Kicked: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (77 page)

“W-what?” I ask, taking a single step back, my heart thudding against my ribcage and my entire body turning to liquid beneath me. I want to melt into Royal's arms, let him scoop me up and show me
exactly
what he can do in the privacy of the club's dorm rooms. But I won't let him talk to me like that. First rule of business: show no weakness, take no crap. “How
dare
you speak to me like that,” I snap instead, using the heat and desire that's boiling in my blood and turning it straight to anger. “What on earth would make you think I'd
ever
want to go anywhere or do anything with you, Royal McBride?”

There's a moment of strained silence as Royal blinks stupidly back at me and lets his mouth fall open with shock. It's a strange look to see on a face as confident and handsome as his. I doubt this man's at all used to being shocked by anything.

“Fucking hell,” he murmurs, running his tattooed fingers over his strong jaw. “Pint-Size, is that you?”

I furrow my brows and cross my arms over my chest. I don't think the action is quite as effective as I'd meant it to be. I'm
trying
to look imposing here, but all I think I've really done is draw Royal's eyes down to the pale swell of my breasts.
Crap.

“I have a name, you know?” I say, feeling my cheeks heat and my body quiver beneath that powerful gaze.
My God.
If the man hadn't just insulted me, there's a good chance that I'd be leaping into his arms right now. How scary is that? “Lyric—” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“Rentz, I know. I remember you. We only just met this afternoon.” I roll my eyes as Royal flashes me a sultry grin, his teeth white against the dark stubble on his face. “The
mayor's
daughter. You'd think you'd be here if I hadn't invited you?” His accent is warming up all sorts of places better left cold. Getting involved with this guy—even for a second—would be a very, very bad idea. “I'd been expecting that ugly gray suit jacket of yours. Good God, babe, I didn't even recognize you.”

“Doesn't make what you said any less offensive,” I insert, but I can already see that Royal's moved on. He's circling me like a … well, I hate to make this pun, but like a
wolf.
I feel like he's studying me with those predator's eyes of his.

I turn with him, refusing to give him an uninterrupted shot of my ass.

“I thought you were a leather lover,” he says, his voice long and drawn out, like he's too caught up in staring at me to think straight. I try to brush the thought away, but it sticks to my mind like a cobweb.
Royal … likes what he sees?

“A leather lover?” I ask, blinking back at him as he pauses in front of me. I can smell leather and some sort of rich, deep scent, like wet earth and leaves. I wonder if it's cologne? Aftershave? “What's a leather lover?”

Royal takes a step closer to me, and I fight the urge to step back.
I won't let him intimidate me.

“A leather lover,” he begins, reaching over and brushing some of the loose brunette strands of my hair over one ear. I shiver at the touch. “Is what I call the club groupies, the girls who hang around the clubhouse.”

“Groupies?” I ask, my voice sounding strangled and way too naïve. Again, I'm not stupid, but really? “Rock stars have groupies,” I correct, lifting my arms up in an attempt to cover my breasts. Doesn't work. This stupid red dress is too low cut, too stretchy, too tight. I should never have raided my sister's closet. “Not
bikers.
” I can't help it, but that word slips out with a hint of distaste. Oops.

Royal narrows those dark brown eyes of his, towering over me as his mouth twists down in a slight frown. The expression only lasts for a second, but it freaks me out. This guy … he's got a ruthless streak that I'd like to avoid meeting, thank you very much.

“Hey,” he says, perking up considerably, like it's no effort at all; I can tell it's a technique he's been practicing for years. “To some people, we
are
rock stars.” Royal smiles at me again. “Don't you watch
Sons of Anarchy?
”

A slight twitch of my mouth is answer enough.

“Not a fan?” he asks, voice dropping as his gaze catches on my lips, on the bright streak of red that matches my dress. I'm not used to dressing up like this. My usual evening wear consists of a knee-length black dress with cap sleeves, a simple diamond pendant, and some eyeshadow. This is way outside of my comfort zone.

“Not really,” I respond, my breathing deepening as my eyes flick between Royal's mouth and the mischievous little twinkle in his gaze. “Why? Is it an accurate representation of
the life
?”

Royal laughs again, weaving his fingers together behind his neck and tilting his head at me. I try not to look at his face, thinking that'll help me stay sane around this walking, talking slice of sex, but all it does is put me at eye level with the taut, hard muscles in his chest and abdomen. The tight black fabric of his T-shirt stretches across what's got to be an eight pack. I didn't even know those were real.

“Do you like what you see?” he asks me as I take a quick step back and force my attention back to his face.

“I, uh.” I can't find the words to answer, instead reaching up to catch a stray strand of hair that the wind's tugged free. My non-answer is answer enough.

“Well, I can tell you with complete and utter honesty that I
really
like what I see. You cut a nice figure, Pint-Size.”

I sweep my hands down the front of my dress and take another step back.

“I should go,” I say, knowing that coming here was a mistake, a side effect of my sometimes too stubborn personality. This is not an appropriate time or place for business, and I'm supposed to be representing my father here. I might be twenty-eight years old, but I can tell you that if he saw what I was wearing, my dad would go completely insane. Probably fire me, too.

“Go?” Royal asks, true puzzlement lacing his voice. “But you only just got here. Don't be so uptight, Pint-Size. Come party with us.”

When he reaches down to take my hand, the contact knocks the air—and any future protesting—right out of me.

Two minutes inside the hot, sweaty interior of the clubhouse and I can already tell that I''m being treated with kid gloves. Nobody talks to me, hardly even
touches
me. In the thick press of bodies, I'm the only person who seems to have a personal space bubble surrounding me. Or maybe there's some invisible sign above my head that says
MAYOR'S DAUGHTER—APPROACH WITH CAUTION.

I sigh.

“Can I get a Midori sour, please?” I ask the bartender, draping my fingers across the black marble bar top and letting my eyes wander around the room. A snort from across the counter draws my attention to a pair of blue eyes and a strange half-smile.

“A Midori sour? Please, honey. Take a look around the room.” The woman laughs, her teeth white in her tanned face. “I can get you some draft beer, a Bud, or two fingers of Johnnie Walker. Take your pick.” I flush from head to toe and wish I'd left when I had the chance. Now that I've talked with Royal, I feel obligated to stick around for a while.
Back in a jiff, babe.
I check my phone. It's been fifteen minutes since Royal left. I don't know about him, but according to Merriam Webster, a
jiff
is a
moment
or an
instant.
Not fifteen of them.

“Yeah, uh, Johnnie Walker?” I say. It comes out as a question.

The woman stares at me with some small amount of understanding and compassion and nods her head.

“Coming right up.”

I climb onto the leather bar stool and listen to the raucous boiling around me. It's absolutely
crazy
in here. Never in my life have a seen a party like this—not even in college. There's enough alcohol floating around to drown a herd of elephants, and the air is thick with the double scents of tobacco and pot (this is still Humboldt County after all). Plus, if I was the kind of person who kept count … I've seen at least thirty pairs of bare boobs—okay, okay
thirty-
six—and some couples who look like they should maybe move their activities to a more private area.

“You're the mayor's daughter, right?” the blonde asks me, pouring some alcohol into a glass without even glancing at it. She lifts the bottle up and pushes my drink towards me.

“Is it that obvious?” I ask, thinking about Royal's expression when I first turned around. He really
didn't
recognize me. The woman laughs and shakes her head, her halter top and tight leather pants giving the impression that she's a regular here. A … leather lover, maybe? An
old lady
? God, I hate that term. I thought I was dressing the part in my tight red strapless dress and black studded heels, but I look more like a club rat than a biker chick. The girls here have tattoos and piercings, leather jackets and pants that look painted on. I really missed the mark on this one.

“Royal said we should be on the lookout for you. Didn't recognize your face and you don't look like a groupie to me.” I try to decide if that's a compliment or not. I think it is.

“So that's it,” I say, looking over my shoulder again at the mass of men in leather vests and jackets, the girls dancing on a small stage in the corner. “Everyone here knows each other?”

“Yeah, well, that's club life for you.” I study the blonde's face, the faint laugh lines around her mouth. At first glance, I thought she was in her early thirties, but really I think she's probably around my mother's age. Wow. It's amazing what a sea of tattoos, some makeup, and a confident aura can do for a person. “You come to talk business?”

I shrug. I'm not exactly sure
why
I'm here. At first, it was because I was just pissed at Royal for blowing me off. Now … now I'm just stuck.

“Sort of,” I say and then shake my head. “I mean, if I can find him in all of this.” I gesture at the craziness behind me with my right hand and slam back the whiskey with the other.

Holy. Shit.

Oh God, that burns!

I slam the glass down on the bar and get a round of cheers from the men seated on either side of me.

“Nobody ever say the mayor's daughter can't hold her booze!” one of them yells and then they all lift their beers and cheer me on as the bartender pours another round in my glass.
Uh oh.

My throat's still burning and my stomach is churning with the sudden rush of alcohol to the system, but now everybody's looking at me. I've never been one to do things half-assed.

“Bottoms up,” I say, not sure if that's the right slang or not. Oh well.

I lift the drink up and down it in one swallow. More cheers.

“Another?” Blondie asks and I shrug.
What the hell.
The men continue to cheer me on, hooting and hollering as I down another round. And then another. By the time that fourth one hits me, I can feel it in my head like a tingling buzz, a swarm of bees in my brain.

“Can I get a soda or something?” I ask and the men groan, going back to their business with a clink of beer bottles and the rustle of leather.
Show's over, boys.

“Name's Fauna,” the bartender says as she pushes a glass towards me. “And you're … ?”

“Lyric,” I say and then hiccup. I clamp a hand over my mouth and glance around, but nobody's looking at me. Why would they? There's a pair of girls on a nearby table doing body shots. “Lyric Rentz, Deputy Mayor of Operations and Government Affairs.” I slide my drink closer and take a deep breath.

Fauna raises a pale brow at me.

“What exactly does a
Deputy Mayor
do anyway?” she asks, her voice holding the same amount of distaste for my job title as I'd had when I said
biker
to Royal earlier.

“Basically whatever the mayor can't be bothered to do,” I say and then cringe, glancing around like my dad might be standing in a sea of drunk motorcycle men. “Anything he doesn't have time for.”

“Like coming to a truce with the Alpha Wolves?” Fauna asks, blue eyes focused on me as I sip my soda from the white and red straw. I can feel a lure being hooked, like she's trying to fish the information out of me.

She can try all she wants; I'm a closed book.

I smile up at her and then move to slide off my stool.

The world tilts and spins around me, making me realize that I'm a hell of a lot more buzzed than I thought I was.
How did that happen?
Wasn't I stone-cold sober just a few minutes ago?

“Careful there, Pint-Size. I don't think your Daddy would look too kindly on the club if you fell and broke your head tonight.” Royal's fingers wrap around my upper arm, steadying me. I turn my gaze to face him and find him smiling at me, not even bothering to try and hide his amusement.

“A jiff is a moment or an instant,” I blurt, and I realize that I must sound ridiculous. “Not twenty or thirty of them.” The president of the Alpha Wolves MC stares at me like I'm crazy for a moment and then laughs, shaking his head at me.

“You're one interesting girl, you know that, Pint-Size?”