Page 73 of The Lies We Tell

“Just got to patch him up,” Switch says. “I’m good.”

The mood in the clubhouse is muted as I step into the bar area. Bates and Halo are mindlessly shooting pool. I see Gwen leaving the kitchen with a big-ass bag of ice. King is sitting at the bar with Niro, the two drinking whiskey in silence.

I grab my phone out of my pocket and step outside. It’s foolish to use my main phone to call Briar, but I promised I’d let her know I was okay. Instead, I get her voicemail. It’s a little before three a.m., she’s probably fast asleep. “Fuck,” I mutter.

“You good?”

Shit. I’ve definitely lost my edge if I didn’t notice Vex sitting on the picnic table in the shadows.

“Yeah. That was something, huh?”

The red flare of the end of his cigarette cuts through the dark. “Yeah.”

I step back inside and take up my position outside Spark’s room, one foot on the wall.

“Where is he?” a voice yells in the bar. It has to be Iris. The slight Irish lilt, followed by the mass of brown hair tied up messily.

I stride over to her before anyone else can.

“Wait a second, Iris.” I grab her arm gently as she heads to Spark’s room, but she wiggles out of my grip.

“Is he in his room?” Her eyes flash wide. I can see the fear and sadness in them.

“He is. But he’s a mess.” I’ve always believed that being straightforward in difficult conversations is best. “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.” She stops for a second and breathes. Her shoulders drop, and she breathes again. There’s an inner strength I can see as she composes herself. “Better?”

It’s a move I’ve seen Briar make. “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.”

And I stand outside, keeping guard, as Iris steps into Spark’s room.

27

BRIAR

Iwake with a start.

The pillow next to me has not been slept on.

I reach for my phone.

Five a.m.

And I breathe deep to bury the panic. There’s a missed call on my phone but no voicemail. I don’t ring it back. We never discussed what the protocol was for contacting Saint while he was working. And I don’t want to do anything that might cause him problems.

Wide awake, I head for the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but the sky is that wonderful half-light before dawn. The only sound is the hiss and bubble of Saint’s antiquated coffee maker. Maybe one day I’ll get the chance to buy him a better one.

When the coffee is ready, I pour a cup and add a generous slug of half-and-half. I slide my hands around the mug and sip it slowly. It’s too hot, and it burns my tongue, but I take another sip anyway.

I say a little prayer for Saint. I’m not overly religious, but I’m desperate. “Come home safe,” I mutter.

I’m on my second mug when I hear keys in the front door. I reach for another mug and pour him some coffee. I know by now that he drinks it all day, regardless of the caffeine.

When he steps into the kitchen, he looks beat. There’s blood on his shirt and anguish in his eyes. “I can’t do this anymore, Bri.” For some reason, I know he doesn’t mean us.

I place our cups on the breakfast bar, then step over to him before sliding my arms around his waist to hug him tightly. “Are you hurt?”

I feel his head shake no.