I drop down two steps so we can make eye contact a little easier. I have her beat by at least a foot. “A member of our club was involved in an accident, and the police told us you were a witness. We just have some questions we ain’t getting answers to yet.”
Iris stiffens. “Can’t you just talk to the police? I gave them everything I know.”
“We’re not here to cause you any trouble,” Clutch says, trying to reassure her when I seem to lose the ability to speak. I’m normally better at communicating with women. With my tongue on their pussy, I’m a certified genius. “We’re glad you got safe and called the police. It’s just they aren’t very forthcoming about information.”
She lets out a breath, but the sheen of tears is apparent in her eyes. “I don’t like talking about it. It was ... traumatic.”
“Shit, I’m sorry.” I place a hand on her shoulder. “We still haven’t been told what happened beyond he was hit by a truck. Anything you could give us?”
Iris sits down on the porch steps as the rain abruptly stops. “I was driving behind a truck, on the opposite side of the road to your friend. The truck was ahead of me. It was going too fast. Then it appeared to just lose control. It swerved onto the other side of the road then back again. I thought it was going to topple over, so I braked. When it came back onto my side of the road, I didn’t see your friend anymore. Then I saw bits of the bike and him spat out from beneath the wheels and ... Shit. Shit.” She swiped the tears from beneath her eyes. “He went under every wheel. Him, his bike. Sparks were flying everywhere as the remains of his bike were dragged along the highway. He ...”
Iris puts her head in her hands, and I stroke the top of her head, offering some kind of comfort. I have those kinds of memories in my head. They creep up on me. I envy her for being able to let her feelings out like that.
I look at Clutch, and he nods. He needs me to push. So, I sit next to her on the porch step and slip my arm over her shoulder, tugging her into my side, and she lets me.
“Easy, Iris,” I say softly. “Did you see who was driving?”
My question seems to shake her out of her feelings, and she slips from beneath my arm. “Not at the scene. But I caught up to the truck later. Black hair, at a guess Central American. Red plaid shirt with a black leather thing like yours.”
“A cut?” Clutch asks, gesturing to his own.
“If that’s what that is, then yeah. A black leather cut.” A car backfires down the road, the sound bringing back memories I’d rather not think about, but we all look down the street.
Call it instinct, training, and an uncanny awareness of my surroundings, but I know we are in trouble before I hear the first shot fire.
I grab Iris’s hand, pull her into my arms, and then shove her toward Clutch, who catches her. They roll between the two houses as I pull my weapon.
I aim at the windshield, then the tires. It’s hard to stay behind Iris’s car on her driveway as I aim.
I need to keep Clutch and Iris safe until we can get out of there.
Bullets hit their car, and Iris’s fence.
I hear Iris cry out and empty my clip in fury.
“We need to get out of here, in case they turn around and head back,” Clutch says. “We’ll call for an ambulance on the way.”
I look at her, blood coming from a wound on her thigh. “We can’t just leave her, you fucker.”
“How bad is it?” Clutch asks her. She’s gasping for breath, those eyes glazed over in shock until they connect with mine.
“Just get me ... medical help,” she gasps.
I reach forward and stroke her forehead gently, but she winces as she bats it away.
“You need to come back with us. We have a doc. We aren’t going to leave you to deal with this on your own,” I say. “Not least because your house just got shot up.”
Iris nods. “My uncle can ... come to pick me up.”
I slam my gun back into my holster and lift Iris in my arms. She’s light as a fucking feather. Maybe it’s the way I’m holding her, but she curls against my chest. “I got you,” he says.
“Not totally ... reassuring,” she says. I don’t miss the hint of brat in her tone, even during a stressful event like this.
She’s right to be suspect. My track record of keeping people alive isn’t the best.
I get her to my bike, blood oozing from her thigh. I can’t think about the ferrous smell of it or the way it’s warm and slippery against my palm. Still, the brave little chick manages to get on my bike and hold on.
I drive as quickly as I can given the weather, and when we get to the clubhouse, Clutch yells to open the gate. While we wait, Iris groans. “It ... hurts, Spark.”
