Iron Will (Iron Brotherhood #1)

Chapter 1

WILL

The last time I saw Gemma Holloway, she was standing beside me at Sarah's grave.

That was five years ago. She'd flown in from Seattle, stayed two days, and left before I could form words beyond the basic mechanics of grief.

I remember her hand on my arm at the reception, her voice saying something I couldn't process, something in her eyes was dimmer than it had been before she left Anchor Bay.

I should have paid more attention. Should have asked why she seemed so diminished, why her new boyfriend hadn't come with her, why she flinched when her phone buzzed in her purse. But Sarah had just died, and I couldn't see past my own pain to notice someone else's.

Now Gemma's standing in my doorway again, and those shadows have consumed her entirely.

Tuesday nights at the Ironside Bar are slow enough that I handle inventory myself.

The rhythm of counting bottles and checking stock keeps my hands busy, and busy hands mean a quiet mind.

Or quiet enough. The alternative is going home to a house that still feels too empty, so I'll take boxes of napkins and a clipboard over silence any day.

The bar is almost deserted tonight. A few regulars nurse beers at the far end, watching a Mariners game on the mounted TV. Old Dave tells the same story about his fishing boat that he tells every week. No one's really listening, but no one minds either. That's the kind of place the Ironside is.

The Brotherhood bought this building eight years ago when we were still figuring out what we wanted to be.

Cole found it. Said it had good bones and better parking, and that was enough for me.

We gutted it, rebuilt it, turned it into something that feels like a cross between a neighborhood bar and a living room.

Exposed brick, reclaimed wood, pool tables that have seen better days but still play true.

Nothing fancy. Nothing that tries too hard.

I'm in the back storage room when I hear the front door open. The hinges creak in a specific way that tells me someone's pushing through slow and uncertain, not the confident swing of a regular. I set down my clipboard and head toward the main room.

The woman standing just inside the entrance has her hand still on the door like she's not sure she wants to let go. The overhead lights catch the angles of her face, and recognition hits me like a fist to the chest.

She's thin. Too thin. Her dark hair is cropped short where it used to fall past her shoulders, and the style should look edgy and intentional but instead looks like someone cut it in a hurry without caring how it turned out.

She's wearing jeans and a sweater that both hang loose on her frame, and her eyes scan the room with the kind of wariness that makes me slow my approach without thinking about it.

"Gemma?"

Her gaze snaps to me, and fear flashes across her features before she controls it. That fear bothers me more than anything else. Gemma has never been afraid of anything in her life. Certainly never afraid of me.

"Will." Her voice is rougher than I remember, like she's been crying or screaming or both. "I wasn't sure you'd be here."

"Where else would I be?" I keep my tone easy, casual, even as my mind races through possibilities I don't like. "Cole's out on a parts run, but he should be back soon. You want me to call him?"

"I..." She hesitates, and her fingers tighten on the strap of the bag over her shoulder. "Yeah. If that's okay. I should have called first, I know. I just started driving and this is where I ended up."

There's a lot packed into those words. I file it away and gesture toward the bar.

"Sit down. Let me get you something."

She doesn't move right away. Her eyes track around the room again, checking exits maybe, or just checking. Whatever she's looking for, she apparently doesn't find it, because some of the tension in her shoulders releases and she finally walks toward me.

I get my first good look at her as she slides onto a barstool, and what I see makes me want to put my fist through a wall.

She's exhausted in a way that goes beyond physical.

The hollows under her eyes speak of weeks without real sleep, and a guardedness in her posture that wasn't there before.

She holds herself like she's expecting a blow.

This is worse than the funeral. At Sarah's service, Gemma looked dimmed. Uncertain. Now she looks hunted.

When I set a glass of water in front of her, she goes still. Her whole body tightens for just a fraction of a second before she forces herself to relax. Just slightly. Just enough that most people wouldn't notice.

I notice. Twenty years of reading body language, first in the Army and then in different work entirely, taught me to catch what others miss. That reaction tells me something, and I don't like what it says.

"Thanks." She wraps both hands around the glass but doesn't drink. "The place looks good. You've done some work since I was here last."

Since the funeral. Neither of us says it.

"New sound system. Fixed the draft lines. Nothing major."

I pull out my phone and text Cole:

Your sister's here. Get back now.

"When did you get into town?"

"About an hour ago. Maybe two." She shrugs like she's lost track of time, or stopped caring about it. "I wasn't planning to come here, but I know the house is going to need work before it's livable. I’m hoping Cole will let me stay with him."

"The house?"

"Mom and Dad's place. Cole and I keep saying we should sell but just haven't been able to bring ourselves to do it."

She says it like she's explaining something simple, but the words are loaded with everything she's not saying.

Her parents died three years ago, and Gemma didn't come to the funeral.

Cole made excuses for her at the time. Work obligations.

Travel difficulties. The explanations never quite added up, but grief makes you accept things you shouldn't.

Now, looking at the woman in front of me, I understand why she didn't come. Someone kept her away.

"You hungry?" The question comes out before I can stop it. "Kitchen's technically closed, but I can throw something together."

Her mouth curves in what might be the ghost of a smile. "You still can't cook, Will."

"I can heat things up. Big difference."

That almost earns a real smile, but not quite.

"Maybe just some fries? If it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble."

I head toward the kitchen, grateful for something to do with my hands. Through the pass-through window, I can see her sitting at the bar, and the image catches somewhere in my ribs I'd rather not examine.

Gemma Holloway is Cole's little sister. She used to follow us around when we were young, asking questions neither of us wanted to answer.

I remember her at sixteen, fearless on the back of Cole's bike.

At twenty, home from college and arguing politics with anyone who'd engage.

At twenty-four, the year she left, looking at the world like it owed her an adventure.

At twenty-five, standing beside me while they lowered Sarah into the ground.

She'd known Sarah. Not well, but enough.

Sarah had been part of the Brotherhood family, had helped build what the Ironside became.

Gemma had watched us together at cookouts and club events, had seen what our marriage looked like from the outside.

I wonder sometimes what she thought of us.

Whether she saw the reality or just the surface.

The fries take eight minutes. I use the time to get my head straight, which works about as well as it ever does. When I bring the basket out to her, she's staring at the door like she's waiting for someone to walk through it.

"Cole's ten minutes out," I tell her. "Said to keep you here."

"Like I'm going anywhere." She reaches for a fry, then stops with her hand halfway there. "I should warn you. I'm not the same person I was when I left."

"Nobody stays the same, Gemma."

"No, I mean..." She trails off, and her jaw tightens. "I mean I'm a mess. I know I'm a mess. And I'm not going to pretend otherwise, so if you're expecting some happy reunion story about how I went off and had a great life, that's not what this is."

There's defiance in how she says it. A dare. She's used to people judging her. Used to defending herself before anyone can attack.

"Eat your fries," I say instead of any of the things I want to say. "You look like you haven't had a decent meal in weeks."

Her laugh is humorless. "Months, actually. But who's counting."

She eats three fries before pushing the basket away. I don't comment on it, but I clock it. I clock everything, and I hate that I notice, because none of this is my business and I have no right to the anger building low in my gut.

"The marriage ended," she says suddenly, ripping off the bandage all at once. "In case you were wondering. That's why I'm here. That's why I look like this."

"I wasn't going to ask."

"But you were thinking it." Her eyes meet mine, and for the first time I see a flash of the Gemma I remember. Sharp. Direct. "You've been watching me since I walked in like you're trying to figure out what happened."

"Am I that obvious?"

"You're about as subtle as a sledgehammer, Will. You always have been."

Despite everything, that makes me smile. She's not wrong.

"Fair enough." I lean against the back bar, keeping my hands still when they want to reach for her. "You want to tell me what happened?"

"Not really." She picks up another fry and tears it in half instead of eating it. "Not yet. Maybe not ever. I don't know."

"Okay."

She looks up at me, startled. "Okay? That's it?"

"You'll talk when you're ready. Or you won't. Either way, you're here now, and that's what matters."

Her expression shifts. Cracks. For a moment she looks younger than her thirty years, and infinitely more fragile.

"I forgot," she says quietly. "I forgot that you're like this."

"Like what?"