A Message For Iris : (Gods of Olympus Book 3)

by elda lore

  “You always say that,” Cash sighed. “It’s never your fault.”

  6

  Riordan

  “In this case, it isn’t his fault.” My head shot up at the sound of Iris’ voice, sternly defending me. Her hands on her hips, she looked primed to fight my brother. I wanted to chuckle at her stance, only I could hardly breathe from the blood dripping from my nose. Still handcuffed, memories flashed through my mind. All the arrests. All the drunken fights. I’d been on the receiving side, like Baldy, who was now in the backseat of a police car. I’d been in that position. I knew where his anger came from. He wanted what he wanted, and he wasn’t taking no for an answer.

  I wasn’t there any longer, though. Things had changed. Everything changed because of Henny, yet Cash only knew half the story. He didn’t need to know the whole sordid tale. The full details were too painful, and I shook my head to erase the memory. The motion caused blood to spatter on the sidewalk.

  “Charlie!” Iris screeched, stepping toward me. “Can you get those cuffs off him, Keith?” My heart pinched at her familiarity with the officer. It made sense. She was a business owner on the strip, but still, the way his name rolled off her tongue, and hers had curled off his, didn’t settle well with me. Adrenaline still coursed through my body, and my heart raced with energy. I needed to run, or better yet, draw. The freedom of setting the emotions on paper would calm me.

  Delicate fingers wrapped around my bicep, and I stared at the contrast of her ink-free fingers over the heavy black etchings on my skin. Tan compared to her lighter complexion. I sensed she didn’t enjoy the sunshine as much as me, although she lived on Maui. Her gentle tug pulled me back toward the waiting room, and she forced me to sit. A trash bin was placed under me to catch the continual drip of blood, and then a wad of paper towels came into view. Seconds later, a baggie filled with ice appeared. I pressed the ice to my cheek and the towels to my nose. I could only imagine the sight of me, and looking up to face Cash, I had my answer. It was bad.

  “Cash, I swear. He started it.” The confession was nasally and stuttered. I couldn’t breathe and speak.

  “What Charlie? What could he possibly start in a tattoo parlor?” The ancient industry name lapped off his tongue like it was sticky, insulting, and he wanted it removed. Cash wasn’t happy with my selection of employment, but I couldn’t go back to who I was before. I couldn’t be the graphic designer, the white-collar business guy that I’d tried to be to please them. All of them, even Henny.

  “He was drunk,” Iris said, coming to my aid again. “Charlie was defending me.” My eyes jumped to hers, and she tenderly smiled down at me. I wasn’t really defending her honor, but I didn’t like how that drunken loser spoke to her or appraised her body.

  “But you promised. No fights. No scuffles. No drinking.”

  “I wasn’t drinking,” I barked, sounding like someone snorkeling, as I defended my own promises. Iris’ brow pinched as she stared at my brother.

  “Charlie was working. I don’t allow my employees to drink on the premise.” Again, her tone stood defensive, and there was a hint of exasperation, as if she had more to say to Cash, but held back. She stepped toward me and folded to her knees. “Let me look,” she asked, inspecting my swollen cheek and bruised nose.

  “It isn’t broken. But it hurts like hell.” She moved the ice bag to my nose after tapping my wrist to drop the bloody paper towels in the trash.

  “It’s going to be a shiner,” she teased. “You’ll actually have color on you, even if it is green and yellow.”

  I laughed, and the intake of air caused my nose to start bleeding again.

  “Aw, Charlie, let’s get you home.”

  Cash lived in a condominium. It didn’t feel like a home, but a permanent vacation, which he claimed his retirement was. His work was design consulting for better safety features on aircraft carriers, and he travelled to the main island every few weeks. Most communication was done via email and shared files. His retirement at an early age left him a satisfied man, with a carefree life of daily surfing, time for rock climbing, and swing band at night. While Cash’s artistic talent was music, he saw the frivolousness of arguing with my parents early on, and honed his musical skills but didn’t flaunt his desire for it to be his career. Instead, he followed in the footsteps of our father and attended the Naval Academy. Graduating with honors, he served for years before the onboard catastrophe that resulted in his early leave.

  “Tell me again what happened?” He snapped as soon as we entered his apartment, and for the third time, I repeated the incident. “And you’re sure that working at that tattoo parlor is a safe idea?”

  “It’s an ink shop, and it’s perfectly safe,” I sighed. “I doubt this is a regular occurrence.” In fact, I was positive that Iris ran a reputable business. Her clientele was steady throughout the day, and she offered my name as a suggestion to many who were looking for something traditional. A few of the clients said they knew people looking for more old school tattoos and they’d suggest me. Things looked brighter in one week, until this evening.

  “And this Iris person,” Cash questioned.

  “Cash, did you see her? She’s stunning. The place is immaculate. You play in the band for the choir that her co-worker is in. Don’t you know Violet?”

  Cash blinked. “Violet Hanson?”

  “Yes, Violet and Iris are friends.”

  “Well, two strange flowers in a pot then,” he scoffed. He rubbed a hand over his brown hair, a shade lighter than my own from sun exposure. He chuckled lightly. “That girl can flirt like the best of them.”

  I bristled at the thought. “Iris can?”

  “Not Iris, Violet,” he said, shaking his head.

  “You just lumped them together, as if you know Iris.”

  “I don’t,” he sighed. “And you don’t either. I just don’t want to see you hurt again, Charlie.”

  Cash didn’t even know the half of it. I wasn’t going to get hurt. I’d sealed the coffin around my heart. No daylight in, only darkness. Then I thought of Iris and her lips on mine. The lid lifted, the weight on my chest not so heavy, if only for a minute.

  “Shit, I forgot my jacket and a set of sketches at the shop. I also left my bike behind since you drove me home.” My Harley Davidson Fat Boy 2016 was my baby.

  “Get it tomorrow,” Cash yawned, and it occurred to me I didn’t know how he was able to get to the strip so quickly. The details didn’t matter. A strange pull lured me to return to Indigo Ink, and I didn’t want to wait until morning.

  “Tonight.”

  Returning to the studio, an hour after the scuffle, I wasn’t surprised to see the soft glow of a light coming from within. The waiting room was dim, but I caught the movement of someone inside and rapped softly on the newly-boarded front door. I heard someone twist the lock, and Violet’s face peeked out as she opened the door for me.

  “Hey,” she whispered as if she’d disturb others when we were the only two present.

  “I forgot my jacket and wanted to grab a notebook I’d been sketching in.”

  She pulled the door open further and stepped back to allow me inside.

  “I’ll just be a minute.”

  She nodded in reply. “Be quick,” she whispered. “And quiet.”

  I turned the corner for the hallway and heard laughter trickling behind the door marked Private. I’d wandered to it during the week, but Iris or Violet would redirect me to a small kitchenette area for coffee or snacks. Drawing closer to the station I used earlier in the day, the laughter rose higher, light bells from one female followed by a tambourine of coughing guffaws from another.

  “What’s going on back there?” I asked Violet over my shoulder, passing my station.

  “You can’t go in there, Charlie,” she whispered harshly, but my body was pulled toward the contagious sound of female laughter. Pushing on the door, it slid open easily and revealed a room dimly light by lamp light instead of an overhead fluorescent. A large, r
ectangular, wooden table was covered in envelopes and papers. A stack of lavender-colored paper and matching envelopes rested in a metal-wire basket in the center of the table. A bucket of pens sat next to the paper holder.

  “What’s this?” I asked, adding my own questioning laughter to the female mixture, but the question brought immediate silence, like a gavel knocked on a podium.

  “Riordan,” Iris stood. “What are you doing in here?” We stared at one another a moment before my eyes fell to the table.

  “What’s going on here?” I asked, stepping into the room.

  “Violet, how did he get in here?” Iris snapped, addressing her friend who stood behind me.

  “He came back for his jacket and a notebook.” I no longer had interest in either of the things I returned to retrieve. My eye was drawn to the stamped envelopes, all shapes and sizes, international and solid white, weathered and new. Iris rounded the table and approached me. Stepping in front of me, her smaller frame could not block my view.

  “Are those letters? Old-fashioned letters?” I chuckled at the thought. Peering down at the handwriting, some even written in cursive, I was convinced the scattered papers were, in fact, traditional letters.

  “Yes, they are. Now you need to leave, Riordan. I’ll see you in the morning.” Her hands came up to my chest, gently pushing me for the door, but I side-stepped her and met the eyes of an older woman with glasses and apple red-colored hair. She smiled sweetly, and then returned her face to the task before her. She was writing in a looping scroll over the light lavender paper.

  “What is this?” I asked again, reaching for a letter, but Iris quickly snatched it from my fingers.

  “They’re letters. Now, out.” She demanded, but my curiosity got the better of me. I stepped right again, rounding the table and looking over the shoulder of a Hawaiian native, dressed in a floral print dress with sleek black hair and a necklace of flowers. One word caught my attention: cancer.

  My eyes jumped up to Iris. A question readied to form on my lips, but Iris’ voice cut me off.

  “People write letters, and we respond to them.”

  “What kind of letters?” I helped myself to one written on pink paper. The strong scent of roses wafted to my swollen nose as the words came into sight.

  When the time comes, I don’t know how I’ll say goodbye. The cancer will ruin all that we have, and yet he claims we have all our memories. He’ll remember how I feel when he can no longer touch me.

  Iris came to my side, attempting to take the paper from me, but I reached for another one and skirted around the table once again.

  He says he loves me, and she meant nothing to him. I don’t know if I can forgive him.

  She chased me around the table as I read and set the tear-stained paper down and grabbed another one.

  I never went to him on that day, and I fear I’ve made a huge mistake.

  The heartbreak leapt off the page.

  “What is this?” I whispered.

  “It’s Dear Iris,” the older woman spoke. “We answer letters of love from those who are troubled, questioning, lonely, or living with regret.” She paused and smiled softly, her bright red lips a compliment to her hair and matching eyeglasses. “My name is Lorna Miller. Resident expert on marriage.” She nodded and winked.

  “Dear Iris. Are you some kind of advice columnist?”

  “Not exactly,” Violet spoke. “We answer the messages written directly to Iris asking questions about love, engagement, marriage, divorce, and sex.” The hard sound of the final consonant resonated in the room. “Not necessarily in that order, but sometimes.”

  “And death,” the Hawaiian woman answered. “Those dying fear for their loved ones, and those living fear for those dying.”

  “Molaiha is our medical expert. She handles those letters with questions about disease and death,” Iris’ voice faltered on the final word.

  “Again, are you an advice columnist?” I asked, still holding a letter in my hand. I’d stopped racing around the table, and Iris stood at my side.

  “She’s a messenger of love,” Violet chirped, a brightness to her tone that didn’t match the feel of the room. My presence filled the room with tension, and it was evident I wasn’t meant to be here, wasn’t meant to discover their midnight writings.

  “Like the goddess of love or something,” I snorted, uncertain where my agitation came from. I didn’t believe in love. Not after Henny destroyed mine.

  “More like a messenger of love, like Violet said. The goddess of love is another person,” Lorna answered. Iris’ lips curved and her head shook like Lorna told a private joke, and Violet giggled in response. The whole situation confounded me.

  “Why? Why do you do this?” For some reason, my hand shook. A distant image returned to me. Purple paper in a box filled with memories. The coincidence had to be just that—coincidental.

  “Because people write to me and they need answers,” Iris sighed, looking with pride at the table covered with paper.

  “So you fill them with false hope, or give them advice they think comes from an expert? What makes you can do such a thing, oh messenger of love?” I scoffed, letting loose the paper in my hand, and watching it flutter back to the table. Another memory returned, like faded ink on a lavender paper.

  Henny’s voice, I loved you. Henny’s voice, I’m in love with someone else. Promises broken.

  “Iris has lived—” But a raised hand stopped Violet’s innocent defense.

  “I’m no expert on love, but I’ve seen my share of broken hearts and dying love. I have every faith I am offering hope to those without it and mercy to those who need it. I’m trained with trust to carry messages difficult to hear or pleasant to receive.” Iris stood taller, gripping the back of a wooden chair while she glared at me. “This is not for public knowledge, Charlie. I hope you’ll respect the privacy of something you know nothing about.” The way she said my first name, rolling sharply off her tongue, made me want to capture it with my own and draw her into me. Her fiery flare of instruction turned me on when I should have been pissed off. What secrets did she keep? What stories must she have read? What pain did she bear for others? She offered promises, but it didn’t seem right. It didn’t seem fair when everything important had been stripped from me, even my weak heart.

  “So you’re saying no one knows you’re Dear Iris or you run this little scam in the back of Indigo Ink.”

  “It isn’t a scam, Riordan. These people need these messages, and you’re out of line in thinking otherwise. You shouldn’t be back here. Don’t make me do something I don’t wish to do.” Her knuckles turned white on the back of the seat she gripped, her temper struggling for containment as her face pinked.

  “Are you threatening me?”

  Violet gasped, and the Hawaiian woman, Molaiha, spun in her seat to look up at me. Her dark eyes narrowed like she wanted to grab my throat and throttle me.

  “I would never do such a thing,” Iris said, lowering her voice, trembling as she spoke. I stepped closer to her, suddenly exhausted. My nose throbbed, and my eye swelled. I shouldn’t have returned to the scene of my crime tonight, but something drew me to Iris. Swiping back a loose hair, I curled it over her ear and let my knuckles linger down her neck.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.” My heart rate had been erratic since the moment of the fight. I didn’t want someone looking at Iris like that drunk had. And alcohol induced or not, I cringed when he called her sweetheart. A possessive flare trickled through my veins, and my heart pinched, literally. My hand released her and covered my left pec, rubbing over the taut skin, massaging the muscle that beat too quickly under my skin.

  “Are you okay?” Iris asked. “You’re turning white, Riordan.” She reached for me, gripping my upper arms. Attempting to inhale a deep breath, I couldn’t take in enough air, so I lied.

  “I’m fine. I just…” Rubbing harder at the ache just above my rib cage, the pressure softened, the beat lowe
red, and I breathed easier. This happened occasionally. Rarely, but enough that I noticed a growing pattern, as if the borrowed heart was trying to tell me something. The tender touch of Iris’ fingers, soothingly stroking my arms, regulated my breathing as if she were a lifeline for me.

  “It’s nothing,” I lied again.

  7

  Iris

  My phone buzzed on the table. The vibration gained all our attention, but I didn’t want to release Riordan. His skin was warm, despite the sudden whiteness that claimed his face. His heart seemed to race a moment and then slowed with the measured strokes of my fingers over his inked skin. My hand itched to explore more of him. I’d seen what lay under his tight T-shirt, but my hands wanted their own tactile discovery. When the phone buzzed again, I couldn’t ignore it. I released Riordan and stretched for the device.

  Olympus. Tonight.

  I sighed. This was the last thing I needed. A goddess with modern conveniences did not exempt me from my ancient missions. I was being summoned to Olympus, although I had no message to bring. This meant I was to receive one to be delivered. I only prayed it wasn’t a mission that took me elsewhere. I couldn’t leave my newest employee under the direction of Violet. I loved her like a sister, but she didn’t run the place as efficiently as I did. I typically closed or rearranged my calendar for such arrangements as a distant delivery. Being this late, I prayed it wasn’t urgent.

  “Is everything all right?” Molaiha asked, her dark head tilting toward the phone in my head.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” I waved dismissively, sounding like the lie Riordan just told me. But the women who surrounded me knew the truth. They were my inner circle on earth, and I trusted them. Between Bottle Beach and these ladies, they were the reason I could stay in one place for as long as I had.

  “But you need to go,” Lorna stated.

  “I do,” I exhaled, hanging my head. My right shoulder blade began to warm. Soon the butterfly tattoo would glow. I rubbed over my shoulder, hoping the pressure would hold off the evidence that I was different.