by Kim Jones
My new home is located in Hillsborough, New Hampshire, which is within driving distance of eighteen Death Mob chapters. People here know me as Zeke Robinson, a website designer who moved here from Natchez, Mississippi, in hopes of finding a fresh start. Nobody really asks me a lot of questions, and I haven’t drawn the attention of anyone until recently.
I’m sitting in Charlie’s Pub, a local spot that has a patio overlooking the river. I come here almost every day I’m not working. For the past couple of weeks, I’ve noticed that she’s been here too. She stares at me constantly, completely unashamed. Yesterday, she had an issue with a couple of guys who were from out of town. I was going to stay out of it, but one of them put his hands on me. I haven’t been in a forgiving mood lately, so I reacted, even though I knew I shouldn’t. Now I’m the local fucking hero.
And she’s coming over.
I glare at her, my eyes warning her off, but she only smirks at me. Each step she takes is slow, deliberate. She’s forcing me to look at her. Not just her face, but the sway of her narrow hips. The way her right foot crosses over her left like she’s on a runway instead of an old wooden patio.
I’d say she looks like a fairy. A five-foot, one-hundred-pound fairy with a pixie cut and glittery shit on her eyes. But fairies are cute and childlike—she’s not. She’s fucking gorgeous, and all woman. There is a sense of power that surrounds her. She emits confidence. And every head in the bar turns when she crosses the floor. She’s just that damn demanding.
“You,” she says, taking a seat across from me—uninvited and not giving a shit. “Owe me a drink.” She kicks at the chair between us, and places her feet in it. Making herself comfortable, she leans back and narrows her eyes on me. “My favorite shirt is now ruined with the blood of another man. A man I might have been considering taking home. You know, now that I think about it, you owe me two drinks.”
I just stare at her, trying to hide the amusement in my eyes. I don’t need a distraction right now. If she’s selling, I’m buying, but I’m not in the mood for conversation. Someone once told me you don’t pay a bitch to fuck you, you pay her to leave. I’m getting the feeling she’s not the leaving type. She’s the kind that wants more. She looks like a snake that won’t let go of you until her fangs are empty of venom. Then she’ll smile as she walks away while you just lay there and die.
“That mean death-glare shit you got going might work on some. But not on me.” She levels me with a death glare of her own and my predictions are right. She’s pure fucking poison.
I stand and walk to the bar. Clearly, I’m in the mood to entertain her. At least it will give me something to do. I’ve got two days before I can kill again. Sweating off my frustrations in the bathroom with her against the wall, begging me to let her come while I’m balls deep, seems like a good way to pass the time.
I return to the table with the drinks, and one of my eyebrows rise in question.
“Seven and Seven,” I say, setting a glass in front of her. A flash of surprise crosses her face, but she quickly conceals it.
“Why a Seven and Seven?”
“It’s what you want.” I take my seat, noticing the curious looks we’re getting from everyone here. Fucking small-town gossip.
“How do you know that’s what I want?” she asks, amused.
I grab my beer from the table, taking a pull before leaning back and mirroring her position. “Well, you’re not a fruity cocktail kind of girl and you’re not much of a beer drinker either.”
“Really.” Defying me, she reaches over and grabs my beer, nearly emptying the whole bottle. I ignore her act of rebellion, and refuse to speak until she asks me for what she wants. I can be rebellious too.
We sit staring at one another, until eventually she caves. “You’re smooth. But anyone could have simply looked over and guessed what I was drinking.”
“I didn’t guess.”
“How do I know that? Maybe you just got lucky.”
“Maybe.” I shrug noncommittally. Her nostrils flare with anger at my indifference. When she grabs her drink, I’m sure she’s going to throw it at me. But she simply sips it, then smiles. Challenge dances in her eyes.
“Okay, cowboy. I’ll make you a deal. If you can give me the real reason behind my drink preference, I’ll give you something. Something so hot and sweet, that even days from now, you’ll still be thinking about it.” She licks her lips slowly, her eyes growing heavy with lust and sparkling with promise. Her nipples harden at the thought, and my dick stands at attention when they bulge against the fabric of her thin T-shirt. Now she’s speaking my kind of language.
Images of her tits bouncing as she rides my cock flash in my mind. I lick my lips at just the thought of her pussy that I’m sure is sweet to taste and hot to touch. Before I realize it, I’m telling her exactly what she wants to hear. “You strive to be different. You like to separate yourself from the normal. You don’t like the idea of being stereotyped. Even if the drink is disgusting and you prefer a fruity cocktail or a light beer, you still get the unexpected. Because the enjoyment you get out of being unpredictable is greater than your preference for taste. So enjoyable that you realize the drink you chose really isn’t that bad at all.”
She sits silent. A little stunned and not afraid to show it. Eventually, she nods and raises her glass to me, drains it, then sets it back down.
“A deal is a deal. And I never go back on my word.” She smiles, but the seriousness in her words ring loud and true. So much so that even though I don’t even know her name, I believe her.
She walks around the table, leaning down until her face is level with mine. I’m suddenly surrounded by the scent of alcohol and something else. Cinnamon?
Without warning, she kisses me. When her tongue drags across my lips, I open to her. She explores my mouth for a moment before pushing something inside and pulling away.
Without another glance in my direction, she leaves. It’s not until she’s gone that I bite down on the hard candy in my mouth.
Hot and sweet.
An Atomic Fireball.
* * *
For eight years I’ve worn a Sinner’s Creed patch. A patch that symbolized the unity of a brotherhood that shared the same beliefs—club first. I’ve always believed in our bylaws. I’ve always honored and upheld them to the highest degree. I swore that, for as long as I wore a patch, I would abide by the laws my brothers before me created.
But after Dirk died, I no longer felt like a brother. I’d betrayed my club and broken our laws. I carried pride in my heart. I put my own feelings before Sinner’s Creed. I knew in my soul that my desire to kill was too hungry not to feed. I was going to make Death Mob suffer. But in the end, it would be my club that suffered the most. The debt was paid, and if I waged war, then Dirk’s death would have been for nothing. And Sinner’s Creed would fall.
I was aware of all these things. The knowledge was as familiar to me as breathing. Still, my determination and self-importance outweighed my need to carry on the Sinner’s Creed legacy. I felt like I didn’t deserve to wear the patch. Because somewhere along the way, I forgot its true meaning.
So I swallowed my pride. Hid my conceit. Stripped myself of honor. And bared my naked soul before my club.
I told them how much the brotherhood meant to me. How honored I was to wear our colors. How Sinner’s Creed wasn’t just a part of my life—it was the sole purpose of it.
I told them about the greed I was carrying—greed that overpowered me. That it had forced me to become selfish—not caring about how Dirk’s death affected anyone but me. How heavy my heart was for revenge, and how I knew I’d risk everything to fulfill that need.
After my confession I just stood there, delighting in the feeling of heavy leather on my back. There was a great possibility it wouldn’t be there for long. The decision to eighty-six me, or put me out bad, was a risk I took by going to t
hem. And if they put me out, I’d have to carry that burden for the rest of my life—alone. I’d never ride with an MC again. My cut would be burned, my name forgotten, and my memory would be filed away alongside traitors, rats, and those who disgraced the patch.
But my club isn’t just a group of men who ride motorcycles and live like outlaws. They are a band of brothers who have dedicated their life to protect, respect, and uphold the legacy of Sinner’s Creed. And that includes everyone in it. Even Dirk.
Even me.
So the club agreed to turn their head and look the other way. They understood what I believed had to be done. And if any of my other brothers felt the same way I did, then they’d look the other way for them too.
The conditions were firm; there would be no negotiating their terms. I was responsible for my army. The club would allow me the time I needed to handle business, but they would come first. If they called, I’d come with no excuses, and perform my duties with no questions.
They didn’t want to be aware of my plans. They wanted no knowledge of my intentions. And if Sinner’s Creed was ever accused, they would deny it. And it would be me who would take the fall and give the ultimate sacrifice. It was a risk I was willing to take six months ago. And one I would continue until my job was done.
The first five months were spent creating the perfect plan. With the help of a few of my brothers, I’d done enough research to finally start the process of taking down Death Mob. And today marks the twenty-fifth day of their fall.
It’s been two days since I’ve killed. Two days since I’ve slept. And two days since that crazy woman gave me that Atomic Fireball that I can’t get out of my fucking head. But thoughts of her fade as I pull my black hoodie over my eyes and stare at the creature in the mirror. My thirst for blood is unquenchable. My need for revenge is overpowering. And my desire to kill has my heart pumping venom through my veins.
This is for Sinner’s Creed.
This is for brotherhood.
This is for Dirk.
* * *
I drive to Fitchburg, Massachusetts, to meet with Rookie and Tank. I was Rookie’s sponsor during his Prospect period. I’d taught him everything I know, and what he didn’t learn from me, he learned from Dirk. He’s my closest brother and only friend, now that Dirk is gone.
Tank is the sergeant at arms for the Houston chapter. He completed our three-man army against Death Mob to avenge Dirk’s death. He got his name from his size. He’s built like a tank and about as indestructible as one. With my smarts, Rookie’s heart and Tank’s size—we had everything we needed to get the job done.
I meet them at an abandoned store less than three miles from the local Death Mob chapter’s clubhouse. Every Tuesday night, several of the Death Mob members get together for a dice game. Tonight, there are eight playing, but only six will make it back home.
The plan is well thought out, but simple. It will seem as if they just disappeared. Once they pass the lookout point, Tank will set a Road Closed sign blocking all through traffic and any chance of witnesses, while Rookie and I do the same at the other end of the road. There will be no trace of their bodies, their bikes, or their cuts. There will be no witnesses, no clues, and no answers. But most importantly, there’ll be no discussion, no other solution, and no fucking mercy. These men will die tonight in the same cowardly way they killed my brother.
If they survive long enough to ask why, I’ll point to the tattoo on my forearm.
GFSD . . .
God Forgives Sinners Don’t.
* * *
I’m calm. There is no rush of adrenaline or heavy breathing. My heart beats in a steady rhythm. The only sound is the crackle of burning paper as I take a pull from my cigarette. I’m more than ready. I look to Rookie and nod. He meets my dark glare and clenches his fist around the throttle of his bike—a silent gesture that tells me he’s ready too. Headlights shine in the distance just as my phone vibrates.
It’s time.
10:14 p.m.—Tank calls from his lookout.
10:15 p.m.—Two members of Death Mob roll through at a leisurely pace. Seconds later, Rookie and I fall in behind them.
10:16 p.m.—Twelve shots ring out into the night, hitting their targets directly in the back.
10:17 p.m.—Tank arrives with a truck and trailer. The bikes are loaded. The bodies are loaded. The broken motorcycle parts are gathered and loaded too.
10:22 p.m.—A truck with a trailer, two dead bodies, and two members of Sinner’s Creed drive north.
10:22 p.m.—I ride south carrying two Death Mob patches with me.
Eight minutes. A foolproof plan. Twelve shots delivered from two revolvers that still contain the shell casings. Two signs that read Road Closed. Two bikes that will be disassembled and destroyed. Two bodies that will decompose in shallow, unmarked graves that will never be found. And two Death Mob patches that will burn with the same fire of hell that blazes in my soul.
3
AFTER EVERY KILL, I’ve made it tradition to drink a beer for Dirk while I burn Death Mob’s patches. Tonight is no different. I lean back in my one and only lawn chair, listening to the crackle of the fire and watching the colors of Death Mob fade from red to black until there’s nothing remaining but ashes.
The quiet here is deafening. Nothing surrounds me but woods and a dirt road that is almost always void of traffic. The place is nice, a one-story cabin with a big shed located on thirty acres. But even the serenity isn’t enough to keep my demons at bay.
Nights are hard for me. Bad things seem to always happen in the dark. My fear stemmed from my childhood. Restless nights in group homes seemed to go hand in hand with being a child in the system. Every kid in my dorm suffered from insomnia. We were afraid that we couldn’t be protected. Mostly because we never were.
Even after becoming a member in the club, I never felt safe against the darkness. I could kill in the night and stay in the shadows, but fear of what would come when I closed my eyes kept me from sleeping. The sun served as my safety net. And after all these years, it still does. So, I find myself driving back to town to sit in a noisy bar, avoiding the demons that lurk behind my eyelids.
It’s after midnight and the only people left are a few regulars. Mick the bartender greets me with a chin tip before handing me a beer.
“Let me get a shot of Patrón too. Chilled.”
“Make it three.” Her. I’d recognize that damn voice anywhere.
“Three, huh?” I ask, not bothering to look her way.
“Yep.” No explanation. Just a confirmation.
She takes a seat, adjusting her stool so that she’s facing me. Then, her legs are thrown over my thighs. I look down to see a pair of black heels covering her feet. Slowly, I drag my eyes up her naked legs, her short, black skirt, to her white silk top, and finally to her face. Gone is the glittery eye shit from the other day. She looks . . . professional. Like a naughty schoolteacher. Only thing she’s missing is the glasses.
“You wanna take a picture?” she asks, cocky as hell. She knows she looks good. Mick delivers the shots and she throws one back before turning to me. “Give me your hand.” Without waiting for me, she grabs my hand from the bar and pulls it to her mouth, circling her tongue between my thumb and index finger. She then covers it in salt, licks it, shoots the tequila, then sucks the lime.
I’m annoyed that I’m letting her control me like this. But I’m more annoyed that I’m so turned on by it. She’s so bold and sure of herself. Grabbing my beer, she chases the shot and then sticks her hand out to me. “Here, you try.”
I’m not playing her game. Instead, I use the same hand she did. She throws her head back and laughs, pleased with herself. “I knew you’d do that. You couldn’t resist my taste. Could you?”
“No.” My sudden answer catches her off guard. I watch her cheeks turn the faintest shade of pink before she recovers.
&
nbsp; “What’s your name, mystery man?”
“Zeke.” Shady, Sinner’s Creed, Houston, Texas.
“I like it.” She smiles, waiting for me to ask her name. She’ll be waiting a while. I don’t need her to tell me her name. I just want to hear how mine sounds when she screams it.
“Another round, Mick,” I say, never taking my eyes off her. He puts two more shots on the bar. When she reaches for one, I catch her wrist in my hand. Rubbing my thumb over the soft flesh, I feel her skin prickle with goose bumps. Keeping one hand on her wrist, I pull her stool closer with the other until the backs of her thighs are pressed up against me.
“Now it’s my turn to give you something. Something so salty and warm that even days from now you’ll still be thinking about it.”
Her eyes widen slightly at my words, and it’s her only show of weakness. Her breathing is controlled. Her pulse is steady. And I wonder if she’s trained herself to keep her composure, or if she’s not affected by me at all. When I run my tongue up the side of her neck, and she shivers, I get my answer. Tilting her head, I shake the salt onto her velvety-smooth skin and lick. Then, I kiss her.
The tiniest of moans escapes her and I catch it with my mouth, moments before I pull away. I release her wrist and hand her the shot, then grab my own. And her fight for control is lost as her pulse beats heavily against the hollow of her throat.
I lift her legs before standing, then lay them back across the empty stool. I throw a bill down on the bar and give Mick a nod. Before I leave, I can’t resist making her head spin one last time. She might be good, but I’m the best.
Rubbing my thumb across her bottom lip, I pull it from between her teeth. She’s still breathless and reeling. I can only imagine what she’ll be like when she’s beneath me. “See you around, pretty girl.” I walk away, and it takes only three steps for her to call my name. I smile because she can’t see me, but when I turn, my face is void of every emotion.
