by Kim Jones
“One more and I win. But don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you.” I smirk.
Throwing me a mock smirk of her own, she gives me the finger. So rude.
“Fine. You like whores. You like the idea of sex with no strings attached.”
“You’re cheating.”
“Am I? Are you saying you don’t like the idea of sex with no attachment? So, you’re that kind of sap? The one that falls in love with every woman that lands in his bed?”
I glare at her. She glares back, daring me to say she’s wrong. Fucking competitive woman.
“Point.”
“That’s what I thought. Now we’re tied.” She waits a minute before delivering the final blow. I guess she’s hoping I’ll become uneasy. Hope. It’s such a dangerous thing.
“Deep down, Zeke, you’re a good guy. On the surface you try to act bad and keep those walls up, but beneath all that, you’re just a man who fights for what he believes in. A man whose loyalty knows no bounds. One of the few people left in this world that’s willing to give his life for the people he truly loves.” There is conviction in her words. She really believes them to be true. Some of them are.
I do fight for what I believe in. I am loyal and there is no limit to my dedication. I would give my life for the people I love. Just like life has been given for me. But what she sees isn’t an act. I’m not a good guy. I’m a murderer. A cold-blooded killer. And if that’s not enough to make me a bad guy, not feeling the least bit of remorse for my actions is.
I stand and reach my hand out for hers. She takes it without hesitation. I pull a handful of money from my pocket and drop it on the table. Then leaning in close, I take her earlobe in my mouth, biting softly before whispering, “My point.”
4
“IT’S SO PEACEFUL here.” Diem closes her eyes and inhales the night air that is crisp and cool even in the summer. I’d driven us back to my place, stopping to grab some beer and a bottle of wine for her. Not that she needs it. She’s been drinking out of my bottle since we got back.
“I like it,” I say, focusing more on getting this blunt rolled than I am on her. Cheap-ass cigars.
“Here, let me.” In true Diem fashion, she pulls the work in progress from my lap without asking and sets it on the porch railing. She’s standing in front of me, her fingers working quickly and efficiently. In record time, she’s sealing it with her wet tongue and handing it to me.
“You a hippie or something?”
“Something.” Well that’s evasive.
She leans over the railing, looking out across the field. “I grew up in Chicago. The lights and noise have always been home to me. But seeing this makes me wish sometimes that I grew up somewhere else.”
I get the feeling she’s not just talking about the place she lived. From the melancholy in her voice, it sounds like she wishes she had a different life altogether.
I light the blunt, not surprised at how tightly it’s wrapped or how well it burns. I move to stand next to her, leaning down on my elbows and offering her a drag.
She shakes her head. “No thanks. I gave it up a long time ago. My job doesn’t allow me to indulge in such reckless behavior.” Her shoulder nudges mine as she smiles.
“And what kind of job is that?” I ask, enjoying the burn in the back of my throat and the feeling of relaxation as it swims through me.
“I’m a pharmaceutical sales rep.”
I smile at the irony. Or the weed. “So you sell drugs.”
She laughs. “Pretty much. I moved here to Hillsborough because it’s a central location for my clients. And it’s nice to have a quiet escape from the city. There’s nothing like coming home to silence after you’ve worked all day.” I can relate to everything she’s saying.
“And you? What do you do, mystery man? Or am I going to have to guess?” Her smile is lazy and her eyes heavy. She might not be smoking it, but she’s too close to not be affected. And I’m sure she knows that too.
“I’m a website designer.”
She isn’t surprised. “Nerd. And here I was thinking you were an ex-con struggling on your path to rehabilitation. Figures you’d be a computer geek.”
“I wouldn’t be so cocky, Diem.” I narrow my eyes on her, knocking the cherry off the tip of the cigar. “You’re the one that lost a bet to that nerd. What does that say about you?”
She rolls her eyes. “Who said I lost?”
“You’re here. And you’re at my mercy.” The threat in my tone doesn’t faze her. She isn’t scared of me, and I don’t know if I should be offended or turned on. Or a little bit of both.
“I’m here because I want to be. Not because I lost. The truth is I let you win.”
“Bullshit. You’re not the kind to let anyone win.”
Pride sparkles in her eyes. “I know what I want. And I get what I want. Tonight, I wanted you. And guess what?” She got me. But I refuse to say the words. “I wasn’t lying when I said I could read people. I can figure you out, Zeke. I can unveil all your little secrets right here and now. And I gained this knowledge by just watching you.” She leans closer, running her finger down the front of my shirt. “I didn’t even have to pay a bartender to get it.”
Fucking Mick. He ratted me out. Although she seems smart enough to have figured it out on her own.
“Tell me.” My voice is low and gruff. Partly from the smoke and partly from desire. I want her. So fucking bad. But I won’t have her because she lost a bet. I’ll wait until she begs me.
“What do I get in return?”
“Nothing. No deal. No bet. Just you, me, and the truth. If you know so much, tell me.”
“That’s not how the game is played, Zeke.”
“I’m not playing games, Diem.”
Her eyes are heavy with lust. She wants me too. Every time I speak, her resolve crumbles a little bit more. “You first. What do you see when you look at me?”
Everything. She’s an open book. And she doesn’t even know it. But she’s fixing to.
“You did want me to win. You spend the majority of your life being the one in control, but you knew I wouldn’t let you control me. That’s why you’re attracted to me. You want to let go. Let someone else take the reins and let you be the submissive one for once.”
She doesn’t deny or confirm it. Her face is impassive. Her eyes cold and unreadable. That’s sign enough that everything I’m saying is the truth. “Go on,” she encourages. Who am I to deny the lady in red what she wants?
“You also wanted me to win so you wouldn’t feel like a whore. Even though you’re nothing compared to your mother, the similarity of the situation was there. The difference is you do have a regard for people’s feelings. That’s why you asked if I was married.”
“That’s enough.” She cuts me off, using that tone of authority she uses on everyone else. But this is the first time she’s used it on me.
“Don’t ask me for the truth if you don’t want it, Diem.”
“And don’t underestimate me, Zeke. I never offer anything without getting something in return. That’s just bad business.” The hunger in her eyes is long gone. Whatever chance I had of her begging for me tonight has been lost.
“So, what do you want?” I ask, wondering what’s going on in that guarded mind of hers.
She smiles, shaking her head slightly. Everything about her is back to the fun, playful Diem she was earlier tonight. Everything but her cold, unforgiving eyes.
“A beer.”
My guard is up when I walk inside. My buzz is fading. I take a piss and splash cold water on my face, sobering me completely. Grabbing two beers from the fridge, I walk back outside, ready to end whatever this is. She can drink her beer on the way home.
But she isn’t on the porch. She’s not leaning on the railing where I left her. She’s not sitting in the chair or on the steps either. I look behind me, but I wo
uld have known if she walked in.
When I turn the corner to look out into the yard, I know for sure she is gone. She didn’t leave a note. She didn’t draw a message in the dirt. There’s not a forgotten shoe or a bread crumb trail to inform me of her leaving. It’s the absence of something that makes me realize she really is not here. Regardless of the situation and how much it should piss me off, I find myself smiling. “I never offer anything without getting something in return.”
She’s a woman of her word.
I’m a fool.
I underestimated her.
Now she’s gone.
And she took my fucking truck.
* * *
I didn’t expect her to return it, so I wasn’t surprised when she didn’t. I stayed home the next day, making sure there was nothing inside or outside of my house that might link me to Sinner’s Creed. This included emptying my safe—forcing me to carry an extra bag filled with its contents on my trip. Well, everything but the untraceable guns, which I left behind. There was a bike in my shed, but it along with everything else was registered in Zeke’s name. Even the brand-new, sixty-thousand-dollar truck she took.
Stole.
Bitch.
There was nothing in my truck other than the registration and insurance papers. And my favorite fucking T-shirt. I knew exactly where the truck was from the GPS tracker that was on it. But I figured she knew that too and was waiting for me to come get it. I just hope she isn’t holding her breath.
On second thought, I hope she is.
A cab takes me to the airport, and by Monday afternoon, I’m back in Jackpot, Nevada, where I’ll be spending the next couple of weeks. Rookie and a Prospect meet me at the gates. I’m happy to see my brother. I’m happy to see my bike waiting for me. But it’s the sight of my cut Rookie pulls from his saddle bag that has me completely elated.
“Welcome home, Shady.” Shady. My fucking name.
The smell of leather engulfs me. The weight of it hangs heavy on my shoulders. With it surrounding me, I feel complete. My 1% patch is worn over my heart. The number thirteen is across from it. My side rocker states that I am Night Crew. My back patch says I’m Sinner’s Creed. The heart in my chest awakens, making me feel more alive than I have in months. The heavy beats pound out a message—I’m home.
I ride for hours, only stopping for gas. Rookie rides on my right, the Prospect directly behind me. Sometimes we ride hard—speeding at a pace that exceeds a hundred miles per hour. Sometimes we ride slower—taking the time to enjoy the view. There is no music, only the sound of pipes and the rush of wind.
By the time we make it to the bar with Nationals, it’s the early hours of the next morning, but the party is still in full swing.
“Heyyyyy, Shady,” the girls at the bar greet me with a smile. I’ve known them for years. They’re always here, always willing, and always ready. There’s no challenge. No bets or deals or games to play. If I want it, I get it.
“Heyyyyy, ladies,” I drawl, thickening my accent.
“We missed you.” Monica pouts, poking her lips out and reminding me of why I like them so much.
“It just hasn’t been the same without you here,” Jennifer adds, lining up shots on the bar.
“I missed y’all too.” I toast with them and, keeping to tradition, I announce to the entire bar, “Rally rules!” The girls squeal. The men cheer. And I sit back and watch as the women stand on the bar and start peeling off what little clothes they had on. Damn, it’s good to be back.
Before I indulge too much in the premium liquor and the easy pussy, I make my way to the porch, where I know Nationals are waiting. They all stand to greet me, taking turns to shake my hand and clap me on the back. Everyone else is dismissed and I find myself inside the circle of men who call the shots for Sinner’s Creed.
With the pleasantries out of the way, they get right down to business.
“We got an offer for you, Shady,” Jimbo, Nationals president, says. “We want you as a Nomad.” My back stiffens at his words.
“Why me?”
“You’re the best man for the job.” He shrugs as if it’s just that simple. But it’s not. Being a Nomad comes with a huge responsibility and one of the highest levels of respect. There are many other men in our club who are more worthy of the title than I am.
Being a Nomad was never really something I wanted. I liked being behind the scenes. But only because Dirk needed me there. Nobody could do what he did. Not even me.
“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think I have what it takes,” I answer honestly. I didn’t want to disappoint my club. I didn’t want to disappoint Dirk.
“Yes you do,” Chaps, Nationals enforcer, says. “People respect you. They listen to you. You have more knowledge about the field than anyone else. You were Dirk’s right-hand man. The two of you were a team. Together, y’all made a difference. You deserve it. And we all agree that Dirk would have wanted you to have that rocker.” The men around me all nod in agreement.
Jimbo leans forward in his seat, wrapping his hand around my shoulder. “Dirk set the bar high. He’d been a Nomad for years. He earned everything he ever got and then some. You’ll do the same. It’ll take time, but I know you can earn that same level of respect from your brothers as Dirk did. Don’t doubt yourself, Shady. If I didn’t think you could do it, I wouldn’t ask you to.” He drops his hand and leans back, lighting a cigarette.
“Take six months and think about it.” Jimbo levels me with a look. He’s giving me the time I need to finish my current job before taking on this one. “In the meantime, enjoy yourself while you’re here. I need you in Texas next week. Got a big shipment coming in.”
I’m dismissed, but the meeting is still in order. I’m sure they’re discussing whether or not I’ll take it. If they know me like they should, then they won’t have very much to discuss. I don’t care about being a Nomad. The title don’t mean shit to me. But I’d just been asked to fill the biggest shoes of the best man I’d ever known. So I’ll say yes.
Because it’s a fucking honor.
5
“HOW’S CARRIE?” I ask Rookie, passing him the joint. We’re on my porch, Dirk’s porch, where we’ve seemed to end up every night since I got here.
“She’s good. Took a job travel nursing. I see her when I can.” The sadness in his voice doesn’t go unnoticed.
I nod, not really knowing what to say. “You ready for tomorrow?” We would be heading down to Texas to work our asses off for a week. It wouldn’t be an easy task considering we hadn’t done shit since I got here.
“I guess. I just hate dealing with those Spanish-speaking motherfuckers. I know they speak English. I think they just like making us feel stupid.” He passes the joint back to me, and I take a drag before knocking the cherry off and sticking the roach in my cut.
“Well lucky for you, I speak Spanish fluently.”
“Bullshit.”
“I swear, man. Ask me anything.”
“How the fuck I’m supposed to know if you tellin’ the truth or not? I don’t speak Spanish.”
I laugh, giving his shoulder a push that nearly knocks him off the porch. Making me laugh harder. “Seriously, man. I ain’t ever lied to you. Come on. Ask me something.”
He shakes his head, clearly annoyed with me. “You’re fucking high, Shady. Too high. You need to take your ass to bed.”
I am high. Maybe even too high. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. It’s easier to try and stay here when I’m under the influence. I tried to do it sober. That shit didn’t work. The depression seems to worsen when the reality that Dirk’s body is buried in the backyard hits me. It slams me right in the chest. Every fucking time.
I watch Rookie walk to his bike, the white threads of his cut no longer new. They are dirty and worn—a sign that he’d been doing his job.
“Hey, man, don’t
leave,” I yell out. He’d stayed with me every night. And every night we did this. But we always wound up back at the clubhouse. This time I was hoping to finally confront my fears and actually walk through the door. Having Rookie here would help. And with him around, I managed to get some sleep even before the sun rose. Tonight I really need him, or else I’ll never make that ride tomorrow.
“I’m not fucking leaving. But if you call me ‘man’ one more time, I’m breaking your jaw.” He’s serious, but I still smile. “I got some company coming to the clubhouse tonight. I figured she might help you sleep,” he calls over his shoulder.
“Who?” Like it matters. They are all the same. They all feel the same, smell the same, and when I dare, they taste the same.
“Monica. So try to sober the fuck up. You’re getting on my nerves.” Even though he acts pissed, he gets me. He doesn’t take my shit, but he knows how hard it is for me to walk through the door of Dirk’s house. That’s probably why he told Monica to meet us at the clubhouse. And why he hasn’t rearranged my face yet. I’ve seen him fight. He’s good.
Rookie pulls me up from the porch—the bag he’d retrieved from his bike slung over his shoulder. I’m glad that nighttime is finally here. I hate looking at everything that reminds me of Dirk and Saylor. But the guilt of seeing it when I’m fucked up would be even worse. I didn’t want to disgrace this place. The first time Saylor walked through the door, she made it a sanctuary for her and Dirk. I wanted to keep it that way. But if I went in like this, I’d be failing. Miserably.
I stop at the threshold just as Rookie opens the door. The smell of citrus hits me in the face—the scent of Saylor. For a moment, I feel like I can do it. But it disappears just as quickly when I see that nothing has changed. The evidence of the last night Dirk and Saylor spent in this house still remains. Even after we’d buried Saylor, I’d sat silent on the couch next to Dirk while he stared blankly around the room—reliving her last moments over and over.
I sober slightly at the reminder of that night. Dirk’s last words echo inside my head. “She’d want you to have this.” My hand moves to Saylor’s diary I keep inside my cut—close to my heart. The wound is still fresh. The pain is still too real. I swallow back the tears that threaten and shake my head at Rookie.
