Page 27 of The Games We Play
I glare at him. “Bitch?”
He shrugs, like he really doesn’t give a shit, and wanders back to his bike.
“Those fuckers will do a drive-by in five minutes to see whether you’re still here,” Spark says. “If you won’t look out for your safety, I will.” He grabs our food and dumps it into the garbage.
“Spark, you can’t just toss our lunch.”
As if he didn’t hear me, he pulls out his wallet, slaps a hundred down on the table, and tips his head in the direction of an expensive hipster diner I avoid—because I refuse to pay twenty bucks for eggs Benedict just because it’s got a few flowers and chill flakes strewn around it. “Get yourself over there. Have a proper breakfast. Eat something with fucking protein.”
Kasey’s silent, which means she’s as stunned as I feel.
“You don’t get to come over here and wreck our breakfast.”
He bends over the railing that separates us and puts his lips right next to my ear. “I didn’t wreck your breakfast. I saved your ass from Nazi scumbags who are at best rapists, at worst sex traffickers.” His breath teases the hairs on my neck. I can’t help but shiver at his words. “Now, walk, little chick, before I put you over my shoulder and dump your ass in one of those fancy chairs myself.”
He steps back, his eyes focused on me.
I hate the idea that his glare is making me capitulate, but I feel the need deep in my bones to do as he says, even as I want to refuse.
“Fine. We’ll go, right?” I silently plead with Kasey to nod, which she obligingly does.
We grab our coats off the back of our chairs. I look at the hundred-dollar bill on the table, then move to step away.
“Iris,” Spark growls.
“Fine.” I grab the money, and as I do, it dawns on me that this is the second time he’s paid for my food without taking me on an actual date.
“Hey, Iris,” he shouts as I walk away.
“What?” It comes out rather curt.
His face softens. “You look real pretty.”
I roll my eyes and catch up with Kasey.
As I reach the door of the place he wanted us to go to, I turn and see him watching me. He’s leaning against his bike, and there is something so deliberately measured about him. Something so contained. And yet, with me, I see the spark of fire in his eyes, something rumbling and tumultuous like the threat of a storm.
When we step inside, Kasey looks at me. “You better start talking.”
Once we’re seated and have ordered, I take a gulp of the mimosa I treated myself to on Spark. I don’t know how to begin to explain this. I’m not even sure that I should. But I suddenly feel very alone and need a friend.
“That’s Spark. There’s stuff I haven’t told you, Kasey. My dad’s dead, but he was a member of an Irish crime family. My uncle raised us and looks after my brothers. I saw the president of the Iron Outlaws motorcycle club involved in a hit-and-run that left him dead. The shooting I told you about ... it wasn’t an accidental drive-by. The club came to speak to me about what I saw. We think they were followed to my house, and I was shot.”
Kasey reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “Jesus, Iris. Why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”
I shrug and fiddle with the stem of my glass. “It’s not something I’m proud of. I don’t want to be a part of that world.”
“You can’t pick your family.”
“I know. And Spark was there when I was shot, and there was a ... well ... spark. I didn’t want there to be. I still don’t want there to be. But he keeps ... appearing.”
“He’s stalking you?”
Is he? I suppose he is. Yet ...
“Not really. I mean. He’s like this looming presence just ... looking out for me. Maybe he feels bad I got shot. We’ve talked a couple of times.” I hold off from telling her about what happened the other night, more because I can’t believe I let him watch me masturbate than any real sense of shame.
Kasey snorts. “Babe. You aren’t seriously that dumb. He wasn’t looking at you in an ‘I feel bad you got shot’ kind of way.”
