“Iris.” His voice is calm to my frantic.
“Why would you do this?” I shout. “You can’t be that cruel. He won’t cope well. He—”
“You know how to fix this, Iris. All I need is some information.”
“What kind? Be specific. I looked,” I shout. Suddenly, with the reality of Michael being put in harm’s way, even myself, my priorities become clear.
“I need to know what supply routes they are building for weapons, when the next deliveries from south of the border are, and where they are storing the cash to pay for them. Handover points. Timing. Details. I want to know how they are making their cash. Use your brain, Iris. Spark is sergeant at arms, so he’s involved in planning these things.”
I can’t speak. I hate this. I hate Cillian.
I hang up.
I glance back up the stairs, where Spark is in the bathroom dealing with his hair. He wanted us to shower together, but I playfully told him that my body needed a break from his attentions. When in truth, I just wanted to shave my legs, underarms, and bikini line in a bit of privacy. When I fessed up, he laughed and said he was looking forward to inspecting the fruits of my labor later.
I’m sorry, I mouth to the ceiling, aiming my words in his direction.
I place my palms on the cool countertop. Leaves are starting to fall from the trees. The world is shifting from bright greens to oranges and browns. Soon, it will creep into the frigid world of winter. Everything has changed. And I hate where I am.
It’ll be Thanksgiving in a month or so, and I don’t feel like I have much to be grateful for.
A wave of panic sweeps over me. This isn’t going to go away. I tried to extricate myself from Cillian so his enemies wouldn’t involve me in this game he continues to play. Instead, he’s involving me, leveraging Michael to keep me in my place, and putting me at risk. I run my hand along the brace on my wrist. He deliberately hurt me.
I message my brother Thomas. Did you know Cillian fired Alicia?
Unusually, he responds within seconds. What Cillian does is his business.
Pain stabs through my heart as surely as if the knife sitting in the block on the counter were pushed through it. I touch the handle. It’s smooth and worn. I know my thoughts are in a dark place.
Fuck. So is my life.
“Ready?” Spark says as he walks into the kitchen and grabs the keys to his bike off the hook.
He scrubs up well. His beard is trimmed. I can see his dimples as he smiles at me. He’s falling in love with me. It’s right there in his eyes. The way his hand reaches for mine. But it’s not me he loves. It’s a version of me he has in his head. Just like I could fall for the romanticized version of him I have in mine.
I bet Spark and his club do the things my uncle does. They make people feel insignificant. Pawns in a chess match. And, shit, I’m about to do the same thing with Spark. He doesn’t know I’m about to betray him to help my brother.
Even as I say it, I know I can’t put Spark in harm’s way.
The games we play aren’t Scrabble or poker. The loser doesn’t get to drink two fingers of whiskey or pay off a funny bet among friends. People die when these games are lost and won.
I’ve become what I despised.
And I hate myself for it.
I will myself to tell him the truth. To confess. Spark’s the only person besides Michael who loves me as I am. And once I tell him, he won’t look at me like I’m precious anymore.
Despite the storm whirled up inside me, I take his hand. It feels solid. Like a lifeline. Something to hold on to. An anchor to my storm.
I force a smile. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Two hours later, we’re sitting outside the clubhouse, the scent of barbecue fills the air, and my mood hasn’t lightened. Sure, I’ve got a good mask on. It’s the one I wear at school when the kids I love dearly have been little shits. I’m sitting with a group of old ladies, but the three beers I’ve drunk haven’t even begun to take the edge off.
“So, how do you enjoy teaching?” Gwen asks. It’s hard to believe she’s the twin sister of King, the president, whose tongue is currently three feet down the throat of a lithe, tall woman.
“I love it and hate it. Time with children, teaching those little fingers and hands and minds and bodies to be excited about learning, is incredible. But the politics and contracts and lack of funds and the occasional entitled parent drive me bonkers at times.”
Tessa smiles. “I remember when I had three kids under five. Made me bow down to anyone who chose to spend so much time with kids on a daily basis.”
Marlie sighs. “We would have loved kids. We just couldn’t have ’em. Decided we’d just be the best aunt and uncle we could be to Rubble’s nieces and nephews. What about you, Iris? Do you want kids?”
I can’t help but look over at Spark as she asks. He’s in a huddle with Bates and Halo, who called me “Irish.”
Saint told me it took balls to enter the clubhouse.
I think they like me, but there will always be distance between us because of who I am.
They don’t trust the Irish with good reason.
I don’t belong here.
Yet. The word is a whisper, but I dismiss it.
“Spark does,” Gwen says. “I’ve seen him with the kids when there are family days.”
“Remember how Spark put Wrinkle’s kid to sleep by laying the kid out over his forearm, head in his palm? That baby slept for two hours like that, and Spark just went about his business with the kid in tow.”
I don’t want to think about Spark as a father. I don’t want to think about what a good man he is. Or how friendly these women have been to me. I don’t want to be around the other women who throw themselves at the men, including Spark, even though he appears to be brushing them off. They don’t have the same boundaries I do.
I want to tell them, You don’t hit on someone else’s man. But Spark isn’t really mine.
Shit. He is. My head’s a mess.
I’ve never felt so trapped. So terrified that my heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest. Maybe this is what a silent panic attack feels like.
If I tell Spark what is wrong, I risk the trust of his club.
If I tell Cillian I know about the accident, I risk Michael’s support.
“Would you excuse me?” I say, before making my way to the rear door of the clubhouse. My knees wobble as light spins in my peripheral vision.
I pass Spark, who playfully reaches for my hand and twirls me into his arms.
“Pussy,” Bates mutters.
“Brave thing to say in front of Irish,” Halo says.
Bates shrugs as they walk away. “Fair point.”
“You okay?” Spark asks, kissing the side of my neck. He’s leaning on the edge of a picnic table and draws me between his legs. The move is sweet, his lips hot against my skin.
I don’t want to be turned on, yet I am.
“I’m thinking of going home,” I say, anger filling me from my toes up.
His face changes. “Did someone upset you? If it was Halo calling you Irish, I can tell him to stop. Or was it one of the old ladies? I can talk to Clutch, get him to ask Gwen to wind her neck in.”
And suddenly, I can’t hold any of it in, even though none of it makes any sense.