Risky and Wild(160)

Royal was a fling, a bit of sexy nothing to enjoy and forget about. Senators can't marry—can't even date—outlaw motorcycle club presidents. I'm sure he thought the same from the start, that I was just another fuck. The mayor's daughter … must've been exciting, right?

I sniffle and force myself to my feet.

This is good. This is what needed to happen. Papers signed, truth out, Royal gone. All in all, it's been in a successful week.

So why do I feel so sick inside, like something bad is just waiting to happen? Or like I already miss him so hard it hurts? I blink away that thought and try to focus on something else. My mind flickers back to our confrontation as I turn and fumble around in my grocery bags until I finally find the missing bottle of wine.

He … you killed your vice president.

My own words echo loudly in my head as I think about that. I said it; he didn't deny it. He didn't deny it.

I grab a wineglass and slosh some Chardonnay into it, not caring that it splashes over the edge and onto the counter. When I lift it to my lips, I drink the whole thing in one go.

Chills climb down my spine, dragging goose bumps up on my arms. I bite the end of my robe's sleeve and close my eyes, trying to get ahold of my emotions. Royal and I … we have a connection, something I've never felt before. It's new and different and powerful enough that when I think really hard about it, I get a little dizzy. I knew things couldn't work between us before, but that was on a logical level.

Now, I'm feeling everything in my gut.

“Shit.” I set my wineglass down and run my fingers through my wet hair. Trying to find Royal, trying to talk to him right now, would probably be a big mistake on my part. Besides, what am I going to do? Walk up to him and ask if he really did kill his vice president? And then ask if he's in love with me, even though he shouldn't be because it's too soon and it's too wrong and it'd never work?

Royal isn't going to tell me anything about anything anymore, and sticking my nose even further into club business is not a good idea. Whatever happened to his previous VP, I can't do anything about it. Not a damn thing. What I need to do is get a good's night sleep, wake up tomorrow and head into the office. It might be Saturday but as my dad always says, politics don't rest on the weekends.

My heart hurts and my conscience throbs with guilt, but if I've ever been good at anything, it's carrying on and pretending things are okay when they aren't.

I pick my wine up, grab my Kindle from my desk drawer and head into my bedroom. By the time I climb under the blankets, there are already tears streaking down my face again. Doesn't matter. I'll let them fall and in the morning, it'll be like they were never there. I'll get up, get dressed and go about my day like normal. Right now, I need to play my part, fill my lot in life the best way I know how, the way I've always done.

Because this, right here, is all I'll ever have.



Sometime later, after I've finally managed to get to sleep, I hear the front door open, my eyes flying wide, my stomach twisting with fear. I forgot to lock the front door after Royal left. I was so caught up in everything that'd just happened that it didn't even occur to me. You piss off the president of an outlaw motorcycle club off and you forget to lock the door?! Not that it would matter, would it? If the Alpha Wolves needed to come into my house, I imagine that a deadbolt and a chain wouldn't stop them.

I fling my feet out of bed and reach into my bedside table for the gun my dad helped me pick out on my eighteenth birthday, the day I moved out of his house and into my first place. It's not loaded, but there is a full magazine in the drawer on the other side of my bed. Without any kids around, I figured this setup was safe enough to prevent accidents but handy enough to use if I really needed it.

Right now, with the slow beat of footsteps moving down my hallway, I'm not so sure.

I roll back across the bed and wrench open the drawer, grabbing the magazine and sliding it into the base of the Glock. I feel ridiculous doing it, but at least I do know how to handle myself properly. Having a hardcore republican father that worships the second amendment can be a good or a bad thing depending on how you look at it. Honestly, the shooting range used to be my favorite place as a teen. It was pretty much the only time my dad looked at me like a human being, spoke to me like an adult and trusted me to make my own decisions.

I stand up, turning to face the door and switching the safety off. My eyes scan around for my phone, but I can't remember where I left it. It's probably dead anyway since I didn't bother to charge it.

I take a deep breath, tensing up as the footsteps near my bedroom door and then pause. It swings inward and then … there's Royal, standing there in the shadows of my bedroom, his tall, wide frame easily recognizable even in the dark.