Risky and Wild(54)

Fuck.

Glad my mum thought to name me appropriately because I think I just royally fucked things up.





I head home and kick off those stupid heels, scrub all the makeup off my face. I feel like I'm drowning, being dragged away from everything I've ever known and wanted, pulled kicking and screaming into a new life, one that's so foreign it might as well be alien.

I rub my hands down my face and sit hard on the edge of my couch.

Breathe, Lyric, breathe, I tell myself as I lean back and sink into the mountain of throw pillows behind me. Dragging one to my chest, I close my eyes and let the frustrations of the day wash over me. I should be most worried about the FBI, Agent Shelley's penetrating stare, her eyes like melted chocolate. Instead, I'm sitting here thinking about Royal McBride, who I might add, is actually the one at fault for all of this. If I hadn't let myself get tangled in him, then none of this would be happening.

I put the purple pillow to my mouth and let out a little growl against the sequined fabric. Makes me feel better, if nothing else. Tossing it aside, I rise to my feet, pausing to lift up my left foot so I can rub tenderly at the arch. Wow, that hurts. Back to kitten heels tomorrow it is. Only … I don't want to wear those either.

Plain unassuming work shoes … sexy red towering stilettos.

Mayor's daughter and future politician … old lady to the world's hottest outlaw biker.

None of those things feel like me, like I don't fit into any of those categories.

“Fuck,” I say aloud, dropping my foot to the floor. My word of the day is about twice as relevant now as it was earlier. Didn't even know that was possible.

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?

Royal's lack of savoir faire aside, he's right. And that's the worst part of this whole thing. For a moment there, I wish I could wave a wand and transport back to Sunday, to that magical moment in his bedroom when we agreed to be together.

I snort sharply.

How naïve. And I'm not a naïve sort of person. Lyric Lenore Rentz, she's careful. Prepared. Perfectly put together.

Or at least she's supposed to be.

With a sigh, I dig through my purse for my cell, finding several missed calls from Royal and a text that says see you at ten, like we didn't just have a fight in the middle of his clubhouse. I purse my lips and shake my head, moving into my bedroom to snag a pair of slippers with hard soles on the bottom.

I'm heading to the hospital to talk to my brother in person, see if I can get the whole story instead of the abridged version. I need to know exactly what he and Brent were up to, so I can make a decision about what to do here. Whether things work out with Royal or not, this FBI scandal has to go away. It just has to.

I head outside, salute the guy on the bike, some young dude with dark hair falling into his face and eyes that look yellow in the waning afternoon light, and climb into my car. I'm determined not to fuss and fret over Royal tonight … but I can't shake his words from my head.

Royal and me, we are good together.

But, like I knew from the start—I knew—I'm afraid we'll never work together.

No, not just afraid. Terrified.

Because I think I'm falling in love with Royal, and like a wolf who mates for life, I'm afraid that's only going to happen for me once.



“Sully,” I say with a smile, sweeping into his room and not caring that the nurse at the visitor information desk scowled at my slippers and snapped something about visiting hours being over soon. I plop a vase of pink carnations and a white container of pad Thai on his bedside table and try not to cringe at the swollen purple swells of his face, or his right arm wrapped in a heavy white cast.

He cracks his bruised lids when I pause next to his bed and cross my arms over my chest, staring at the sleek, shiny waves of his hair. Someone must be taking care of it for him. My mother, maybe, or more probably one of the nurses. My brother's never had any issues attracting women like moths to flame.

“What do you want, Lyric?” he grumbles, turning his face away, his jawline hardly recognizable behind the lumps and yellow-green bruises. “I'm not really in the mood to chat right now.”

“Yeah, well,” I start, huffing out a sigh and glancing at the closed door to the hallway. “We have a problem.”

“A problem,” he mumbles, grudgingly turning his gaze to mine, hands curling into fists in the crisp white blanket over his lap. At the foot of the bed, one of my grandmother's quilts lays folded and perfect, little blue and yellow squares the only color in this awful room.

It strikes me suddenly that the reason my brother's here, the state that he's in, that's because of Royal. Royal did this. He took a hammer to my older brother and he … would've killed Brent if someone else hadn't gotten to him first. How can I even consider being with this guy? What the hell is wrong with me?