Risky and Wild(78)

Royal needs to save face in front of his club, and my family needs their protection, and … Jesus Christ. Why am I standing here trying to justify this? I'm wearing this ring because even though I don't need a man to complete me, don't even particularly care about being married, I do care about Royal. I like him. I'm pretty damn sure I love him.

But come Sunday—and that horrific family dinner that's awaiting me—it's coming off. That leap of faith, I'm not yet ready to take. Mom's going to die. Literally up and die, keel over and collapse the second she finds out.

Royal flicks his gaze back up to mine and smiles tightly. Last night was difficult for both of us. Today's just promising to be a bit of a doozy for me. I feel like it's the beginning of a really bad joke: the mayor's daughter walks into a party full of outlaws … And I really don't feel like hearing the punch line.

“Stop stalling and get on the damn bike, Pint-Size,” Royal says with a smirk I'm not sure is real, his position atop the massive horse of gleaming metal making me remember that this is only my second time to ever climb on a motorcycle. Oh, wait. If you count last night, third time.

A flush climbs my cheeks, but I pretend I don't notice it, closing my eyes to get myself together. If I'm honest, it's not the motorcycle that's scaring me: it's the destination. I enjoyed my last ride, I did, but then we weren't on our way to meet a forest full of rabid wolves. I shake my short hair out and take a deep breath, dressed once again in the leather outfit Royal picked out for me. It feels like a uniform, like a football player donning his helmet and pads for the big game.

I can do this.

I'm Lyric Lenore Rentz, twenty-eight years old, and I have a law degree and I passed the bar exam and I've worked for my a-hole father for the last three years without losing my damn mind. Hanging out with a bunch of male chauvinists? No problem. I've been there, done that before. Hanging out with their wives … that's the part that's really scaring the crap out of me.

I push my shoulders back, straighten my spine, and jam the helmet over my head, gazing at Royal through the tinted visor before I take a step forward and swing my right leg over the back seat. Don't think I don't know from Google that it's called the bitch seat, but I for one refuse to acknowledge that.

Deep breath.

I lean forward and press my body against Royal's, feeling the warmth of him through his leather vest, his scents capturing my attention even over the salty smell of the ocean. Wet earth, wild growing things, and that faint undertone of spicy soap and leather. Damn him for smelling so good. I'm half-convinced that the man has some sort of secret pheromones that are slowly poisoning my brain. Or maybe it's just the memories of last night, of him fucking me while I was wearing this very vest.

“Ready?” Royal asks, his own helmet in his hands.

I make myself take one last breath, and nod.



Dober's place isn't all that far from Royal's which is kind of a shame since I was really enjoying the ride. Flying down the highway with the sea on one side and towering redwoods on the other? It's a little slice of heaven—especially with Royal's rock-hard body pressed into mine. The growl of the motorcycle slides through me, vibrating my bones, half-convincing me that the thing's alive, some futuristic steel beast that's only partially tamed.

But then we're pulling into a carport with a bunch of other bikes and my heart is suddenly stuck in my throat. Crap.

No, not crap. Fuck. That's my word, remember?

We come to a stop near the side door of the house, some pale blue and white beach cottage that was probably built in the mid sixties. As soon as we come to a stop, I can see through the sliding doors to my left, straight into the kitchen where a cluster of women hover around a small island. The stove top nestled in the laminate counters is covered in pots, steam curling up against the bricks of the fireplace that butts up against it.

The second they hear that engine, their gazes swing my way, a collective stare that chills me straight to my toes. I can see Glinda the Good Witch, Fauna, Janae, and a few other women I haven't had the pleasure of meeting yet. No sign of Mia or her cronies in sight. Royal did promise they wouldn't be here, but it's nice to see that for myself.

“You ready for this?” he asks again, pulling his helmet off and tossing a smirk over his shoulder. I run my leather gloved hands up the patches on his back.

“Ready as I'll ever be,” I say, climbing off the bike and taking my own helmet off. When I lean down next to his ear, I see his hands tighten on the handlebars of the motorcycle. “Now you ready yourself to meet my family. You think this is bad, but you haven't had the pleasure of meeting my grandmas yet.”

I stand up with a smirk of my own, threading my fingers through my short hair and tousling it like I don't give a crap about anything. Inside, I'm screaming. My neatly organized life is a damn mess that I can't fix. I can't run off and take care of some infamous drug cartel, some outlaw motorcycle club. I can't make Royal into the perfect running mate for politics. I just have to roll with the punches I suppose.