Page 1 of The Games We Play
PROLOGUE
Agray, wet mist envelopes me when I pull up my bike outside Iris O’Connor’s house. Clutch, the vice president of my motorcycle club, Iron Outlaws, kills the engine of his bike nearby.
“Go get ’em, pretty boy,” he says, grabbing a cigarette from his pocket.
I flip him the bird as I drag my hungover ass off my bike. “Just envious your face doesn’t get as much pussy as mine.”
He taps the ash onto the ground. “Face and dick get plenty.”
Yesterday we put our old president, Camelot, in the ground, and gave him a send-off worthy of the Vikings. Uther “King” Hills, his son, had been an easy vote to replace him.
Me? I drank until I could forget that a club member I swore to protect got taken out on the highway and was killed on his bike.
Hours later, we’d found out the accident had been a hit. King’s twin sister Gwen had shown up, cool as fuck, after over a decade in hiding, spinning a story so wild, it’s hard to believe.
I saw the way Clutch had been looking at Gwen. Track, one of our older members, told me they used to be friends before she left. He’s a lucky fucker if he ends up tapping that ass.
“You coming?” I ask.
“Sure.” He climbs off his bike, as hungover as I am, and follows me.
The most crucial piece of information we’ve learned since Gwen’s arrival is that there was a witness, Iris O’Connor. As sergeant at arms, I failed to protect King’s dad on that stretch of highway. His loss is not the only weight I carry. What happened two years ago in Afghanistan is the worst of it. But I’m going find who the fuck caused the accident that killed him and make them pay.
As I lead the way up Iris’s path, I yank my long, thick blond hair off my face and secure it with an elastic.
“You look hot, rock star.”
I glance back over my shoulder at him and flip the bird in his direction again. “Just using what God gave me.”
I knock firmly, and we wait.
There’s no answer.
Clutch pops around the back to see what he can find. Meanwhile, I step back and look up at the upstairs windows.
“You see anything?” I shout.
He reappears, wiping the rain from his face. “No. We should probably head out and come back later.”
As we turn to head back to our bikes, a young woman in a bright yellow raincoat over a vest and shorts hurries onto the driveway and runs up the steps to the porch with two shopping bags. “Can I help you?” she asks, pulling her hood down.
All I can see are the greenest eyes. So green they almost don’t look real. Framed with brown curls, she has the look of one of those porcelain dolls my gran used to collect. She’s young, and freckles make her look younger. Mid-twenties, maybe a decade younger than me.
The absolute opposite of my type, yet one look at her, and it’s like I was hit by a truck. The thought of which brings me back to why I’m there.
“Iris?” I ask.
“Yeah, who's asking?” There’s a hint of an Irish accent. A soft lilt that seems to resonate at a frequency my dick appreciates.
I hold out my hand. “I’m Tyler, ma’am. Sorry to just show up on your porch, but we didn’t have any other way to contact you.”
She shakes my hand, her tiny one in my big one, and I can’t help but check out her tight rack, small but pert. Everything about her says utterly breakable. Petite. Fragile.
I want to pack her up and take her home and ... fuck me. Focus.
Clutch huffs out a laugh behind me.
Iris raises an eyebrow. “And what exactly did you need to contact me for?”
