Irons and Works: The Complete Series

by E M Lindsey

  “Likewise,” Peter said, giving him another hungry look. Amit’s throat went tight, and he found himself wanting Miguel nearby. “When your mother said you were available, we were ecstatic.”

  “Available,” he started, but his aunt reached under the table and squeezed his knee.

  “Amit has been such a bachelor,” his auntie said, and Amit felt his stomach sink to his knees. It became clear, hitting him like a punch to the gut, what this was all about. “We’ve been hoping for a good match.”

  Amit’s mouth was dry, and he tried to clear his throat. “Will you… I need to…I’ll be right back.” He stood up, feeling half-numb as he stumbled toward the bathroom to escape this moment he didn’t know how to salvage. He and Miguel made each other no promises—they’d been fucking, and dating, and Amit knew he was in love with him, but they’d never defined it.

  All the same, he wasn’t free. And even if he was, he wasn’t going to find a spouse through an arranged marriage. He loved his mother, but he couldn’t. His breath came in stuttering gasps, and he quickly splashed water over his face before fumbling for a paper towel. His reflection stared back at him, wrecked and a little green around the gills, and he knew he couldn’t face the table like that.

  Pulling his phone from his pocket, his thumb hovered over Miguel’s text thread, then hit it and started to type.

  Amit: Just wanted to check in. Hope things are okay.

  * * *

  Miguel: Better than expected.

  * * *

  Amit: That’s good, right?

  * * *

  Miguel: It is.

  * * *

  Amit: So any idea when you’re going to be back?

  * * *

  Miguel: It’s…complicated. Sorry. Can I call…

  * * *

  Miguel: Shit. I can’t. Um. It’s too weird to text this. I’ll be in touch when I can.

  Amit shoved the phone back into his pocket, and he fought back an almost hysterical laugh. He knew what Miguel wasn’t saying—he could easily read between those gaping lines. The thing Amit had wanted for him, yet the thing he was most scared of, had come to pass. Miguel found his family—and it wasn’t like Amit could make demands, after all. They’d only just met.

  Love, in this case, wouldn’t ever be enough.

  Taking a breath, he realized he’d have to find courage on his own to stand up for himself. He couldn’t let his mother steamroll him. He had to trust himself to land on his own two feet after he jumped. He quickly mopped up his face, then made his way back to the table to find drinks all around, and food already ordered.

  No one said anything about his relationship status, but he saw the way the conversation had directed itself toward him—how the parents were sizing him up, how his mother was just so eager to brag. He didn’t meet Elizabeth’s eye once, and he could only hope his mother would understand why he couldn’t do this.

  “Thank you for the meal,” Peter said after his auntie had given her credit card. “This food really is an amazing testament to your culture. We’ve really struggled to help Beth find her identity and I think this is what she needs.”

  The girl glanced over at Amit, and there was fear in her eyes. Enough that his stomach twisted, and he wanted to grab her hand and pull her out of there. She was turning eighteen in a week, and that’s why her parents had started husband shopping. He hadn’t seen it a lot before, but he’d seen it enough.

  “We’ll be in touch with more details,” his mom told the Randals, and Amit opened his mouth to speak up for himself when his mother pinched his thigh. He winced, then squeezed his jaw shut and hated himself a little more for not being able to say what he needed to say.

  His silence was oppressive and suffocating, and it followed him all the way back to the car. Once his mother was safely buckled in, his aunt in the back seat, he switched the engine on, then squeezed the wheel.

  “I can’t,” he said, the words coming out in a rush. “Mom, I love you so much, and I want you to be happy, but I can’t…I can’t marry some child!”

  After a beat, Amit physically jumped when both his mother and his auntie burst into laughter. “Raaje,” his mom said, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder, “I know your boyfriend wouldn’t approve, but you need to understand why I’m doing this.”

  Amit was beyond glad he wasn’t driving, because he absolutely would have driven the car off the road. The casual way his mother had mentioned boyfriend—the way she said it like it was nothing at all—left him unable to breathe.

  When she saw his distress was real, her shaking hand reached for his knee. “Amit,” she said quietly.

  He swallowed thickly. “Momma,” he breathed out. He chanced a look at her, afraid to see disgust or hostility. Instead there was a worry he hadn’t seen since he was a young child trying to fit in. “You…I. How?”

  “How do I know?” she asked, and the right side of her face twitched up. “You’ve never been a particularly subtle child, raaje.”

  His hands were shaking, so he gripped the wheel to steady them. “You…” He swallowed thickly and he wasn’t sure whether to be angry, terrified, or elated that she had known—that whatever he told her, none of it would be a surprise.

  “I’ve been tidying up after you for years. I know about your drawer.”

  And well…maybe he was stupid to think he’d been clever, but he hadn’t been expecting it. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but all that escaped was a broken sob. Her face fell, and though her battered body struggled, she managed to pull him close to her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have said something.”

  Swiping a hand under his nose, he sniffed and tried to compose himself. “Aminah said you’d hate me. She was so convinced if you knew, it would kill you.”

  “That girl,” his mother said with a huff. “I love her—I raised her—but her stubbornness is going to see her a lot of lonely years before she learns to accept the world around her.”

  Amit was in shock. More than that. He didn’t know how the hell to process the fact that it was fine—that in spite of what he’d grown up so damn sure about, he’d been wrong. “I think I need some time to process all of this,” he told her, “but if you…if you knew I was seeing a man, why this lunch?”

  At that, his mother’s face darkened, and his aunt leaned up between the seats to speak. “She’s in trouble, that girl.”

  Amit winced. “I got the feeling.”

  “She’s a child,” his mother said, her voice dark. “They approached me about you—and I almost told them never to speak to me again. I knew you were finding your own way. But if I didn’t do something about it, they were going to sell her to the next highest bidder.”

  Amit’s shock turned to something like rage, and he had to take a breath, leaning away from his mom. In, truth, he knew there were plenty of men just waiting to prey on a girl like Elizabeth—plenty who would whisk her off and she’d spend the rest of her days in hell. But marrying her?

  “We just need to bide our time,” his mother said. “They don’t understand dowry—they were so sure it was something the groom paid to the bride’s family. We let them think it,” she said, then let out a small laugh.

  “My niece has a place ready for her,” his auntie piped up.

  Amit let out a breath. “So, you just need me to play along? Why didn’t you say something?”

  His mom smiled that half-smile at him again. “We needed you to be the reluctant groom, raaje. Make the parents feel like we’re working for it. We get this girl away from them, safe, with people who understand her. But you’d make it too easy.”

  Amit rolled his eyes, but she wasn’t wrong. If he had known, he wouldn’t have been able to maintain the façade in the face of those people too willing to sell their own child for cash. “Fine. I um…I’m obviously in. The rest of all this though, I’m going to need a full week to process the fact that you knew I…that I like to…that I’m…”

  “Gay?
” his mother offered.

  Amit shook his head. “Bisexual, not gay. And for the record, I don’t have a boyfriend. I was seeing someone, but his situation changed, and he’s gone now.”

  His auntie reached between the seats to squeeze his shoulder. “Don’t give up yet. You won’t know your future until you get there.”

  It was probably too good to be true, but he couldn’t stop the small piece of him that desperately wanted to hope.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Miguel had been in a lot of strange and fucked up situations over the course of his life. Some outside of his control, some of his own making. This stood somewhere in between—he’d fucked the meth-head on his own, but he’d always worn a condom. Always. It didn’t change DNA results, and it didn’t change the fact that he was in no real position to be a dad.

  He didn’t actually even know what the fuck he was doing there beyond the fact that the DCS agent had requested him to sign paperwork after paternity was established. He arrived the day before his meeting with the agent, and had checked into a midrange hotel room.

  He spent the night re-reading old texts with Amit, desperate to just contact him—desperate for him in ways he didn’t want to be. They’d left things a little weird. Their last fuck had been desperate, and Amit had said goodbye like it was the last time they’d see each other in spite of Miguel’s assurance he’d be back. Amit was a fatalist—there was no denying that, and Miguel could sympathize because he never really had a lot of good in his life. But he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d done enough to make Amit feel secure in him—in them.

  He decided not to text. He wanted to know what the hell was going on before he said anything, that way he had answers. If this woman was looking for cash, he could provide. He wasn’t making much at Irons and Works, but Tony had been hinting around about wanting to offer him a stall, especially since Mat was going back to school and pursuing his old job. Miguel didn’t have the line-work skill that Mat had, but he had something people had come in for—had come back for over the short while he’d been there.

  He loved Martin, he loved Little Black Book, but it didn’t feel like home the way Irons and Works did. Their family was tight-knit, but nothing like Tony had cultivated. Miguel realized it was everything his family’s club was supposed to be. It was everything they had been before his old man took over and destroyed their fragile system. Miguel hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it, how much he needed it, until he had a taste again.

  He went to sleep with the future on his mind—a stall of his own, the guys like family, Amit in his arms. Maybe it wasn’t the future he anticipated, but it was the only one that made sense.

  In the morning, the agent called and offered him directions to her office. He managed to choke down a stale bagel from the continental buffet, then made his way over to the office. He dressed in the best clothes he had—new jeans and a Henley that covered most of his arm—but his ink was visible on his neck, and his scars couldn’t be hidden even if he tried.

  He was patted down during the search, and given the side-eye by the over-zealous, twenty-something security guard who definitely should not have been given a gun. Luckily, the receptionist was a lot kinder, and she gave him an easy smile as she checked him in.

  “Miguel Ruiz for Tracy Andrews?” she asked, tapping on her keyboard.

  He grunted his reply, shrugging because he couldn’t remember her name, and his nerves had him frazzled. “I uh…I didn’t bring any paperwork with me or anything.”

  She gave him another smile. “No worries, Mr. Ruiz. Anything she needs she can get from you here. Take a seat and she’ll be out in a minute.”

  He doubted that was true. People in power loved to make others wait for them, and he was prepared to spend a good half hour in the chair. However, when the elevator dinged and a woman in a blue pantsuit and a short brown pixie-cut walked out not a minute later, he knew instantly it was her. She was one of the shortest people he’d ever met, her stature showing her dwarfism, and the look on her face was all business.

  “Mr. Ruiz,” she said, extending her hand.

  Miguel took it, her palm disappearing against his, and he marveled at how he could be so intimidated by a woman he’d never met. “Nice to meet you. Um. I hope I’m not too early. Or late.”

  She raised a brow, then laughed. “You don’t have to look so petrified. I just want to discuss the girl’s case and how we plan to move forward.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I…sure. We can do that.” He had no idea why they’d involve him now, after all this time. He assumed he’d be slapped with a court order to pay back support or something, not brought to some office in fucking Texas to discuss the future.

  She led the way back to the elevator and hit the button. “Hope you don’t mind. My hips are useless on three flights of stairs.”

  His brows lifted, and he laughed in spite of himself. “I was almost crushed to death in a house fire. I can barely do the six that led to the lobby.”

  She winced. “Their ramp situation sucks here. Sometimes I use a scooter and the only entrance is around the back. Trust me when I say it’s an issue.”

  He realized he liked her already, and he felt the stress inside him ease as she brought them to the third floor and down a small corridor. Her office was the second to last, and it had a large window which looked over the city. It was a comfortable place to meet—hell it would have been an ideal place to work, though he didn’t think her job was particularly easy. He knew the whole shop back in Fairfield had mixed feelings about DCS. They’d put Sam through the wringer, and he’d come far too close to losing Maisy for comfort. It left Miguel on edge, even if he knew this wasn’t going to involve his relationship with the girl he was here to discuss.

  “Can I get you coffee or anything?” Tracy asked.

  Miguel shook his head, then lowered himself into the chair, wincing when he heard it creak. Tracy’s lips twitched, but she didn’t call him on it. “I have to be frank with you, Ms. Andrews, I’m not entirely sure why I’m here. I had a short chat with your colleague…”

  “Yes,” Tracy said, leaning over her chair and returning with a manila file folder. “I was transferred this case two weeks ago since it looks like it’s going to be a long-term situation. Your ex…”

  “No,” Miguel said swiftly, then flushed a bit. “Sorry, just…no. I didn’t even know her name before Ms. Carter called me up.”

  Tracy’s brows rose and she glanced down at the paperwork. “Miss Tyndall gave us the impression the two of you had been involved.”

  Miguel let out a frustrated sigh. “Listen, you know this situation is complicated.”

  “I do,” Tracy confirmed.

  “So, I’m sure you know about her connection to uh…to a specific group of people…”

  “We’re aware of the club, Mr. Ruiz,” she said, her tone just a little short.

  “That’s not my thing,” he said, feeling oddly defensive, but then again, he knew what his dad’s club had been like after they moved. “I left years ago.”

  “After your injury?” Tracy asked, almost like she was reading off a script.

  Miguel dragged his hand down his face, then sat back. “Clearly she got you all a bunch of wrong information. I know what people think of club life, Ms. Andrews, but I didn’t grow up like that. Not much, anyway. My granddad’s club were—tough guys, but good guys. My old man wasn’t so much in either category. When I was a teenager, he pissed some people off, and I got trapped in a house-fire for it. My old man dragged me up north, but I was never involved with that club. I worked with them when I didn’t have a choice, but the night I met Cristin was the night I packed my shit—sorry, my stuff—and got out of there. I haven’t been back since.”

  She looked at him a long while, then sighed. “Alright.”

  “I’m sorry my information don’t match up with yours,” he offered, though he wasn’t that sorry.

  Tracy shook her head. “It’s alright. Her story had a lot of
holes, and I was just…” She ran her tongue over her bottom lip, then looked up at him. “Callie’s been through a lot. When she said she didn’t know you, I thought maybe she was acting out, or parroting what her mom told her to. Especially after her mom said the two of you had been together most of Callie’s life.”

  Miguel blinked, a little stunned. “Why would she say that?”

  “Because right now, Callie’s staying with her parents, and I don’t think Cristin likes that very much,” Tracy admitted.

  Miguel felt something twist uncomfortably in his gut. Fear, he realized. Fear that his child—whether he knew her or not—could be in a bad situation. “Is she alright there?”

  Tracy’s expression softened and she gave a nod. “From what I can tell, they’re great people, and they love her a lot. Mrs. Tyndall told us they’d been trying to get their daughter into rehab for several years. When they found out she was pregnant, they started sending her money, but it wasn’t enough. I’ve seen this a lot—addicts using their kids as emotional blackmail. It’s…difficult.”

  Miguel swallowed thickly and shook his head. “That’s bullshit. Sorry for swearing again.”

  Tracy laughed. “That’s a good way to put it.”

  Miguel smiled, but it quickly turned into a frown as confusion set in. “If she’s doing well where she’s at, why am I here?”

  Tracy shrugged, then grabbed a pen and clicked the top. “Because I don’t like to break up families. If there was even a grain of truth to Ms. Tyndall’s story, you have every right to petition for custody.”

  Miguel felt a wave of panic. “Look. I…this is gonna make me sound like the worst deadbeat dad, but I don’t know this kid. I’m not…” He let out a tense laugh. “Someday, I’d love to be a dad, I think. But I don’t even have a steady place to live. I’m finishing up a tattoo internship and trying to figure out where to go. Seems really unfair to rip this kid away from people who love her—people she knows.”