My silence says it all.
“Ó Ceallaigh will eat your balls for breakfast if he catches you with your dick in her. If you bring this on yourself, even I won’t be able to save you.”
“Yeah, well. I’m currently down by the shore.”
“And from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re peering in Iris O’Connor’s window like a fucking perv.”
I swivel around and look behind me, and the single light from a motorcycle down the street flashes. “Fuck,” I mutter and hang up. I start my bike and turn back down the street until I’m parallel with Uther. “You following me now?”
“Yup. One time only. Needed you to know that I know what you’re up to. You need to stop. You’re sergeant at arms because you’re levelheaded and quick thinking. You’re the rule follower, the leader of the prospects. This is your last warning to stop pulling this shit. It’s a direct order to stop coming here. Not because I give a shit about where you stick your dick, but because you’re taking the club with you. Ó Ceallaigh was clear. Stay the fuck away from them, and they’ll stay away from us. You’re putting a truce at risk, and for the sake of the club, I can’t let you do it.”
I clench my jaw.
As a one percenter, I live my life my way. Afghanistan taught me how quickly life spirals out of control, even when you are trying your fucking hardest to do the right thing. So why not do whatever you want to do anyway?
“She’s all alone. Needs looking out for.”
Uther grinds his jaw. “The Irish are looking out for her.”
“They fucking aren’t, or I wouldn’t be able to come here night after night and check up on her.”
“Then let Cillian Ó Ceallaigh make his peace with God if something happens to her, but there will be consequences if you disobey this direct order. We clear?”
“As crystal,” I say. Then I open the throttle on my Harley and roar out of the street.
4
IRIS
“Did you decide what you’re wearing?” Kasey asks as we head to our cars on Friday afternoon. The energetic PE teacher and I became close as soon as I got this job. She’s only a few years older than me but totally helped me find my feet.
I look up at the sky. It’s mild and cloudless. “Probably the navy dress and those sandals I wore for your birthday last year.”
Kasey grins. “That feels like an ‘I’m going to get lucky’ outfit.”
“It’s only our second date.”
“Yeah, after the guy flaked on dinner and met you for an afternoon coffee as your first date instead.”
Yeah, Jason did. “You know, I don’t mind. I might adopt that as a dating strategy. Coffee is cheap and over in thirty minutes. You don’t waste time or money spending it with someone you quickly realize you have nothing in common with.”
“Fair. So you like him?”
“Is he sweeping me off my feet? No. But do I think he has potential. Sure. He’s stable. Got his shit together. Has a job. A place.”
“He’s a driving instructor. Not the most exciting of jobs.”
I shrug. “You know, there is such a thing as too much excitement.”
“Speaking of which, is everything healed?”
I stuck to the same story with everyone who knew I’d been shot. Wrong place, wrong time. A stray bullet from a drive-by shooting. Kasey hasn’t checked the details because she trusts me, and I feel like a shit friend. But I’ve always distanced myself as far away from my uncle and his activities as I could, while maintaining a relationship with Michael. The same has to go for Spark and the Iron Outlaws.
“Yeah. I’ve got a lovely scar, but no real damage.”
“Phew. Well, have a good time tonight. And text me when you get home so I know you’re safe.”
“Will do. See you on Monday.”
“I’ll want all the details.”
Three hours later, as I sit in the dim Italian restaurant eating the most delicious chicken parmigiana, I realize there aren’t going to be many stories to tell. Kasey is right. Jason is boring.
“So, I asked the guy in the hardware store whether the fence would be better painted or varnished, and he said it would depend on the condition of the wood,” he says. “I’m going to replace some of the boards in the spring and make a decision then.”
I nod as if it’s fascinating. “Looking after your home for the long term is a good investment.”
Jason scoops some of his bow tie pasta onto his fork, then points it at me as he speaks. “You know, you should get out of the rental and invest in some brick-and-mortar of your own.”
I huff. “That’s my plan. But teachers don’t get paid as well as driving instructors, obviously.” I try to make light of it.
“I’d be happy to help you set up a budget. It’s one of my strong points. I could show you how I did it. I mean, if you want my help. I’m sorry. I’m rambling. I just mean it to be helpful.”
I give him the benefit of the doubt, because he’s been a nice guy so far.
But I also know his parents helped him with the deposit, and seeing my dad died in an ATF raid on a weapons deal, something I haven’t told Jason yet, there’s no one helping me with the down payment.
Asking Cillian is out of the question, even though he has the money. The idea of being beholden to him any more than I already am makes me shiver.
“Do you like sports?” I ask in a bid to change topics from my pitiful financial situation.
“I watch baseball. It’s fun in summer to go to a game, get some sun, have a beer, take it easy. You?”
“Meh. I’m a binge watcher. Like the Olympics. I’ll watch it twenty-four seven and suddenly find myself really caring if a Japanese teenager nails a triple-axle-toe-pick-something-or-other in figure skating. And I’ll talk about women’s freestyle BMX as if I’m an expert. Same with the World Cup. I like to cheer on the underdogs. Forget Team USA or Brazil. Give me Poland or Tunisia.”
Jason laughs; he has a cute smile. “I like that.”
We finish our food, and I turn down his offer of dessert because I’m exhausted after the tiring day at school. Jason asks for the check, and when it comes, I get my credit card out to split it.
“No,” Jason says, placing his hand on top of mine gently. It’s warm. Nice. “I got this.”
“Thank you.”
“How are you getting home?” he asks when we step outside.
I show him the rideshare app I just opened. “I was just booking a ride.”
He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “My car is just over there. I’m more than happy to drive you. And don’t worry, I’m not expecting to come in or anything. I’ll just make sure you get home safely.”
I look over to the car, which has a huge sign on top that says Triple J’s Driving School. “Triple J’s?”
“My name. Jason Julian Jackson. My mom calls me Triple J.”
Is it sweet that he used the nickname his mom gave him, or is it a red flag he’s still a momma’s boy? I can’t make my mind up.