Page 107 of The Lies We Tell
Bates comes next; he’s got a knife. He walks behind me and drags the blade down my back, the agonizing burn of metal through skin makes stars swim in my eyes. The iron-rich scent of blood fills the air.
I swallow deeply. I can’t feel faint this early in the process. There is too much to come.
“Judas,” Bates says.
Clutch is next. He steps up in front of me. “You helped save Gwen. Now we’re straight.” He drops a brown envelope at my feet.
Switch follows. “I’m a fan of redemption arcs.” He tosses an envelope down.
Track is wearing a knuckle duster. I told King to send him away because he’s the only one on audio talking about being at a weapons delivery. He draws his hand back and slams it into my ribs. One cracks, I’m sure. The skin on my back feels as though it’s ripping. Then he draws his hand back and does it again.
“You said one punishment,” Spark says to King, stepping forward between me and Track.
“That one was for breaking Tessa’s heart if they come for me,” Track says.
“It’s fair,” I manage to say.
Spark turns and faces me. So, this is how we meet again after everything went down at the warehouse. I want to talk to my friend. Reassure him.
He reaches for an envelope in his cut. He taps it against his palm as he struggles with what to say. “Iris ...” he says, finally.
“I know,” I tell him.
He nods and drops the envelope in front of me.
And so it goes.
More envelopes in between beatings. I watch the blood trickle down the drain.
I lose count. The envelopes begin to blur. Pain consumes my every breath.
Finally, King steps forward brandishing a knife. “This is going to hurt,” he says.
“Not worse than anything my dad inflicted,” I manage to grunt.
He carves something into my stomach. Letters.
An I and an O. Iron Outlaws. As if pain of the blade slicing through my skin isn’t enough, he empties a container of salt over the wound.
“Judas,” he states as I pass out from blood loss and pain.
38
BRIAR
The sound of a key in the lock makes both Iris and I jump.
It’s a little over a week since Iris was taken from her home, and I can tell she’s uncomfortable in Spark’s house, despite the metal security gate and camera he installed for her. Her bruises have turned yellow, finally fading from the first time we spoke. But I know the mental scars take a lot longer to heal.
I’ve spent the past hour looking at a surgical-type bed that the club’s medic, called Switch, had apparently set up hours before this shit show began.
Cillian has tried to reassure me that this is the best way to resolve things. The fact there is a giant tarp to protect Iris’s wooden floor and rug is not reassuring. Saint’s going to be a mess when he’s returned to me, which I’ve been assured he will be. And I’ll be here to care for him like he cared for me.
Because he won’t be reporting these people to the police either.
I run to the door and hold it open as Spark and Clutch carry Saint into the living room.
Bizarrely, from the neck up, he looks totally fine, but from the shoulders down, he’s a mess. I reach for his hand and pull it to my heart, where I clasp it tightly. “Oh, God. What did you do to him?”
