Fan-fucking-tastic.
“Clayton Moore just turned down my invitation to the party tonight,” I say, drumming my fingers on the counter and trying to decide what the best course of action might be right now. I have to move carefully here, especially with the addition of Lyric to the mix. I know the club's still not sure about a young guy like me being the pres, some overly progressive upstart little bastard. I've heard them say it. Doesn't bother me much, but the moves I make right now could affect Lyric in a tremendous way.
“That so?” Mick asks, rubbing his hand through his dark hair. “Doesn't sound like the Clayton Moore I know. About ten years ago, Bill had a few of the guys sniff out some dealer downtown who was hawking shady shit. They uncovered an entire underground network of Mile Wide boys, put a few bullets in them, and ended up in an all-out war with Clayton.”
I feel myself frowning. The previous pres never spoke very highly of Clayton Moore; I basically grew up listening to the guy talk shit about the man. To Mick, that story might sound like it puts Clayton in a positive light. As president, I hear things with a different ear. To me, that story says I didn't give a fuck about my guys, sent them up into a dangerous situation where I was damn sure they'd end up six feet under.
“So what do we do?” Glacier asks, curling his pale, tattooed hand into a fist, blue eyes already sparkling with ideas I hope I never have to hear about. I rub at my stubbled chin, noticing the subtle movement of Fauna and Glinda around the bar and out the door.
A rival motorcycle club … or the Alpha Wolves' old ladies.
It's hard to say which problem is worse: mine … or Lyric's.
“Told you the mochas were good,” Janae says smugly, sipping hers as we sit at a little café table near the playground, the sound of waves crashing against the rocks the only thing keeping me calm. I can feel my nails digging into the denim thighs of my jeans, but I smile tightly anyway. Politics. This is just more politics.
I don't like your husband. He seems like a sexist asshole.
That's what I want to say. Instead, “they're almost as good as the ones at Starbucks.” Big smile. Oops, maybe that was the wrong thing to say? Janae gives me a death glare, narrowing her dark brown eyes on me and pursing her lips. She's pretty, petite, unassuming at first glance. Underneath all that though, there's a fire burning. If I want to … date Royal, then I guess I better figure out how to hang around his friends without pissing them off.
I'm about to open my mouth to ask about the businesses when I hear footsteps, glancing over to my left and spotting Fauna walking with some blond girl in a pink leather jacket. She pauses a moment as a customer from the garage yells a greeting, turning to wave. I catch sight of the back of her jacket, spot the three patches there. There's the Alpha Wolves logo in the middle with the words Property of on top and … Mick on the bottom. Property of Mick.
I feel my throat clench tight, my palms get sweaty, my heartbeat start to pound. Some women might find the idea of being 'owned' by a man sexy; I happen not to be one of them. Why, oh why did I decide to fall in love with an outlaw biker? Hah. And I'd sworn off dating male politicians because I thought they were backwards.
I tap my much-less-manicured-than-Janae's nails against my thighs as I wait for the two women to approach us, the watery sunlight from above bathing their faces with gray-yellow light.
“Well, hello there, sugar,” the blonde in the pink jacket says, her accent thick with the south. From where, I have no clue, but it's cute. “When I heard the news, I just had to come in and see for myself. It's not everyday the president gets himself a new girlfriend.” She bends down at the waist, putting her hands on her hips and studying me with sparkling blue eyes, a smear of pink lipstick across her full mouth.
I'm not sure where either Royal or I stand on the whole “old lady” thing, so I decide it's better not to comment on her very purposeful use of the word girlfriend. I turn and stand up from my chair, smoothing my hands own my thighs and briefly missing the comfort of my plain old woolen suits and my slicked back bun. I extend a dry hand and lift my chin up as the blonde straightens.
“The name's Lyric Rentz,” I say, biting back the words Deputy Mayor before they can spill across my lips and ruin any cred I might have with these women. There's no doubt in my mind that they know about my position, but tossing it around like that isn't likely to impress anyone.
“She's the mayor's daughter,” Fauna adds, like there's any way this woman could've missed the gossip. “He know about your little love affair with Royal?”
I ignore the question as I grip the blonde's hand and shake hard. She digs her nails into the back of my hand, but I pretend not to notice.