Page 30 of The Games We Play

“It is voyeurism ... or stalking ... if you’re the one watching her rather than enabling her to watch out for herself.”

“Fuck me,” I say, letting go. “Just give me the kit.”

When I get close to her house, it’s around nine in the evening, but dark enough to move around discretely. I park up the block and walk the rest of the way to her house. Then I start with the car. A simple tracker installed just on the inside of the wheel arch. I doubt any of the scumbags from Los Reyes who shot her are going to come looking for their friends, or that those creeps at the diner know where she lives or what she drives, but on the off chance they do, I want to be able to find her.

And if they come to her house ...

Well, at least I’ll know.

Her porch is shielded from the street on one side by a large bush, and I’m hoping that gives me the cover I need. Under the guise of fixing the broken railings the other day, I ran a cable from the socket she has outside and capped it.

I was planning to tell her ... maybe.

I’m pitting my moral compass and her privacy against her safety. And her safety wins out every time.

In the darkness, I fiddle around until I find the cable.

It takes me ten minutes to install the camera, and when I sign in to the security app on my phone, I can see her porch and driveway. The camera’s hidden in the shadows. Hopefully she’ll never notice it.

Because if she does, there’s a chance she’ll want me to disconnect from the feed, and that isn’t going to happen while there’s a risk to her out there.

When it’s done, I return to the clubhouse. Given I’m heading out, I grab a coffee and forage in the fridge before finding leftover pie. Good enough. I put some on a plate.

“Spark, a word,” King says as he joins me. It’s quiet. Mondays usually are. I stayed over last night after getting wasted. Kenzie was hanging around, but I haven’t been feeling her lately.

Or any of the girls.

The more I see Iris, the more I know the next woman I’m going to sleep with is her.

Which is fucked up, seeing as I’m trying to put a little distance between us.

“What’s up?”

“Sit,” he says, tipping his chin in the direction of the barstools that butt up against the island.

I reach for a cigarette from the top pocket of my shirt and light it. King paces for a moment. “Been thinking about yesterday. You and the Irish chick.”

“Iris?” I say.

“You got that shit in check?”

“If this is about that neo-Nazi scum ... Look, they were bothering her.”

King leans back against the wall and crosses his arms. “I’m surelifeis fucking bothering her, the weather probably bothers her, traffic on a Wednesday morning bothers her ... but she’s not your responsibility.”

I stand, no longer wanting the pie, and place it back in the fridge. “I know that. But if they were bothering Gwen, you—”

“I’d kill them, because Gwen is my fucking sister. She’s Clutch’s old lady. She’s got the protection of the club. You don’t start a fight with the far-right for some chick who doesn’t mean anything to us.”

Internally, his words fuel an anger so explosive I can barely contain it. I take a long inhale, letting the nicotine fill my veins.

And that is what scares me most. Because she’s coming to mean fucking everything to me. I blow out a breath. Hard.

Then I school my reaction, bring it back under control, rein everything in, and take another inhale of my cigarette. “Maybe that’s the difference between you and me. There’s a reason you picked me for sergeant at arms. Protecting people is all I’ve ever known or attempted to be good at. I can’t just turn a blind eye like you can.”

Not that I’m always good at it.

“I’m gonna ask you this once. You fucking Iris?”