It’s too warm for a fire, but one is roaring.
I slip my jacket off and sit on the opposite side of the desk.
“What have you learned?” Cillian asks.
“I’ve learned that Spark’s boiler broke months ago, and that he’s applying for a permit to build a workshop. I know he’s sergeant at arms and that he has something that feels a lot like PTSD, from being in the military. And I know the layout of the Iron Outlaws compound because I was there recently. But other than that, I don’t know anything that would be useful to you.”
Cillian leans forward and pushes a piece of paper and pencil across the desk. “Draw it.”
“Draw what?”
“The layout of their compound.”
“For real?”
He folds his arms and leans back in the plush leather chair. “This conversation ends now if you don’t.”
I stare at him for a moment, but then I draw. And with every scrape of charcoal, the guilt of my deceit becomes heavier. I draw the main building and the outbuildings. I try to remember the layout of rooms. The kitchen, where Gwen and Tessa laughed as they sipped on coolers and made potato salad. The hallway of rooms. Spark’s, where he and I had our intense sexual encounter. His neighbors: Niro, whose headboard slammed against the wall that night for so long Spark got up and hammered on it, and Saint, from whom I heard the lonely notes of a hymn from a guitar.
I add cameras, the pool table, King’s office.
And I apologize to Spark with every letter I write. But I have things I need to say to Cillian that can’t wait.
When I’m done, I slide it back to Cillian. “Is this enough?”
He studies it carefully, then places it into a black leather folder. “Not even close, Iris.”
My heart drops. “Uncle Cillian. Please. I can’t do this. My feelings for Spark, for Tyler. They’re real. Don’t make me choose. Please.” The please comes out on a whispered sob. I intended to be brave. Show some courage.
Cillian gets up from his seat and comes around the front of the desk. He leans on it with his hands either side of his hips, gripping the wood. “Family first and always, Iris. Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine. Under the shelter of each other, people survive. You’ll survive this. It’ll make you stronger.”
I stand then and eye him. “I don’t want to be stronger. I want a normal life. One where my biggest challenge is how to make my rent payment and what I’m going to wear for drinks with my friends on Friday. I never wanted all this, with its danger and its risk.”
He stares into my eyes for a moment. “Ahh. I see.” He temples his fingers. “Yet ye love a gang member anyway.”
My first thought is to tell him it’s a club, not a gang. I want to deny what he says, but I can’t. I’ve said it out loud. To Spark and to Cillian. “I’ll never forgive you for this. Not ever.”
“You will,” Cillian says. “Because without all this, without everything you hate, I’d never be able to look after Michael the way I do. You don’t want to admit you benefit from it, but who looked after him while you went to college for years? Who paid for college for you?”
“I didn’t ask you to pay off my loan. It shouldn’t have been possible for you do to that without my permission.”
“And yet I did. Because my reach is wide. You benefit from this, so don’t act like you’re above it. Without me and this organization, you wouldn’t have survived. The foster system would have chewed you up and spat you out.”
What hurts most is he’s right.
“So, more information, let’s say, a week from now, or I’ll be dropping Michael off on your doorstep. You want him? You can have him. I’ll not fight you. But I also won’t give you a penny.”
“I can’t take him in a week. I need to find a bigger apartment so he can have his own room.”
Cillian nods. “Agreed. You aren’t set up to provide care. Who would let Michael go from all this to what you have? Perhaps I should change the locks and prevent you from seeing him?”
“You can’t do that. I’m his sister.”
Cillian smirks. “So, sue me. Get a lawyer. Fight me.”
I suck in breaths of air as my heart drops. He nudges an envelope to me, and I open it. Pictures of Spark and me. At the cookout. Images zoomed in on their weapons. Off the club hangarounds. Of Spark scooping me over his shoulder and me fighting him when we were arguing.
“You try to contest me, and I’ll present these images to the court.” He puts his hand to his chest, morphing his face from its cruel lines to sadness. “I tried everything, your honor. I raised her as my own, paid for her education, but she’s always been wild. And now she’s hanging around with an organized motorcycle outlaw gang. I might not be able to save her, but I can make sure her brother doesn’t suffer as a result. I’ll make sure he keeps all the resources he needs.”
“I hate you.”
“Yeah? All these years we thought it was just shitty luck that killed your dad. A raid that went south. But now we know it was Iron Outlaws internal politics. Bickering between a president and his vice president.” He slams his hands on the arms of my chair, his eyes narrowed. “You want to hate someone, Iris? Hate the fuckers who killed your dad. Not me. Help me bring them to our kind of justice.”
Cillian steps back, catches his breath and shrugs. “I sent Michael out with his caregiver, so you can’t see him. The map was useful. Have a safe ride back to Jersey.”
And with that, I’m dismissed.
30
SPARK
I wake with a jolt. As usual, I tune into my senses. What can I hear? I can’t see shit in the darkness, and I reach for my phone.
1:11 a.m.
I pat the side of the bed where Iris sleeps, but it’s empty, the sheets cool.
It’s probably nothing. But she was cool this evening after we got back from Cillian’s. She told me it was a difficult visit. She tried to blow me off. Something about needing to sleep. I tried to ask her what was wrong, but she said it had been a shitty day. With no reason to doubt her, I persuaded her to stay with the promise of tacos.
Once I got her here, I did other things she liked. Ran her a bath, even lit candles. Gave her an orgasm in the exact same way I did that first night. I even found some shit chick flick about a rodeo guy and his girl back home. I passed up going over to the clubhouse so I could cheer her up.
We fucked. Hard. She came. But she was still deep in her own head.
I look around the room, hoping she didn’t leave. I pull on my jeans, tuck my phone in my back pocket, and tread carefully down the stairs, just in case.
When I turn the corner, she’s in the kitchen, looking at the letters I keep in the drawer. The ones that confirm I have PTSD. The ones that say I need to get help and the details of missed appointments. I feel a wave of shame so high it drowns me. As it splutters to the surface, I’m disorientated. Confused. And angry.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I say, marching over to her and whipping them out of her hands before she can learn more of what the head doctors have to say about me.
Her eyes are wide and red rimmed. Her hands shaking. “I’m sorry. It’s not what you’re thinking. It’s . . .”