King is glaring at me. “You realize you put her safety above protecting your brothers?”
“I don’t see it that way. I feel responsible, as a man and as a brother. We led them to her.” I want to say more. I want to shove King’s words down his throat because there is not a single man in this club who cares about this brothers’ security more than I do, no one who cares more than I have repeatedly shown.
King nods at Vex, who then turns his laptop around. “The plates you asked me to run. This the guy?”
I lean forward and look at the picture. “Yeah. That’s the guy.”
A look passes between Clutch and King. Clutch shakes his head, a minute movement but a shake all the same.
“What? Who is he?”
“That’s Rian O’Sullivan.”
Fuck me. I don’t know shit about the guy, but that name sounds . . .
“Irish,” Clutch says. “Been a part of Cillian Ó Ceallaigh’s organization for seven years. How do you think we guessed you’re fucking with the Irish?”
My world goes out of focus for a moment as I process. “Iris was run off the road by one of her uncle’s people?”
“She was run off the road?” King asks as confusion hits his features too.
“Thursday. I was following her home from school. After I took that long ride to clear my head. I’d decided I was going to try and draw a line between me and her. A truck blindsided her, then drove off. I left Iris with her best friend, then drove after the fucker.” I explain what happened after the chase.
“Shit,” Vex mutters.
“Why didn’t you bring this to me?” I ask Vex.
He rubs his hand over his hair. “He was Irish, man. You’re in too deep with the Irish chick to make rational decisions.”
“Fuck you,” I mutter. “Don’t question my judgment.”
“Says the guy who planted a camera on her house and a tracker somewhere without telling her,” Vex fires back.
“It is our fault she was shot,” I yell, slamming the table with my hand. “You know what? Fuck this shit. You’re all judge, jury, and executioner. I only meant to protect her. I didn’t mean to fall in love with her. And I don’t know what the fuck it means that her uncle tried to run her off the fucking road. But I’m gonna find out. The only question is if I have my club backing me up, or am I on my own? Because if you’re all scared of Cillian Ó Ceallaigh and what he can do, you might as well have this back,” I say, slamming the patch on my chest. “If you won’t help me, this means shit anyway.”
I take a breath, the air punctuated with the echoes of what I just yelled.
So much for de-escalation.
I think I just quit my club.
For Iris.
And I don’t have a single regret about it.
I trust her more than I trust any of these fuckers, which says a lot. Because right up until this moment, I would have trusted them with my life.
Now? I’m not so sure.
I take a deep breath. “I’ve fucked up. Shit’s been hard since I got back from Kabul. I lost my men. I lost your dad. The picnic was shot at. I almost lost Iris. I’m done losing people I care about. I can’t take another.” Rubbing my hands over my face, I shake my head. “Fuck this.”
I walk out of the office and slam my palm on the bar. A prospect hustles a bottle of Patrón and a shot glass in front of me. I pour a full glass and slam it for kicks.
A hand grips my shoulder. This is it. The minute I get my cut ripped off, get clear instructions to tattoo over the Iron Outlaws patch on my skin, and get kicked out onto the street. My world tilts.
“You’re being a dramatic dick.” Clutch’s hand digs into my tense muscles.
“Fuck off.”
He slides out and sits on the stool on one side of me; King takes the other. Vex is gone.
“You claiming the Irish chick?” King asks.
“Her fucking name is Iris.”
King shrugs. “One letter difference. Irish, Iris. Only thing missing is the H.”
I never noticed that. “Yeah. I’m claiming the Irish chick.”
“You want us to help you figure out what she’s involved in?”
“I do. She doesn’t want this life. Tried to extricate herself from it as soon as she was old enough to leave Cillian. But I’ve been winning her over.”
Clutch laughs. “Is that what we’re calling fucking these days?”
I can’t help but muster a smile. “It’s more than that. But I’m going to try and figure this shit out without distressing her more than I need to.”
King taps the bar. “One last formality before I rip the shit out of you for hooking up with the tiny half-pint of a woman. I can’t just let this slide. You disregarded a direct order. You left us vulnerable. This might cost us money in the long run if Cillian tries to claim any kind of payback. I’m docking your share for the next three months, putting it back into the club in reserve. You won’t get paid again until the new year.”
I let out a breath. I got plenty of money to tide me over. Worst case, I’ll grab some off-the-books construction or security work. But it won’t come to that.
“Fair enough,” I say. “Just don’t tell me how much it would have been.”
King laughs. “You shitting me? I’m gonna spray paint it on the walls of your room so you see just how expensive your taste in pussy runs. Would have been cheaper to throw a bucket load of hundreds at the women in the strip club.”
“Fuck.” I hiss. “You’re a dick.”
“And your dick is the reason we’re even having this conversation. How the fuck did you get Iris to look beyond that pretty face of yours?”
Now I do grin. “I’m still working on it.”
“Not tonight, you’re not. Tonight, you’re staying here, telling me all about what happened down at the docks, then getting fucked up with the rest of us.” King pauses. “There’s one last thing. Debated bringing it up and shit, but . . . Kabul. You’re not straight on that shit. One of the rules of you still having a patch come January is you taking care of it. You need cash for that? The club’s all in.”
The final request hurts more than shrapnel.
And it wipes the grin off my face.
23
IRIS
“Iris,” Chris shouts the following day as I’m about to head to my car. “Wait up.”
I shift my purse to the other shoulder. “What’s up?”
“The weirdest thing just happened. Dylan Shires’s father did the school pickup this afternoon, and he was clearly in a lot of pain. Wincing as he bent down, that kind of thing. Then I noticed his hand. His fingers are all busted up.”
“That is weird.”
Chris nods. “Even weirder, he had a bunch of new shit for Dylan. A video game, a stuffed dinosaur.”
“Dylan loves dinosaurs. He can name nearly all of them. What do you think it means?”
Chris shakes his head. “I called the police and asked them to do a welfare check on Dylan, given social services are dragging their heels. Get him on someone’s radar faster this way.”