I spend the whole time thinking about Iris. The thought of how large my palm print would be on her ass made it an uncomfortable ride for my cock. That was a pure brat move she just pulled. Or maybe it was her way of giving me . . . something. I should spank the shit out of her for it. And yet watching her come was . . . arousing. We pull to a stop in the parking lot across the street from the port, where we shift the bikes back into the shadows and wait, out of sight.
“What were you doing tonight?” Saint asks, his hands folded across his chest.
I shake my head. “Nothing much.” I hate lying, but King’s instructions were crystal clear. Hands off Iris. But tonight was worth every possible punishment. Because for a few blessed moments, I had her on my bike. I had those emerald eyes of hers on me while she came, and the world tilted in my favor. Fuck. “You?”
“Was doing Jessica when King hammered on the door and asked me to do this.”
I laugh, trying to shake off the need to turn around and go back to Iris, to show her exactly what she did to me. “For a holy man, you don’t know the meaning of the word abstinence.”
“A loving doe, a graceful deer. May her breasts satisfy you always. Proverbs 5:19. It’s as if God personally instructed me to worship those double Es of hers.”
I choke out a laugh as a black sedan pulls into the lot. “This him?” I ask, placing my palm on my gun. The feel of cold metal grounds me back in the here and now.
Saint shrugs. “Probably.”
Saint walks out of the shadows while I cover his back. The window lowers, Saint ducks his head to see, then hands over the envelope of cash. Worth every penny to keep the docks wide open to us.
The car peels out of the parking lot. “Well, that was easy,” Saint says, smoothing his hand over his beard. Fucker even looks like Jesus—not that I really know what Jesus looks like. But the whole wavy long hair and beard thing. I laugh at the thought.
“What’s funny?” he asks.
“Just thinking you look a lot like Jesus, the one on those cheap candles with the weird-looking heart.”
Saint shakes his head as he gets on his bike. “That’s the Sacred Heart of Jesus you’re shitting on.”
“I’m not shitting on it . . . but you’ve got to admit, they could have gone with a better design.”
“O Sacred Heart of Jesus, for whom it is impossible not to have compassion on the afflicted, have pity on us miserable sinners.”
“Miserable sinners? It’s either us or a seventies rock band.”
Saint flips his middle finger in my direction, and I laugh. But before we can start our bikes, a black truck veers into the lot, the rear passenger door flapping open, and screams coming from inside. Dirt and dust swirl in the air as the driver slams on the breaks. A woman falls out of the back. She’s barefooted, wearing a slip of a dress, and starts running across the expanse of the lot, headed straight for us.
“Help me. Please. Help.” She’s American, but her accent is hard to place.
“Fuck me,” I mutter, because whatever this is, I can’t leave it, but I don’t want to be involved. Saint and I climb off our bikes.
A man gets out of the truck. Greasy-looking fucker with slicked-back hair and camo pants. They’re cheap. Not official military. Doesn’t stop him trying to look the part.
“Get back in the truck, girl.”
“No,” she shouts, then looks up at me. “Please help me.” Her words come out on a whisper.
“How many in the truck?” I ask Saint.
“One in the passenger seat.”
“Were you alone in the back of the truck?” I ask her.
She nods, then rubs her wrists. There are raw wounds around them. “They tied me up.”
I step towards the guy. “Get the fuck out of here.”
I’m not surprised when he pulls his gun. Just as quickly, Saint and I pull ours. “I don’t rate your chances,” I shout.
The fucker doesn’t listen and fires his weapon, which by all the things that are Sacred-Heart-of-Jesus-worthy is the dumbest fucking thing you can do.
Saint and I open fire, aiming at the tires and truck rather than the person.
Grease-boy dives for cover back into the truck as the girl cries and covers her ears.
“You got her?” I shout to Saint, who promptly drags her onto the back of his bike.
“Yeah. Know a place I can take her. I’ll meet you at the clubhouse.”
He pulls out of the lot ahead of me, just in time for a bullet to hit a stop sign about ten feet to my right. I bike out of range, but then I wait, just to make sure enough damage was done to the truck. When I’m confident Saint has enough of a head start, I peel down the road after him.
I’m not sure what we just stopped. Rape. Trafficking.
It was the right thing to do.
But our cuts tell our enemies exactly who we are, and I don’t have a fucking clue who they were.
And one thing I know for sure, payback is always a bitch.
6
IRIS
“Young Iris,” Cillian says as I enter the house to see Michael the following Saturday.
He always used to call me that when I petitioned him for anything as a child.
There’s an age gap between me and my brothers. Mom struggled with fertility issues. I’m twenty-seven, Thomas is twenty, and Michael is nearly seventeen. There are two half siblings somewhere with Dad’s side piece. I’ve got no intention of getting to know them.
When I found out that we might end up in foster care, with Michael separate from Thomas and I due to the extra care he needed, I pleaded with Cillian to take us all in.
In fairness, the man had. But I see him collecting his pound of flesh from Thomas, who works as one of his soldiers.
“Cillian.” I stopped calling him Uncle the day I moved out of his house to go to college, determined to be independent. I took out loans. I took care of myself, holding down two jobs. I was a lousy lifeguard who didn’t like getting wet all that much, but a great barista. You want a leaf or a flower on your coffee espuma, I’m your girl.
Then, four months after I graduated, I found out he’d paid off my loans without my permission.
“I sent Michael out for a walk so I could speak with you alone for a few minutes.”
I slip my coat off my shoulders and lay it down on the arm of the sofa. Cillian glances at it disdainfully. So what if it came from a secondhand store as opposed to his bespoke navy suit from an atelier in Manhattan. “What did you want?”
Cillian gestures for me to sit, and I do. He takes the chair by the fireplace and crosses one leg over the other. Light reflects in the shiny patent leather of his shoes.
“How’s the leg?” he asks.
I fold my arms across my chest. “Perfectly fine and healed, given it’s been over a month since it happened. Thanks for asking.”
The corner of Cillian’s mouth lifts with a smirk. I might be the only person on the planet who talks to him like that. “Fair point. I should have sent something.”
I roll my eyes. “Or you could have just picked up the phone and called.”
He nods once. “Or you could let me move you closer, so we see you every day.”