I bet he'd kill me if Royal let him.
“You ready?” he asks and Royal grunts in response, turning to look back at me with an apology in his earthy brown eyes.
“I've got to head out for a bit, love.” He digs the keys to the truck from his pocket. “I'm sorry. Slight change of plans. Maybe we can postpone our tour for later, yeah?”
“Sure thing,” I say as he drops the silver keys into my palm.
“And take the dogs if you want.” Royal bends down and presses another kiss to my mouth, one that's warm and sultry and completely intoxicating. I want to melt into that kiss, let it poison me, drown in it. “Mug's the road captain, so he's basically useless when we're not on a run.” Another big grin tossed my way that makes my heart flutter. “He'll be tailing you today, okay?”
I nod as Royal pulls away and glances up at the women behind me with a smile before turning and heading towards the gleaming row of bikes parked in front of the clubhouse. He swings his leg over the seat, jams his helmet on his head, and then I watch as flashes of chrome and the growling roar of engines explodes from the gate and disappears down the redwood dotted highway.
I decide to stop at home and change into my work clothes. They make me feel in control, my shield against the world, against all of this … whatever it is that's going on with Royal. Powder blue wool, nude tights, brown loafers, and a shitload of hairspray to shellac my brunette waves into place … oh, and my Glock shoved into my purse.
I decide to hit the office, even though I already called in sick. If there's any place in the world that'll serve to remind me of my goals, my life pre-Royal, that's it. I snag a new phone from the cell place before I head in, Mug's rumbling motorcycle trailing me all the way as I leave Royal's truck at my house and take my car instead.
I abandon him in the parking lot and head inside, past Kailey's empty desk and up the stairs. As soon as I hit the second floor, I can tell something's up by the quiet hush in the room, the way everyone's shuffling papers and playing with their phones, pretending to work while they wait for something.
I spy my sister at my desk, absently flicking through my files and frown.
“What's going on in here?” I ask as she blinks up at me in surprise.
“I thought you weren't feeling well?” she asks, suspicion lacing her words. I ignore her and tilt my chin at the door to my father's office. It's closed, the blinds on the windows pulled, the faintest murmur of voices through the glass. Immediately, my sister switches gears, her blue eyes sparkling. This must be some good gossip if she's willing to abandon her interrogation of me so easily.
“There are some people here,” she starts, smiling wickedly, like she knows the juiciest little secret and I should feel privileged to be let in on it. “From the FBI.”
A chill skitters down my spine and my throat gets tight.
“The … FBI?” I ask, going suddenly light-headed, forced to put a hand down on my desk to catch myself. Kailey flips some blond hair over her shoulder and gives me a look.
“Maybe you should've stayed home today. Are you sure you're not going to pass out on me?”
“Why are there FBI agents talking to Dad?”
Kailey raises a brow at me.
“That whole suicide thing with Brent, I'm assuming. Not like they told me anything.” She sighs and stands up out of my chair. “Maybe you'll get lucky and Dad and Sully will actually tell you what this is all about.” She shrugs like she couldn't care less and moves away, the pastel green of her designer heels clicking across the blue carpeting.
FBI.
Outlaw motorcycle clubs.
Not exactly a match made in heaven.
I sit down at my desk, get my laptop out, and pretend to work.
When the two FBI agents leave my father's office, I stand up, a stack of files clutched to my chest as I watch them make their way to the stairs. On the left, a woman with smooth brown skin and a shaved head curls her fingers around the banister, pausing to whisper something to the man on her right, a big guy with short cropped hair and a warm summer tan that I know he didn't get here. They're both wearing suits, both carrying stoic expressions on their very serious faces.
Crap, crap, crap. This can't be good. It just can't. I clutch a fist to my stomach and try to calm the rapid thundering of my heart. For all I know, this is routine, a follow-up to Brent's “suicide”. Then again, maybe they're also aware that word contains quotes.
I bite my lower lip, chewing nervously at the tender flesh as I wait for the agents' heads to disappear down the staircase. Should I call Royal? Is that what I'm supposed to do? I glance back at my father's partially cracked door before setting the files on my desk and heading over there, propping it open with my shoulder.