and kicking off my heels. They're the same ones I wore yesterday, boring, black, plain, unassuming. “I haven't had time to get a new cell.”

“Don't worry about it. I'll get one for you,” he says, and I raise my eyebrows, standing up and turning around to open the cabinet and grab a bag of ground beans. “How's Mug? He texted and said you were making him coffee. Don't. He's a bit of a dickhead.”