“What was bad, love?” I ask as she starts moving past me and up the wooden stairs of the deck, unhooking the Employees Only sign and letting the chain clink as it hits the ground. I jog a few steps to catch up with her as she moves inside, past the staircase and the game room, the bathroom and TV room, and into the common area where the bar's located.
“The FBI,” she whispers, pausing in the doorway and staring at Fauna across the room before she spins around, strands of her newly shortened hair sticking to her lips as her eyes flicker across my face with a sudden panic. “My little chat with the FBI. It went really, really badly, Royal.”
I feel my fingers curl into fists, my heart thudding against my ribs as I search her face right back. That's when I notice that behind the new, classy haircut, the perfect makeup, the pressed slacks, my Pint-Size and Pretty is trembling slightly.
I reach my hands up and take a gentle hold of her biceps, her pulse thumping through the white cotton of her shirt.
“They know we're …” A long pause as she struggles to figure out a word for what she wants to say. “Together. Well, at least that we're sleeping together.” Lyric sucks in a massive breath, letting her lids shutter closed, flashing a gentle sea of dark brown shadow. When she opens them, the trembles have subsided and her spine is straight and strong. “And they know Brent's suicide was murder.”
I curse under my breath.
“They said there isn't much that goes on around here that your club doesn't know about. The woman,” Lyric's face screws up in irritation, “Special Agent Shelley, basically implied that you either did it or know who did.” Lyric's mouth tightens, her dark red lipstick inviting and glossy, begging for the rough press of my mouth. With an effort, I hold myself back, determined to focus on the conversation. It's hard with her standing so close to me, my fingers tracing unconscious circles on her upper arms. “And she warned me about you, basically told me I should … get as far away from you as I could while I still had the chance.”
I stand there like an idiot for several long seconds as I process the information, our eyes glued to one another, both of us searching for God only knows what.
“I need a drink,” Lyric declares after a moment, pulling gently away from me and turning towards the bar. She takes a seat on one of Smoky's ugly stools and makes eye contact with Fauna. I follow after, watching their interaction as I sit next to Lyric, turning slightly so that our knees touch under the black marble bar top.
“Johnnie Walker—Double Black,” Lyric states proudly, her voice strong and even as Fauna takes in her face, registers the cuts on her cheeks—even behind all that makeup—and then nods.
“What can I get for you, boss?” Fauna asks me as she prepares Lyric's drink.
“Same,” I say as I watch my old lady knock back the amber whisky like it's water, slam her glass down and ask for another. I raise one brow, trying and failing to hold back a small smile. “I like a woman who can hold her drink,” I joke, but it falls flat as Lyric takes yet another slug of liquor and raises her brows at me.
“How about one who can hold her FBI?” she deadpans as Fauna raises her blond brows at us and moves away, giving us some space to talk. “Because that was … intense.”
I watch Lyric for long moments, my heart pounding, sweat slicking my palms. And it's not because of Mile Wide, and it's not because of the FBI, it's because I'm afraid that this is it, that our new relationship will be over before it starts. And why shouldn't it be? I think bitterly, fingers curving against the denim on my thighs like talons. This woman in front of me has everything to gain from life—and everything to lose from dating me.
I stare at her then, and I just know in the back of my mind that she's going to spook, apologize and walk out, through those clubhouse doors and … away.
“Royal,” she begins, but I don't let her talk, spinning her stool towards me and putting a knee between her thighs as I lean forward, capturing her face between my hands. My kiss, when I give it, is violent and demanding, tongue sliding between her glossed lips, red smearing between our mouths like blood. I dive in deep, moving my hands down the sides of Lyric's throat, over her shoulders, arms, gripping her hips and yanking her towards me.
A harsh, hungry moan escapes her throat and she's leaning into me, practically falling off her stool and into my lap. I think I hear Fauna clearing her throat behind me, but I ignore it, sliding my arm under Lyric's knees and breaking the kiss just long enough to lift her into my arms as I stand.
“Jesus,” she murmurs in a breathless whisper as I turn and stalk through the common room, past a grinning Glacier as he appears in the doorway. I give him a look that says with no small amount of venom to keep his fucking mouth shut before we're breezing down the hallway, past photographs of vintage bikes, redwood trees, shots of the coast—my additions to the clubhouse décor.