King shrugs. “They’ve got allies here.”
Something skitters down my spine. “Nah. I feel like it’s . . . I don’t know. Shit. Like, we’ve assumed the Russian accent implies Russian sympathies. But what if they are closer to home?”
Niro is patting the guy down. “No ID, no wallet, no phone. Whoever they are, they didn’t want to be identified.”
“You think it may be local?” King asks, brushing the dust off his denim.
“Who knows? Insurrectionists. Militia.”
Kings kicks a stone by his foot. “Fuckers only get one chance to buy through us. And they’ll pay if we ever catch up with them, because now I’m pissed.”
The mood follows us home to the clubhouse. I slam the bar top twice with my palm, and a beer and a tequila shot are placed in front of me. I slam the tequila and chase it with large gulps of beer, ready to let the alcohol work its magic.
“You need a little stress relief?” Kenzie asks, slipping onto the stool next to me.
She’s squeezed herself into some tight-ass leather pants and a cropped black T-shirt that looks as if it was sprayed over her double-Ds.
“You gonna let me fuck those tits?” I ask. Sometimes alcohol and sex are the only way I can fall asleep. Other times, it’s working my body out until the point of collapse.
Dark brown eyes dance with humor. “As long as you make me come first, you can fuck whatever you want.”
I grin. Kenzie likes it rough. I’m happy to deliver. “Go strip and get on my bed. I’ll be there in ten.”
I watch her ass as she leaves, but knock back five more shots before I follow. Because as hot as she is, she doesn’t have the green eyes and yellow raincoat that haunt my dreams.
2
IRIS
“Miss O’Connor, why is Macaroni climbing on top of Cheese?”
From my spot at the front of the classroom, I look toward the cage that houses the class’s pet guinea pigs. And sure enough, Macaroni is trying his best to have sex in front of my kindergarten class.
“Oh, that’s a great question, Harry.” Stalling for time to formulate an answer, I place the book I’d been reading to them, a cheerful little book about crayons, on the table and hurry to get the small blanket from the classroom’s little library. While the wound from the gun shot has healed over the past month, my muscles are still a little sore from the recovery. I try to force the memory of that shit show from my mind and focus on my horny pets. “You know, I think Macaroni confused Cheese with his bed. He’s probably really tired. So, let’s let them have a little nap.”
I throw the blanket over the cage, even as the children edge closer to get a better look. Damn Harry’s parents for donating the pets to my classroom anyway. My gut told me they’d bought them for Harry and had buyers’ remorse. But they donated them so publicly, in front of the class. And the students’ little faces had all lit up so much that I hadn’t had the heart to say no.
So now I’m buying guinea pig food and straw out of my own salary.
“But they don’t have beds, Miss Connor,” Thema says, pushing her thick glasses up her nose. There are days I love teaching Thema, quite possibly the smartest child to ever land in my classroom. The little girl is smarter than most third graders. But on days like this, when I sincerely want to pull the wool over the kids’ eyes rather than explain the mating rituals of the Caviidae family of rodents, I wish she weren’t quite so intelligent.
“Well, maybe he heard us talk about beds when we discussed all the fun ways we can get ready for bed, and now he wants one,” I say, returning to the front of the class. “Okay. It’s nearly time for home. So can you quietly . . . erm, Jadyn, where are you going?”
Jadyn slinks back into his seat. “You always say ‘so, can you quietly go get your coats on’ when it’s time to get our coats on.”
“I do. But I hadn’t yet, had I? Please stay in your seat until I tell you it’s your turn to go, okay?”
“Yes, Miss O’Connor.”
“As I was saying, everyone whose name begins with an A, B, C, D, or E can go.”
I tidy my desk a little, putting away some of the resources we used to ease them into numbers, as little bodies move over to their hooks. When they’re back, I say the next few letters and repeat the pattern over and over until everyone has their coat. It’s not so important that we do this in an orderly fashion this early in the semester, but with winter and snow boots and scarves and gloves around the corner, I’m building habits early.
When the bell finally rings, I make sure every child ends up with their rightful parent, then go back to my classroom. After tidying away any remaining things, I set up the classroom for the following morning, making sure I have everything I need for the lesson plan.
It’s nearly six when I leave the school and head to my car. I’ve been teaching for three years and have finally found my stride. I love teaching kindergarten. And while I don’t fully agree with Aristotle’s quote, “Give me a child until he is seven and I will show you the man,” I can see what the hyper-gendered quote was getting at.
It’s my job to inspire the kids to learn. It’s my job to ready them to spend their days in a classroom and to build the foundation of their knowledge, while still encouraging them to play. In the years ahead, standardization and testing will get in the way of learning through having fun.
Just yesterday, I threw my teaching plan right out the window when Valentina spotted a line of ants carrying bits of food and leaves into a corner of the school yard. So we all went outside to look at them. Jadyn asked what would happen if we blocked them somehow. I encouraged him to find a little stick to see what happened, and everyone oohed and aahed when the ants climbed over it. Then Ava cried because she thought we were being cruel, so we removed the stick again. We talked about colonies of ants and watched a YouTube video about why ants walk in a line. Then we pretended to be ants, and the kids took turns being the front of the ant line, which was so much fun. We guessed how many ants there are on the planet. Thema guessed a billion; Liam guessed a very precise ninety-seven.
It’s still light when I step out into the parking lot. It’s balmy, given it’s late September; there’s still the whisper of warmth in the air.
When I reach my car, I look up the street and see him.
Spark. Sergeant at arms of the Iron Outlaws MC.
I thought he’d given up this stupid game he’s been playing.
Up until a week ago, he’d always been there.
Watching.
He defines the very thing I’ve avoided my whole life. Organized crime. Life beyond the law. It took my dad from me. And it’s taking my brothers. My middle brother, Thomas, doesn’t care because he wants to be the head of my uncle’s crime family one day. And Michael . . . sweet, loving Michael relies on our uncle, Cillian Ó Ceallaigh, leader of an Irish crime family, to provide him with a professional caregiver.
But I can’t be a part of what Cillian fights for in this world. The need for power and violence just isn’t in me. I’m not built for it. I’m a chronic law abider. The idea of jaywalking, let alone anything more sinister, gives me hives.