Page 95 of The Games We Play

Bates passes a knife from hand to hand beside me. “I like those odds.”

I pull my gun from the back of my jeans, but I’m feeling itchy. I feel the need for some bare-knuckle fighting. Things are going too well. I don’t trust it.

Cold steel touches my temple. “We like those odds too.”

The gun is ripped from my hands before I can begin to process what is happening.

Bates slumps to the ground, pistol whipped from behind. There is no way I’m going down without a fight. I can’t get my hands to the button on our comms, but it’s no use. The earpiece is ripped from my ear.

I tip my head forward, then slam it back into the person’s face. And as his gun clatters to the ground, I take in the three people looking at me.

“You killed my brother, you fuck,” one of them growls as he charges at me. As his fist makes contact with my stomach, I realize he’s the one that got away in the Pines that night.

“At least he stood and fought,” I grunt, trying to create space as one of the others grabs me from behind. I lurch forward quickly, yanking him over my back, somersaulting that fucker to the ground before kicking him hard.

Blood tastes bitter in the corner of my mouth, and I swipe at my lip. It’s the only respite I get before the dead man’s brother and the third man pin me to the wall.

And when a fist hits my face, sending me to darkness, my last thought is of Iris.

31

IRIS

“Where is he?” I yell over the throbbing music as I charge into the clubhouse at three in the morning. I’m disoriented, but Clutch’s call using Spark’s phone was clear. Spark needs me.

Saint stops me. “Wait a second, Iris.”

He’s gentle, but I just want to get to Spark, so I wriggle out of his arms. “Is he in his room?”

“He is. But he’s a mess. You’re going to have to rein yourself in for a second before you go charging in there. You go in all upset, he’s going to feel worse.”

“Fine.” I stop for a second and breathe. “Better?”

Saint smiles sadly. “I see why he likes you. He’s hurt, but strong. He’s gonna look a mess, tell him he doesn’t. He’s gonna push you away, love him harder, Iris. He’s a good man. Let me know if you need anything.”

I step into the room. Switch is in there, his broad shoulders hiding Spark from view. There’s a strong smell of antiseptic. As I step closer, I can see Switch is in the middle of stitching Spark up. But it’s when I see his face that I gasp. One eye is partially shut. All raw and red and swollen. A small row of stitches graces his brow. His eyes are closed, his mouth open.

Even though I know how mad he was at me, I still hurry to the bed, drop to my knees, and run a knuckle down his cheek. He turns his head and tries to look my way.

“Iris,” he says gruffly. “You shouldn’t ... be here. I don’t want you to see this.”

“Well, I am. I’m sorry about everything. But I’m here to look after you until you are well enough to kick me out.”

He turns his head back to the ceiling.

When I reach for his hand, I’m relieved he lets me loop my fingers through his.

“I just need to dress his head,” Switch says, holding up a bandage and tape.

“Oh, right,” I say, stepping out of the way while he does as he says. Spark’s body is dirty where Switch hasn’t cleaned. “I’ll be back.”

The loud music and shouting between men in the clubhouse give me a low-grade headache, but I run to the kitchen and scan the area.

“You need something?” Gwen asks.

I need a moment to breathe. I was so excited to see Spark’s name on my screen after our earlier conversation. I hoped he was going to give me a chance to fix things. To explain. Things I’m now ready to tell him, because in those moments after he’d slammed his front door, I realized what losing him felt like. As if the oxygen had been sucked out of my world. And the weight of it had been more than I could bear.

“I need to wash Spark, so I’m looking for a bowl or something I can put water in.”