Page 10 of The Games We Play
When I reach my car, I look up the street and see him.
Spark. Sergeant at arms of the Iron Outlaws MC.
I thought he’d given up this stupid game he’s been playing.
Up until a week ago, he’d always been there.
Watching.
He defines the very thing I’ve avoided my whole life. Organized crime. Life beyond the law. It took my dad from me. And it’s taking my brothers. My middle brother, Thomas, doesn’t care because he wants to be the head of my uncle’s crime family one day. And Michael ... sweet, loving Michael relies on our uncle, Cillian Ó Ceallaigh, leader of an Irish crime family, to provide him with a professional caregiver.
But I can’t be a part of what Cillian fights for in this world. The need for power and violence just isn’t in me. I’m not built for it. I’m a chronic law abider. The idea of jaywalking, let alone anything more sinister, gives me hives.
But sometimes, I hear the soft purr of Spark’s bike at night when I’m getting ready for bed. I turn off all the lights, then try to peek through the gap in the curtains to catch sight of him.
He’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. Reminds me of a romance book hero I love named Rhage. And Spark is just as imposing. Striking blue eyes and Viking warrior hair. All braids and undercuts and man buns. And shoulders you could dig your fingertips into.
But I think about the circumstances under which we met.
Witnessing the death of his club’s former president was horrific. Being caught up in the aftermath was just as brutal. I was shot by the club’s enemies because of it. But then Spark took care of me that day. The way those eyes of his focused on me, and the way he was willing to front to my uncle for me, diluted the fear until there was nothing but heat.
One night I ended up so turned on knowing he was out there that I’d barely switched my vibrator on before I was having one heck of an orgasm, thinking about him sitting outside on his bike.
It’s not normal.
What’s worse, I’m having thoughts about him watching me touch myself. From a distance.
He’s stalking me. He never directly approaches me. And I’m not sure I mind.
Because I’ve never felt safer than when I was bleeding in his arms.
I can’t decide if he’s shit at reconnaissance, or he just wants me to know he’s there.
Men like Spark are drenched in trouble. I’m smart to be scared of him and everything he stands for.
I think lots of women have crushes on unattainable, irredeemable bad boys. They appear in so many of the books I read. It’s easy to forget the downside when confronted by masculinity such as his.
Courage floods me. I’m in a public place. People are milling around. My feet are carrying me to him before I can properly rationalize this choice. His eyes hold mine with every step.
“Spark.”
He leans back on his bike and crosses his arms. Usually that’s a defense mechanism, but I have no idea why he feels like he needs one. I’m like a hundred and ten pounds and have the muscle structure of a Chihuahua.
“Iris.” His voice is all gravel and lower register.
I hate the pull that I feel around him. “Why are you here?”
He shrugs, the action slow and lumbering, but I’m drawn to his strong arms and shoulders. “Checking out the neighborhood.”
“Checking out the neighborhood?”
His eyes crinkle at the corner, as if he’s holding back a laugh. “That’s what I said. Might be in the market for a new house.”
“Near a school?”
He shrugs again, but this time he’s smiling.
Why on earth do I feel the need to smile with him? He’s like one of my kids when they spin a lie so outrageous that every grown-up within a hundred feet knows it. “So, it’s just a coincidence it’s my time to leave school?”
