But sometimes, I hear the soft purr of Spark’s bike at night when I’m getting ready for bed. I turn off all the lights, then try to peek through the gap in the curtains to catch sight of him.
He’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. Reminds me of a romance book hero I love named Rhage. And Spark is just as imposing. Striking blue eyes and Viking warrior hair. All braids and undercuts and man buns. And shoulders you could dig your fingertips into.
But I think about the circumstances under which we met.
Witnessing the death of his club’s former president was horrific. Being caught up in the aftermath was just as brutal. I was shot by the club’s enemies because of it. But then Spark took care of me that day. The way those eyes of his focused on me, and the way he was willing to front to my uncle for me, diluted the fear until there was nothing but heat.
One night I ended up so turned on knowing he was out there that I’d barely switched my vibrator on before I was having one heck of an orgasm, thinking about him sitting outside on his bike.
It’s not normal.
What’s worse, I’m having thoughts about him watching me touch myself. From a distance.
He’s stalking me. He never directly approaches me. And I’m not sure I mind.
Because I’ve never felt safer than when I was bleeding in his arms.
I can’t decide if he’s shit at reconnaissance, or he just wants me to know he’s there.
Men like Spark are drenched in trouble. I’m smart to be scared of him and everything he stands for.
I think lots of women have crushes on unattainable, irredeemable bad boys. They appear in so many of the books I read. It’s easy to forget the downside when confronted by masculinity such as his.
Courage floods me. I’m in a public place. People are milling around. My feet are carrying me to him before I can properly rationalize this choice. His eyes hold mine with every step.
“Spark.”
He leans back on his bike and crosses his arms. Usually that’s a defense mechanism, but I have no idea why he feels like he needs one. I’m like a hundred and ten pounds and have the muscle structure of a Chihuahua.
“Iris.” His voice is all gravel and lower register.
I hate the pull that I feel around him. “Why are you here?”
He shrugs, the action slow and lumbering, but I’m drawn to his strong arms and shoulders. “Checking out the neighborhood.”
“Checking out the neighborhood?”
His eyes crinkle at the corner, as if he’s holding back a laugh. “That’s what I said. Might be in the market for a new house.”
“Near a school?”
He shrugs again, but this time he’s smiling.
Why on earth do I feel the need to smile with him? He’s like one of my kids when they spin a lie so outrageous that every grown-up within a hundred feet knows it. “So, it’s just a coincidence it’s my time to leave school?”
Spark shakes his head. “You normally leave fifteen minutes ago.”
“It’s wrong you know that.”
He tips his head in the direction of my car, and even that irritates me, that he knows which one it is. “Go get in your ride.” He puts his helmet on, then revs the engine to his bike.
He’s made it is his business to know everything about me, and I hate it, even as I love the idea someone on this planet cares about me.
I stare at him for a moment, trying to pin down the traitorous part of me that wants to stay and talk with him some more, before hurrying back to my car.
As I duck inside and start the engine, I place my hand on my thigh, where the scar is and has finally healed. I was so lucky it wasn’t worse. I pull out of the school parking lot, and I head towards Cillian’s house. Spark follows me for forty-five minutes until I pass through South Amboy, and then he peels off with a salute and disappears from my rearview mirror. Finally, I make it to Brooklyn Heights, where Cillian owns a house just footsteps from Adam Yauch Park.
The building looks like old money lives here from the outside. Hard to tell from the brown bricks and paintwork that it houses a criminal mastermind. For a moment, I wish Spark was still with me.
I park blocking the garage, as there is nowhere left to park on the street.
“Go on in, Miss O’Connor,” one of the two men outside says as I approach the door.
I roll my eyes because I don’t need Cillian’s permission to use the key he gave me when I was thirteen. This cold mansion is the only family home I’ve ever known. I barely remember the one I had when Dad was still alive. My current place feels like a house I live in rather than a home. This one has too much marble, and an Irish Tricolor flag framed on the wall.
“Iris,” Michael shouts when I step into the living room. He’s wearing a soft tracksuit, one with no hard fixtures like a zipper or itchy labels. His headphones are over his ears, his electronic tablet in his hands. “Iris, come listen.”
He unplugs his headphones and grins at me as I sit down next to him.
“What are you watching, Michael?” I ask.
“Watch. Watch.” A rugged outdoorsy guy uses an axe to take down a tall dead tree with a narrow trunk. He strips off its branches, saws it into pieces, and uses it to build the wall of a wilderness snow shelter. It’s all very ASMR. Snow crunching, saw rasping, tree stripping.
“Wow. That’s an amazing structure. He’s really creative.”
“Can we go, Iris? Can we go? Snow. Snow. Snow.”
He gently tips his head so it rests on my shoulder, and I grin. I’ve always thought he was part cat, the way he’d rub his head against you to say hello or get his way. Some of his stims are helpful to him, like his hand flapping over the tablet before he rewinds to his favorite parts. They help him feel calm. But other stims are why he needs extra care. Sometimes he’ll scratch himself until his skin is raw if we don’t intervene.
“You have to be a professional to do that safely, Michael.”
Bethany, one of Michael’s caregivers, comes into the room. “Hey, Iris. I didn’t realize you were stopping by today.”
Michael puts his headphones back on and squeezes my hand.
“Saturday was upsetting for us both,” I say quietly, because I don’t want to make Michael feel bad. But Bethany knows I’m referring to the sensory meltdown he had when I visited. Seeing him uncontrollably upset was distressing, but I kept it together until I got into my car to drive home. “Guess I just needed to reassure myself.”
Bethany nods. “I’ll let you two hang out for a little while.”
“Thanks, Beth. You’re one in a million.”
Beth smiles, and for the next hour, I give Michael my full attention, looking at more videos of people building temporary snow shelters. I can see why he enjoys watching them over and over. I could almost convince myself I’d want to try it. Until I think about the lack of toilets in the woods and a reliance on fire making skills.
But I do wonder if there is some kind of winter camp facility for young adults like Michael. Although Cillian would never agree to sending him. He likes to keep Michael home where he can manage the staff who care for him.
I understand the need to give Michael the best support and he’s better for it, but treating him this way infantilizes Michael. He’s a young adult who also deserves adventures and friends. Not just caregivers and programs and structures.