Page 46 of The Games We Play
“You are.” Cillian’s voice is a tangled whisper. “You are part of this family by name. By blood. You willalwaysbe your father’s daughter. My niece. There will always be people who want to hurt you because of that very relationship. You make it impossible to protect you.”
“You can’t protect me from a car wreck.” I huff. “And you don’t want to protect me. You want to control me and for me to spy for you. In one of the country’s most dangerous MC organizations. You don’t want me to be safe. You want me to be useful.”
Cillian shakes his head. “You don’t understand the bigger picture.”
I scoff. “Oh, I understand. I’m a pawn in a much bigger chess game. And you’re the king. Calling moves and knowing which pieces on the board are expendable to get what you want. I’m expendable. Michael is expendable. You’d remove his care to keep me in line. What you want could get me killed. Your ‘bigger picture’ is going to get usallkilled.”
“You’re being unreasonable, Iris. If you came back fully into the family business, I could tell you everything. I could show you all the moving pieces. You’re a smart girl, always have been. But you’re scared of things you don’t understand, without any willingness to get to know more about them. It’s a dangerous combination.”
“No more dangerous than driving home from school and being hit by a truck. Cillian, please, you never wanted any of us. Only Thomas is useful.”
Cillian’s face changes. It softens. As does his voice. “You have no fucking clue how wrong you are.”
“Cillian,” Michael says as he and Thomas appear behind me. “Yonkers. Grand Central. Times Square. Penn Station. Asbury Park.”
Cillian’s face brightens. “That’s right, lad. So many trains and train stations today. And I brought the limo because you like that.”
Michael hugs Cillian, then lumbers to the car where Cillian’s driver lets him in.
“Go check on him, Thomas,” Cillian says and then waits until Thomas is in the car too. “Life’s an equation, Iris. A constant balance of the greater good versus the individual.”
I shake my head. “Your definition of the greater good and mine are very different.”
“That they are, Iris. That they are. And you’d do well to remember that if you care as much about Michael as you claim to.”
As he walks to the limo, the window lowers and Michael waves. I wave and force a smile, wishing with all my heart I could pull him to me and keep him safe.
15
SPARK
Ilove ride outs in perfect weather. Taking responsibility for the safety of my club, my brothers who look to me. I’ve been on alert, watching for signs of trouble. But as soon as we enter the Allentown, Pennsylvania clubhouse and are greeted as family, I relax.
Their clubhouse is a loud and rowdy mess. Music blasts through speakers, some rock band I don’t know. The club has turned out in force for the meetup, but it’s definitely an MC patched-in-members-only party with the exception of a few prospects dealing with food and drinks. There are no old ladies, no hang-arounds, no kids. Instead, there’s a buffet of hot and available women I’d normally partake in.
But all I want to do is find a room and call Iris. I know there are formalities first: showing respect to the club we’re visiting and unloading the weapons. But I take a moment and peek at the camera footage from her porch. Next time I see her, I’m gonna tell her I installed it.
It’s all quiet, but there is a soft glow on the porch, which tells me she hasn’t gone to bed yet. Not once have I seen her forget to turn her lights off.
“Spark,” Whip says, slapping me on the back. “Long time no see, brother.” Whip is my counterpart of this chapter, sergeant at arms.
“Way too long. I’ve not seen you since I got back from Afghanistan.”
“Don’t envy you. That evac looked fucking awful. Heard about what happened. You good?”
You good?It’s such an innocuous question. Usually, people don’t really want to know. But Whip’s different. “Hits different when it goes that wrong.” It’s all I can muster.
Whip places his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “That it does.”
And I know he knows what I mean, because he walks on a prosthetic limb, thanks to a landmine in the early days of the war in Afghanistan.
“Saint,” Whip says, shaking his hand. “Good to see you. Hear you’re busy saving trafficked women.”
Saint nods. There’s a faraway look in his eye for a moment. Then he shakes his head, grips the belt loops of his jeans, and faces Whip. “I’ll take it. Bastards had done a right fucking number on her. She shivered the whole time she was on the back of my bike.”
“You know who it was?” Whip asks.
I nod. “We think it’s the Righteous Brotherhood.”
