Risky and Wild(45)

Hired goons equals money. Twelve guys, five hundred bucks a week, that's six grand for seven days of work. And the bikes? I try to think of what the guys were riding, but my mind's drawing a blank.

“Morning Royal,” Fauna says as I appear in the kitchen and pause next to the coffeemaker, glancing over at Jack's old lady with raised brows. She sounds … intrigued, like she's waiting to gauge my reaction. If Fauna was in on that attack on Lyric, I start, but then I can't reconcile that in my mind. Fauna's warm and maternal, the caretaker of this compound, the life of the party behind the bar. I decide her raised brows and tightly pursed red lips must be about something else. “No Lyric this morning?”

“She had to work,” I say, studying my brother's wife as she fiddles with a glass pan covered in foil. “Why? Miss her already?” Fauna sighs and shakes her head, her blond hair lifted up in a high pony, her makeup flawless and sharp, her leather pants, boots and halter promising that it's not really ten in the morning.

I turn back to the coffeemaker, pour myself a cup in one of the black Alpha Wolves mugs that Janae had made for the clubhouse.

“She's still working at the mayor's office then?” she asks, all casual like. I add two of the fancy sugar cubes that Fauna keeps stocked back here and turn to look at her over my shoulder. She's peeling back the foil on the pan and reaching for the door of the oven, face pinched and tight. “Does she plan on staying there long term?”

I see.

That's what this is about.

“Mia and the girls jumped Lyric yesterday,” I say casually, waiting for a reaction. Luckily, I get it. Fauna lets the oven door slam and turns to look at me with her lips slightly parted. “They cut her up, sliced off her hair. You know anything about that?”

There's a brief moment where she looks confused and then something clicks into place.

“Musta been Glinda,” she murmurs, but then realizes I'm still standing there and stiffens up, eyes wide as she tries to figure out what I'm aiming for. “What are you gonna do?” she asks me, and I shrug.

“I'm gonna let my old lady take care of her own business,” I say, and then turn and leave the room before she can get a word in edgewise.





For the first time in forever, I skip out on Thursday brunch with the Rentzes. This week, it's to go containers at the hospital with Sully. As exciting as that sounds, I can't see my family or go into the office with my hair jagged and uneven. Instead, I hit the salon first thing, pretending I don't notice the hairdresser's questioning facial expression as she shapes my brunette waves into an asymmetrical bob and then flat irons it. By the time she's done, I've got a gleaming chocolate power bitch cut that I love, and that I know the women at the Alpha Wolves Compound are going to hate.

Oh well, I think as I stare at my pale face in the mirror. This'll just force me to stop plastering my hair back into those stupid tidy buns.

This haircut that I'm wearing, it means business.

My next stop, Sephora, where I persuade the beauty consultant to cover up the cuts on my face by buying a hundred bucks in cosmetics and watching the magic happen. It's doubtful I'll be able to replicate the quick and confident brushstrokes of the model-esque girl at the store, but at least I have some tips to take home with me.

I park in my usual spot at the office, Royal's guy tailing me there and parking outside the lot against the curb where Mug was yesterday. This new guy is a … prospect, I guess. Some dude who wants to be a part of the club but hasn't earned the right yet; that's how it was described to me. Personally, I hope this one's not as easily distracted by cleavage and a pretty face as Mug was.

A quick check of my cheeks in the rearview, and I sigh. They're not invisible, no, but they're faded enough that most people probably won't notice. Most people meaning everyone but Kailey. I'll just have to try and avoid her, I think as I climb from the car … and notice an unfamiliar navy blue Impala two spots over.

A shiver travels down my spine.

I know everybody that works in this office—and the cars they drive. While it's possible one of the employees ponied up for a new vehicle yesterday, it's doubtful. And we don't get a lot of unexpected visitors down at the mayor's office.

Is the FBI here already? I wonder as I stand up and brush my hands down the sharp creases of my black slacks. I'm paranoid; I'm being paranoid. But somehow, it doesn't feel like that. This feels … urgent. Last night, I was so distracted by the fight—and Royal—to remember to call Sully. When I checked my messages this morning, he'd left several telling me to call him, along with a couple of texts. But when I called his cell back, he didn't answer. If that really is the FBI in there, I need to talk to my brother first.