Page 69 of The Games We Play

“Fuck you,” Clutch says. “Me and Gwen are different. Plus, Gwen didn’t put the club at risk.”

“You didn’t know that at first,” I say. “You even kept her locked up because you thought she might be a WITSEC plant. And, like you and Gwen, I didn’t want to feel anything for Iris, beyond wanting to take care of someone we put in harm’s way. I’d do it in a heartbeat for anyone.”

King is glaring at me. “You realize you put her safety above protecting your brothers?”

“I don’t see it that way. I feel responsible, as a manandas a brother. We led them to her.” I want to say more. I want to shove King’s words down his throat because there is not a single man in this club who cares about this brothers’ security more than I do, no one who cares more than I have repeatedly shown.

King nods at Vex, who then turns his laptop around. “The plates you asked me to run. This the guy?”

I lean forward and look at the picture. “Yeah. That’s the guy.”

A look passes between Clutch and King. Clutch shakes his head, a minute movement but a shake all the same.

“What? Who is he?”

“That’s Rian O’Sullivan.”

Fuck me. I don’t know shit about the guy, but that name sounds ...

“Irish,” Clutch says. “Been a part of Cillian Ó Ceallaigh’s organization for seven years. How do you think we guessed you’re fucking with the Irish?”

My world goes out of focus for a moment as I process. “Iris was run off the road by one of her uncle’s people?”

“She was run off the road?” King asks as confusion hits his features too.

“Thursday. I was following her home from school. After I took that long ride to clear my head. I’d decided I was going to try and draw a line between me and her. A truck blindsided her, then drove off. I left Iris with her best friend, then drove after the fucker.” I explain what happened after the chase.

“Shit,” Vex mutters.

“Why didn’t you bring this to me?” I ask Vex.

He rubs his hand over his hair. “He was Irish, man. You’re in too deep with the Irish chick to make rational decisions.”

“Fuck you,” I mutter. “Don’t question my judgment.”

“Says the guy who planted a camera on her house and a tracker somewhere without telling her,” Vex fires back.

“It is our fault she was shot,” I yell, slamming the table with my hand. “You know what? Fuck this shit. You’re all judge, jury, and executioner. I only meant to protect her. I didn’t mean to fall in love with her. And I don’t know what the fuck it means that her uncle tried to run her off the fucking road. But I’m gonna find out. The only question is if I have my club backing me up, or am I on my own? Because if you’re all scared of Cillian Ó Ceallaigh and what he can do, you might as well have this back,” I say, slamming the patch on my chest. “If you won’t help me, this means shit anyway.”

I take a breath, the air punctuated with the echoes of what I just yelled.

So much for de-escalation.

I think I just quit my club.

For Iris.

And I don’t have a single regret about it.

I trust her more than I trust any of these fuckers, which says a lot. Because right up until this moment, I would have trusted them with my life.

Now? I’m not so sure.

I take a deep breath. “I’ve fucked up. Shit’s been hard since I got back from Kabul. I lost my men. I lost your dad. The picnic was shot at. I almost lost Iris. I’m done losing people I care about. I can’t take another.” Rubbing my hands over my face, I shake my head. “Fuck this.”

I walk out of the office and slam my palm on the bar. A prospect hustles a bottle of Patrón and a shot glass in front of me. I pour a full glass and slam it for kicks.

A hand grips my shoulder. This is it. The minute I get my cut ripped off, get clear instructions to tattoo over the Iron Outlaws patch on my skin, and get kicked out onto the street. My world tilts.