I try really hard not to grit my teeth as I stare at Heather's conservative but colorful makeup, flawless ebony skin, and her deep brown eyes, shimmering and liquid as they take me in from the waist up.
My words here, they'll mean everything. For me. For Royal.
My throat gets suddenly dry, but my voice is calm and steady when I speak, the blue walls of my father's office seeming to close in around me. On the walls, the black and white photos of the coast seem to take shape into a tsunami above my head, threatening to drown me. I force myself to look at the potted fern in the corner for a second. Nothing scary or menacing about a fern, right?
“My father's forensic accountants pored over Royal's club's finances and found nothing out of sorts. As far as the man himself is concerned,” I toss a sweet smile back at Heather, refusing to be fazed by this. Well, okay, for right now I'm refusing to be fazed. Later, I'll probably have a small panic attack. And another bottle of wine. Two bottles of wine. “He has no criminal record, thus the reason the city of Trinidad and the Alpha Wolves have entered into a contract—”
“A meaningless bit of fluff meant to boost your father's—and the club's—reputations. As far as Mr. McBride is concerned, do you think he became the president of an outlaw organization—one with chapters all over the country—by being a nice guy?”
“Whatever your thoughts on the man or his way of life, his record is clean, finances are clean, and I hardly see what any possible relationship I may or may not have with the man has to do with Brent Gilman's suicide.”
“Do you think that one percent patch on your new boyfriend's jacket is just for fun? If so, Miss Rentz, then you are terribly naïve. Looking at you, your education, your résumé, I find that hard to believe. You're a driven, intelligent sort of woman, Lyric. Now, I'm not going to tell you how to live your life because that's your business, but whatever you've got going on with Mr. McBride, I highly suggest you end it quickly.” Heather smiles at me in a patronizing sort of way that makes my teeth hurt, the leather chair beneath her slacks creaking as she leans forward some more. “If he didn't have anything to do with Brent's murder—or if he doesn't know who did—I'd be surprised. There's not a lot that happens in the underground around here that the Alpha Wolves don't know about.”
“Pardon?” I ask, keeping my worry and my frustration bottled up inside my chest. Breathe, Lyric, breathe. “Did you just say murder? I thought Brent committed suicide?”
“Do you think Brent would've disposed of his laptop and cell phone before he decided to kill himself, Miss Rentz?”
“I … what?” I don't have to feign my surprise at any of it, because I'm so floored by Heather's sudden change of approach that I need a minute to gather my thoughts.
Heather stands up suddenly, like she's taken a shot and hit me right in the chest, and now all she has to do is wait for me to bleed out. Her smile, when she gives it, is full of blindingly white teeth, straight and perfect.
“This is a lot to take in, I understand, so we'll leave our cards with the front desk and you give us a call if you think of anything. We'll be in touch, Miss Rentz.” Special Agent Garza stands up, still silent, face still and empty as he looks over at me and then turns away, heading for the door. Heather pauses once before exiting to glance over her shoulder and toss out some more advice. “And if I were you, I'd end whatever was or wasn't going on with Royal McBride before you lose something you can never get back: your career, your freedom … or your life.”
When I see Lyric pull up to the clubhouse, I feel a grin spreading across my face, white teeth flashing ear to ear. When I see her step out of her car … let's just be polite and say all the blood rushes from my head to … well, my other head.
The mangled mess of her hair's been turned into a sleek, sloping cut that frames her small, narrow face and highlights the thin, pale curve of her throat and the full ripeness of her mouth. And Lyric's makeup … I've never seen her dolled up like that, not even at that first club party. She's fucking brilliant.
“Whatever you've done,” I say as she approaches me in tall, red heels, “I like it. No, I bloody love it. You look gorgeous, Pint-Size.”
When I don't get a smile in return, when she crosses her arms under her breasts, I know something's wrong and raise a brow, pausing before I take her in my arms and kiss the hell out of her. She doesn't much look in the mood to be kissed right now.
“Are you alright?” I ask as those green eyes slide up to my face, searching.
“It was bad, Royal,” she says as I notice for the first time the cuts on her cheeks. The way she's done her makeup, they're hardly visible. Impressive.