“You're not going to snooker me into any sort of relationship with you, sweetheart. In fact, you're goddamn lucky that the club decided not to pursue this further. You're a fucking liability, Mia. If you think any of the Wolves want an old lady that jeopardizes the well-being of the club on a whim, you're sorely mistaken.”
“You mean any of the Wolves except for you.”
I flick my cigarette to the ground and cross my arms over my chest. Mia stares at me for a long moment and then screams, a loud piercing sound that gets that old geezer next door to come sprinting out his front door. I stand there stoic as a goddamn statue as Mia hits me, pummeling me with her fists as she gets the rage out.
Wow. She really is lucky. I don't hit women, but some of the old-timers … they're a different breed altogether.
“Fuck you, Royal!” she screeches as the old man starts shouting about calling the cops on my convict ass. “Piece of shit!” She storms away, pausing next to my bike and sliding her keys from her pocket.
“Don't do something you'll regret,” I warn her, dropping my hands to my sides. But what am I going to do? Manhandle the woman with that old bastard watching? I have the feds, Mile Wide, and the Saldaña Cartel on my arse. I can't handle a confrontation with the police. “You do this and you'd best find yourself a one-way ticket out of town—somewhere the Wolves don't have a chapter.”
“Fuck. You.” Mia drags her key along the paint with a screech, moving over to Lyric's car next until she makes her way back to the piece of shit clunker at the bottom of the driveway. I stand stone still, my heart thumping, my blood raging. Did I say I didn't hit women? I want to beat the shit out of Mia right now. She fucking comes to my place after disrespecting my old lady? My club? Me? And now my goddamn bike?
But I've got enough self-control to know that this is best.
Mia digs in the front seat of her car and tosses garbage onto my lawn while my neighbor continues to yell at us. At least if he calls the cops now, I'm the good guy. It's all I can do at this point.
“Enjoy your white collar bitch,” Mia shouts as she slams the passenger side door and moves over to the driver's side. When she climbs in, she rolls the window down and lifts her arm out, middle finger raised as her tires squeal and screech across the pavement.
I'm fucking irate, but I console myself with the thought that this'll be the last of Mia I ever see.
Not even that idiot's stupid enough to show her face after the stunt she just pulled. Nobody's that goddamn oblivious.
“I can't believe she keyed my car,” Lyric says, her voice echoing down the hallway as I wait in the living room with my fingers tucked in the front pockets of my dark wash jeans. That's about all I did to dress up: picked a fresh pair of hole free jeans. Black t-shirt, my cut, riding boots. I hope the mayor likes my evening attire. “Seriously, I know I've said that like a hundred times, but I can't get over the audacity of it. And your bike? That must be, like, some sort of MC taboo. Don't you have to send some prospects to beat her up or something?”
I laugh as I listen to the sound of Lyric's footsteps moving down the hall. I thought holding her, fucking her, kissing her were the best parts of this new relationship between us. But having her get ready in my bathroom? Spread her soaps and her razors and her hairbrush across my counter? Bloody hell. If I wasn't in love already, I would be now.
“Kidding, Kidding. Mia might be a psychotic weirdo, but … your guys don't really beat up women, do they?” Lyric's voice moves closer and then suddenly there she is, standing in the entrance to the living room in a red dress and a pair of short, black leather boots. “Royal? Do I look okay?”
I find myself frozen, my cock rigid and long and painful in my jeans, my heart racing in my chest, my throat suddenly tight. If we weren't already late … oh, hell to that. I think we have time for a quick shag.
“Okay?” I ask as she moves towards me, running her hands down the knee-length skirt. “Fucking brilliant, Pint-Size. You're a real corker, love.”
“Corker?” she asks with a snort. “Is that something I want to be?” Lyric looks up at me as she runs her fingers through her short hair, her face lightly made up, just enough to hide the cuts on her cheeks. “Do you think the leather booties are too much?” she asks when I don't answer her previous question, too caught up in staring to do much else.
“Not at all,” I say as I pull her close, appreciating the way her dress matches my sister's ring. She keeps saying she's not wearing it, but it's still there.
“I was trying to match your tattoos,” she says, pointing at the red rose on the side of my neck.