Risky and Wild(53)

For Lyric and I to be together … something has to give.

I wish it could be me. In that moment, I wish with everything I have that it could be me.

But it can't.

It has to be her, and I hate that.

“Do you think,” I repeat, “your career can survive a relationship with me?”

“What?” she asks, blinking hard, that cute little face of hers twisting into an expression of confusion that I wish I could whisk away. That, too, is beyond my ability. “What are you talking about?”

“You and me, Pint-Size, we can't work like this. How are you going to keep me a secret forever? I'm part of a national criminal enterprise, love. Outlaws. How are you gonna shake that when you run for state senate? Hell, Janae couldn't even manage to snag a seat on her kid's PTA board.”

“I …” Lyric starts, blinking rapidly at me as I stand up straight, feeling my face pull into a small frown as I stare down at her, fully aware that Dober's made his way over to the bar, moving behind the counter to snag a beer. “What are you saying?”

“I'm saying you're gonna have to quit anyway, love, so what does it matter?” I feel like a right arsehole for saying that, for turning her face into this fucked-up mess of sadness, confusion, frustration.

“You … want me to quit?” she asks again, very slowly, like this is the first time it's really hit her, what being with me would mean. “You want me to drop everything, my whole life … just to be your girlfriend?”

“Don't say it like it's the end of the world, yeah?” I force a smile to my face, even though I don't feel a damn thing but regret. What the hell am I doing? Ask me an hour ago, and I would've said that Lyric was the best fucking thing that ever happened to me. I still think that, but … Jesus Christ. That is what I'm asking, isn't it? I'm asking her to give up everything while I give up nothing.

For a split second, I think about cutting her loose, telling her to get the fuck out of the clubhouse and never come back. But … I can't. I'm so bloody goddamn selfish. I want her, more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.

Pretty sure I'm in love with the woman.

And I really do want to make her my wife, propose to her at the barbecue. It's a slightly faster timeline than I would've wanted, but circumstances being what they are … it feels right.

I keep smiling back at her until my face hurts, the grin crumbling off my chin like it was never there.

“You and me,” I say, reaching out to run a hand down her arm. She shivers, but that awful expression on her face, that stays. “We're good together, aren't we?”

“I need … I'm going home,” she says, pulling away from me, taking several steps back and turning towards the door before I reach out and grab her wrist again. Without warning, she's wrenching herself away from me and stumbling in those high, high heels of hers, spinning and giving me a dark look, one that cuts straight to the core. “Don't touch me, Royal,” she says, breathing hard, her eyes flickering with emotion. “How … dare you.”

“How dare I?” I ask with a quirked brow, crossing my arms over my chest. “How dare I what? Tell you the truth? Because that's the way it is, Pint-Size. It might not be what you had in mind, but life's a bitch like that.”

“You have absolutely zero tact, you know that?” she snaps, slinging her purse up her shoulder and unzipping it to dig around for her keys. “First, you tell me you're going to threaten my brother into implicating himself to the FBI, and then you try to romance me by saying that my life is worth nothing when compared to yours?” She lifts her chin in defiance, eyes flashing. “You think that's the only option? For me to give up everything to be with you? Well, you're wrong, Royal McBride.”

“If there's another option, I'm open to it,” I say, realizing quickly that I've made a total cock-up of the moment, but unable to stop myself. I'm no good at any of this, and it's a pretty steep goddamn learning curve. “But I just don't see it.”

“Oh, really?” Lyric asks, sniffing disdainfully. “Because I do. My other option—one that you might've considered before insulting me—is to choose my career over you.”

She spins on her heel and takes off towards the front of the clubhouse before I can stop her.

“Royal,” Dober starts, but I hold my hand up, moving after her and watching as one of our prospects—Sketch, the boys have been calling him since he spends so much damn time drawing—scrambles to his feet and lunges on his bike, taking off after Lyric's black Chrysler as she squeals out of the parking space and through the compound gates.