The Games We Play

  THE GAMES WE PLAY

  IRON OUTLAWS MC

  BOOK 2

  S. COLE

  Copyright © 2023 by Scarlett Cole

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published By: Kadelo Group Ltd.

  Edited by: Manu Shadow Velasco

  Cover design by: Letitia Hasser at RBA Design

  Photographer: Wander Aguiar

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-7398672-9-4

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7392843-0-5

  To the brave and valiant few.

  Especially those who lost

  their lives in the

  bombing of Abbey Gate.

  CONTENTS

  Author’s Note & Trigger Warnings

  Prologue

  1. Spark

  2. Iris

  3. Spark

  4. Iris

  5. Spark

  6. Iris

  7. Spark

  8. Iris

  9. Spark

  10. Iris

  11. Spark

  12. Iris

  13. Spark

  14. Iris

  15. Spark

  16. Iris

  17. Spark

  18. Iris

  19. Spark

  20. Spark

  21. Iris

  22. Spark

  23. Iris

  24. Spark

  25. Iris

  26. Spark

  27. Iris

  28. Spark

  29. Iris

  30. Spark

  31. Iris

  32. Spark

  33. Iris

  34. Spark

  35. Iris

  36. Spark

  37. Iris

  38. Spark

  Epilogue

  Ready for Saint and Briar?

  Acknowledgements

  The Lies We Tell

  About the Author

  Also by Scarlett Cole

  AUTHOR’S NOTE & TRIGGER WARNINGS

  While the bombing of Kabul Airport’s Abbey Gate is a real event, Spark’s involvement and the names and actions of his fellow servicemen are purely fictional.

  Trigger Warnings:

  Stalking

  Sexual assault

  PTSD representation

  Sexual asphyxiation/choking

  Misogynistic language

  (If you’re still reading, I’m guessing you all in for Spark and Iris’s story regardless, but just incase, you should also know there is pussy slapping, power dynamics, safe words, and some serious heat!)

  PROLOGUE

  A gray, 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?”

  I drop down two steps so we can make eye contact a little easier. I have her beat by at least a foot. “A member of our club was involved in an accident, and the police told us you were a witness. We just have some questions we ain’t getting answers to yet.”

  Iris stiffens. “Can’t you just talk to the police? I gave them everything I know.”

  “We’re not here to cause you any trouble,” Clutch says, trying to reassure her when I seem to lose the ability to speak. I’m normally better at communicating with women. With my tongue on their pussy, I’m a certified genius. “We’re glad you got safe and called the police. It’s just they aren’t very forthcoming about information.”

  She lets out a breath, but the sheen of tears is apparent in her eyes. “I don’t like talking about it. It was . . . traumatic.”

  “Shit, I’m sorry.” I place a hand on her shoulder. “We still haven’t been told what happened beyond he was hit by a truck. Anything you could give us?”

  Iris sits down on the porch steps as the rain abruptly stops. “I was driving behind a truck, on the opposite side of the road to your friend. The truck was ahead of me. It was going too fast. Then it appeared to just lose control. It swerved onto the other side of the road then back again. I thought it was going to topple over, so I braked. When it came back onto my side of the road, I didn’t see your friend anymore. Then I saw bits of the bike and him spat o
ut from beneath the wheels and . . . Shit. Shit.” She swiped the tears from beneath her eyes. “He went under every wheel. Him, his bike. Sparks were flying everywhere as the remains of his bike were dragged along the highway. He . . .”

  Iris puts her head in her hands, and I stroke the top of her head, offering some kind of comfort. I have those kinds of memories in my head. They creep up on me. I envy her for being able to let her feelings out like that.

  I look at Clutch, and he nods. He needs me to push. So, I sit next to her on the porch step and slip my arm over her shoulder, tugging her into my side, and she lets me.

  “Easy, Iris,” I say softly. “Did you see who was driving?”

  My question seems to shake her out of her feelings, and she slips from beneath my arm. “Not at the scene. But I caught up to the truck later. Black hair, at a guess Central American. Red plaid shirt with a black leather thing like yours.”

  “A cut?” Clutch asks, gesturing to his own.

  “If that’s what that is, then yeah. A black leather cut.” A car backfires down the road, the sound bringing back memories I’d rather not think about, but we all look down the street.

  Call it instinct, training, and an uncanny awareness of my surroundings, but I know we are in trouble before I hear the first shot fire.

  I grab Iris’s hand, pull her into my arms, and then shove her toward Clutch, who catches her. They roll between the two houses as I pull my weapon.

  I aim at the windshield, then the tires. It’s hard to stay behind Iris’s car on her driveway as I aim.

  I need to keep Clutch and Iris safe until we can get out of there.

  Bullets hit their car, and Iris’s fence.

  I hear Iris cry out and empty my clip in fury.

  “We need to get out of here, in case they turn around and head back,” Clutch says. “We’ll call for an ambulance on the way.”

  I look at her, blood coming from a wound on her thigh. “We can’t just leave her, you fucker.”

  “How bad is it?” Clutch asks her. She’s gasping for breath, those eyes glazed over in shock until they connect with mine.

  “Just get me . . . medical help,” she gasps.

  I reach forward and stroke her forehead gently, but she winces as she bats it away.

  “You need to come back with us. We have a doc. We aren’t going to leave you to deal with this on your own,” I say. “Not least because your house just got shot up.”

  Iris nods. “My uncle can . . . come to pick me up.”

  I slam my gun back into my holster and lift Iris in my arms. She’s light as a fucking feather. Maybe it’s the way I’m holding her, but she curls against my chest. “I got you,” he says.

  “Not totally . . . reassuring,” she says. I don’t miss the hint of brat in her tone, even during a stressful event like this.

  She’s right to be suspect. My track record of keeping people alive isn’t the best.

  I get her to my bike, blood oozing from her thigh. I can’t think about the ferrous smell of it or the way it’s warm and slippery against my palm. Still, the brave little chick manages to get on my bike and hold on.

  I drive as quickly as I can given the weather, and when we get to the clubhouse, Clutch yells to open the gate. While we wait, Iris groans. “It . . . hurts, Spark.”

  “We’ll get you the help you need,” I promise.

  There’s flurry of furious activity when we arrive. King’s pissed. I hear someone say that Switch, our medic, isn’t here and were going to have to wait for him.

  Fuck.

  “Come on, little chick,” I say as I carry Iris inside and lay her down on the pool table. The sharp hiss as she straightens her leg breaks my heart.

  Gwen hurries over. “Get me a first aid kit. Whatever supplies you’ve got.”

  “I need help,” Iris pleads as I place my fist down firmly by the side of her head.

  If there’d be no implications, I’d take her to the hospital myself. But I can’t. “Too many questions to go to the ER. But I promise. Switch is a good medic and he’s on his way, and that’s Gwen, our president’s sister. I won’t let anything happen to you while you’re here. I promise.”

  “I’m just going to take a look,” Gwen says, lifting the hem of Iris’s coat, but the look on her face tells me the wound is out of her league.

  “Spark. Go get me a clean wad of cloth. A towel, dishcloth, T-shirt, anything?”

  I glare at Gwen. I don’t want to leave Iris alone. I hate the idea of her on our pool table that I know countless women have been fucked on. But I go do it anyway.

  I run to my room and grab a clean T-shirt and a thin sheet from my dresser. While rummaging, I place a quick call to Switch to get a timing estimate.

  I don’t like his answer.

  When I return, I shove the T-shirt to Gwen. “Clean. I just washed it. Hadn’t even put it away yet.” I reach for Iris’s hand.

  “Hold this,” Gwen says as she applies the T-shirt to the wound. “Pressure. Lots of it. Until she can get it cleaned and stitched.”

  She walks away to grab something, and I do as she says, swallowing down the trippy shadow of fear I feel. I’ve been here before, applying pressure to wounds of people I care about.

  “You holding in there, Iris?” I ask.

  Tears spill over her lashes, her face blotchy from panic and pain. I wonder what her cheeks look like when she comes. When tears spill over for other reasons.

  “No. Not really,” she says quietly.

  Her answer kills my thoughts. “I’m sorry I brought trouble to your door. I didn’t keep you safe.”

  “No. You didn’t.” Her anguish slices through me as surely as a knife. “Trouble always follows men like you.”

  “You doing okay, Iris?” Gwen asks as she returns.

  “You don’t happen to have an IV of powerful meds do you?”

  Her question makes the sides of my mouth twitch. There’s humor in her delivery, even as her breath catches.

  “Unfortunately not.” Gwen digs into a first aid kit. “I can do you a nice line of over-the-counter pain relief or whiskey.”

  “I’m just going to bleed out here, am I?” Iris asks, looking up at me. Her eyes are so green, so pretty, with long eyelashes. There’s a small bank of freckles across her pert nose. And her lips . . .

  I force myself to answer. “Switch, our doc, was an army medic. He was out on a run, but I called him in and he’s on his way back. You’re safe here, Iris.”

  “I need to call my godfather, my uncle, so he can come get me. I would but I don’t have my phone.”

  King pulls out his phone and Iris gives him the number. He stands away from the crowd for the call but then I see him mouth the word fuck as he tugs at his hair.

  “He’s on his way,” King says. “Spark, get your ass away from her.”

  “Fuck off, Prez,” I reply, but there’s no malice in my tone. “She’s been hurt, I’m not leaving until—”

  “Cillian Ó Ceallaigh is on his way with medical help to pick up his niece and goddaughter.”

  On instinct, I let go of her hand like I’ve been electrocuted. “Cillian Ó Ceallaigh?”

  King nods.

  The entire room comes to a standstill, everyone looking at Iris as we process what we just heard.

  “Who is Cillian Ó Ceallaigh?” Gwen asks.

  “The head of an Irish crime family,” King says.

  “Allegedly,” Iris says, and she offers me the whisper of a smile then a teary wink. Fucking winks at me.

  “Did someone die?” Clutch asks as he walks back into the room.

  “We might,” King says and fills Clutch in.

  Clutch looks to Vex, our tech expert, and the guy who found out Iris had witnessed the accident. “And we didn’t know this?”

  “You asked me to find the witness, not to research her family tree,” Vex says with a shrug.

  While others debate what we should do next, I realize Iris’s wound is bleeding less. I get Gwen
to cover her with the cream blanket.

  My fingers are stained with dried blood, but I lean close and push a lock of hair back from Iris’s face. “You okay, sweetheart?”

  Iris grips my wrist, then pushes it away. “You know you shouldn’t touch me anymore if Cillian is on his way. And the rest of you don’t need to worry. I’ll tell Cillian what happened.”

  I’m a big believer in consent, and her words and actions are the withdrawal of it, so I step back a couple of inches to give her space. But her and I aren’t over. Not even close.

  “I’m sorry, Iris,” Gwen says. “This was all to help me. I got shot, and they were just trying to help me figure out who did it. I didn’t mean for anyone else to get hurt.”

  Iris answers but keeps her eyes on me. “Aye. This is a hard life for those who want to live it, but it’s the women who get hurt by association, even though they’re not allowed a role in it. It’s bullshit, but you can’t escape your family no matter how you try.”

  I want to tell her I’d keep her safe, but how can I when she got shot during our very first meeting?

  “Clear the room,” Uther instructs. “Patched members only.”

  Gwen refuses, but Clutch simply puts her over his shoulder and carries her away while she slaps his back.

  It takes twenty more minutes before Cillian Ó Ceallaigh arrives at the clubhouse. He’s dressed like one of those Wall Street bankers. Slick suit. Sharp hair. Expensive watch and shoes. He ignores King and walks straight toward Iris.