“She killed herself in our flat. That's why we moved to the States. My mum just wanted to get as far away from there as she could.”
Lyric clears her throat, but my eyes are still closed, so I can't see the expression on her face.
“I'm sorry, Royal,” she says, but the words don't sound as automatic as I think she wants them to be. No, they're laced with emotion. Dripping with it maybe. When I open my eyes, I can see her gazing up at me with a curious expression on that heart-shaped little face of hers. “If you don't mind my asking …”
“Haven't the faintest,” I admit. “My mother kept the suicide note from me, and my grandmother never talked about it. That's about all the family I ever had, and they're all dead. I imagine I won't ever know.” I run my tongue across my lower lip as Lyric drops her hand to her side and closes her own eyes, taking her own calming breaths. I stay right where I am, leaning over her and breathing against the top of her head, but I can only take so much and eventually I have to step away.
I turn back to the counter and grab the loaf of French bread she brought home, cutting it in half and frowning at the pre-made garlic butter spread on the counter. With a curl of my lip, I shove the damn thing aside and grab a stick of butter, some parmesan cheese, parsley, and pressed garlic. A little salt and pepper and there's a spread that's ten times better than that store bought shite.
I pull a knife from the drawer, spin it around my fingers and start buttering the bread.
“Impressive,” Lyric says as she steps up next to me and slides the chicken breasts across the counter. I watch from the corner of my eye as she adds some olive oil into the cast iron skillet and then salts and peppers the meat. Once that's on the heat, she adds butter to another pan and starts to melt it down with a little pressed garlic she steals from the unused pile in front of me. “I'm obsessed with imitating Olive Garden recipes,” she tells me with a small, forced smile. She's nervous, frustrated, confused. But she doesn't take off the ring. “This is my best guess at how they make that goddamn alfredo sauce.”
She adds some parmesan and stirs the sauce gently with a wooden spoon. It's obvious Lyric's no expert in the kitchen, but she moves like she knows what she's doing, adding each ingredient with confidence, keeping her shoulders back and her chin up.
“What you said to my dad,” she continues when I refuse to break the silence. I'm still waiting for an answer here, a solution to our problem. I figure if there's anybody that could come up with a clever trick to solve all our issues, it'd be her. “Did you mean that? About me being the liaison for the club? How will your brothers respond to that?”
I shrug my shoulders and turn to face her, leaning back against the counter and crossing my arms over my chest. Now it's Lyric's turn to watch me from the corner of her eye.
“My old lady's the mayor's daughter, so it only makes sense she'd be the one to handle him. If anybody can keep that uptight twat in line, it'd be you.” I almost smile, but it falls flat, and I end up sliding my hand over my face instead. “You need to get him—and Sully—onboard before this gets out of hand.”
“Isn't it, already?” Lyric asks, but she's not looking at me, pouring some milk into the pan with a steady hand and then moving over to flip the chicken. When she bends down to put the bread in the oven, I check out her ass. Can't help myself. “He'll do it. Trust me, it's in his best interest if he does. As soon as he hears about the Saldaña Cartel, he'll roll over. If there's anything Sully truly loves, it's himself. Waiting around to be picked off by fugitives isn't really his style.” A pause as Lyric washes her hands at the sink and grabs a dish towel to dry them, leaning a hip against the countertop. “But none of that solves this,” she lifts up her left hand with the ring facing out and grimaces, “does it?”
“Ball's in your court, Pint-Size,” I say as I slide a pack of cigs from my pocket and slip one between my lips. Before I can head outside to light it, Lyric's tearing the smoke from my mouth and tossing it into the sink.
“Why the .. FUCK did you do this?” she snaps, her breath coming in sharp bursts. “Get me all twisted up like this? I knew better than to get involved with you.” Lyric pokes me in the chest and I capture her hand with my own, drawing her to me. “If I say no to your stupid proposal, you lose face with the club; I become a liability. Everything goes to hell in a handbasket. If I say yes … I lose my chances of becoming something.” A sob catches in her throat, tears at my chest in the worst fucking way.
Lyric turns away from me, her short hair sliding forward to cover her face, her right fist pressing against her mouth as she struggles to get control of herself. I am such a fucking asshole, I tell myself as I take in a deep breath. What the hell am I doing with this girl? Lyric is so much more than an aside or a confidante or an old lady. She's a leader, a woman with drive and strength and determination. She's destined for great things, things that I can't give her, no matter what I do.