The Lies We Tell

THE LIES WE TELL IRON OUTLAWS MC BOOK 3 S. COLE Copyright © 2023 by Scarlett Cole All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Published By: Kadelo Group Ltd. Edited by: Manu Shadow Velasco Cover design by: Letitia Hasser at RBA Design Photographer: Wander Aguiar E-book ISBN: 978-1-7392843-1-2 Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7392843-2-9 For the ones still figuring out where they belong. It’s okay, Lovely! You’ve got time. CONTENTS Note to Readers Prologue: Saint 1. Saint 2. Briar 3. Saint 4. Briar 5. Saint 6. Briar 7. Saint 8. Saint 9. Briar 10. Briar 11. Saint 12. Saint 13. Briar 14. Saint 15. Briar 16. Saint 17. Briar 18. Saint 19. Saint 20. Briar 21. Saint 22. Briar 23. Saint 24. Briar 25. Saint 26. Saint 27. Briar 28. Saint 29. Saint 30. Briar 31. Saint 32. Briar 33. Saint 34. Briar 35. Saint 36. Briar 37. Saint 38. Briar Epilogue: Saint Epilogue Two I know, I know … The Bonds We Break Excerpt Acknowledgements About the Author Also by Scarlett Cole NOTE TO READERS The Lies We Tell runs in parallel to The Games We Play for part of the book. There are a handful of scenes that appear in both books told from Saint and Spark’s POVs. Both books are designed to stand alone, but for enhanced enjoyment, you may wish to read both. Content Warnings As with any motorcycle club (MC) romance, the typical themes apply: language, violence, use of misogynistic language. But within this book, there are some specific themes that may not be for all: Assault (not sexual) Kidnapping PTSD as a result of assault Consensual biting, restraining, and spanking Physical Torture Dubious consent (in the second epilogue that introduces the hero and heroine of book four) PROLOGUE: SAINT OCTOBER 25 “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” I mutter as I dash around my undercover apartment, shoving anything that might keep me alive for the next four hours into a backpack. I yank open the cabinet beneath the bathroom sink and grab my medical kit, one with more than simple over-the-counter remedies. Antibiotics. Synthetic monofilament sutures. The kind of painkillers that can cause addiction. When I stand, I see my brown hair and beard trimmings in the sink and wonder who the real me is; I run my fingers across my cheek, beardless for the first time in years. Spark, the Iron Outlaws’ sergeant at arms, had teased me about how I looked like Jesus. Now I actually look like who I am. Who I’m supposed to be. Fuck. I don’t even know who that is anymore. Am I clean-cut Special Agent Ryker Miller, undercover for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives? Former army bomb disposal expert? Because that guy surely wouldn’t have recklessly detonated his career as I’ve done. Or am I Saint, preacher and strip club manager for the Iron Outlaws Motorcycle Club? Or, in Ryker’s language, an Outlaw Motorcycle Gang. For two years, I’ve danced between the two. And today I picked a side. My brothers’. But doing so has made me the ATF’s enemy number one, collapsed a huge interdepartmental investigation, and will likely cost me my life. At some point, I’m certain my Iron Outlaws tattoo, the one I was forced to receive, will be burned off my body. Bates will do it. He loves the sound of pain. I suppose it’s cheaper than laser removal. This is the price of the path I’ve chosen. One day I’ll look back and realize I did this for two women. For Iris, so she can love my friend back to life. And for Briar, so we can love each other, and I think we’re starting to. Until I’m out of danger, I need to keep my distance from Briar. She’s been through enough. And I can’t let her get hurt for me. I run back into the bedroom. “Think,” I mutter. My electronics are packed. My wallet with all my fake identification was tossed in a dumpster halfway between here and the shoot-out at the warehouse. My legitimate identification is in my real house in Portland, Maine. In the past few weeks, I procured another set of documents that neither the ATF nor the Iron Outlaws know about. I also stole two weapons from the club. If I’m fucked, I might as well be properly fucked. I maybe have another ten minutes. I chose to help Spark save Iris because of the kind of man he is. I’ve seen the sacrifices a man like that makes. And for once in my life, I wanted to do the right thing. Because he’s a good friend, a shit fisherman, and a hypervigilant veteran with PTSD. He deserves the love Iris gives him unconditionally. And seeing her hurt will kill him. It would also kill me. Iris was born into a life she didn’t want. Daughter and niece of Irish crime family kingpins. I know how it feels to live a childhood in the shadow of that kind of legacy. I’ve made calls I shouldn’t have. I’ve made calls I should. I stuff my fleece, waterproof clothes, and hiking boots into the suitcase. I’ll buy more, but the basics are good. Maybe I’ll head to my sister Rae’s house in Michigan. But in case I don’t, I’ve already thrown my tent and sleeping bag into my truck. Not the truck the club knew about, but the one I kept parked on a patch of dirt a mile from the clubhouse. I left my bike there. They’ll figure it out eventually, but by then, I’ll have made it to Maine and swapped it with my own ride. Switching things up—directions, license plates, lodgings—will make it harder to trace me. My phone rings, and I know I’m in deep shit. Because instead of