Sinner's Revenge

by Kim Jones

  I slip my T-shirt over her head, and the moment it’s on, she practically falls to her side. “I’ll rot before I do that again,” she breathes, her hair disheveled all over her pale face.

  Reaching my hand under her shirt, she stills. “Just getting the towel, baby. Don’t get excited.” I give her a wink, and her hand lifts. I know she’s attempting to give me the finger but it’s impossible with her hands wrapped. Throwing the towel to the floor, I stand and tuck her legs under the covers before pulling them up to her shoulders.

  “I got you some stuff,” I say, standing beside the bed as I look down at her. Now that she’s tucked in and there’s nothing left for me to do, I feel helpless.

  She starts to speak, but has to close her mouth and swallow before she can. “I can’t sit back up. Just let me lay here.”

  “You hurting?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

  “I’m dying.”

  I smirk. She’s so dramatic. “I got something that will help you relax. You trust me?”

  She gives me an uneasy look before her eyes settle on the blunt I hold between my fingers. Lighting it, I take a few drags. Her eyes close a moment as she inhales the smoke from a distance. When it fades, she looks up at me and nods, wanting more.

  Kneeling beside the bed, I take a pull from the cigar. Holding the smoke in my mouth, I lean in, keeping my lips just a hairsbreadth away from hers. She draws in a breath, inhaling the smoke as it floats out of my mouth and between her lips. She takes only what her lungs can handle—closing her mouth when she’s had enough, then parting her lips when she’s ready for more.

  Before the blunt is finished, her eyes are heavy and her body relaxed. On the last drag she pulls from me, she whispers against my lips, “Kiss me.”

  I don’t know if it’s the weed talking, or if she’s as worked up about being this close to me as I am about her. But I don’t question it. I simply give the lady what she asks for. I kiss her softly, teasing her with my tongue as she lazily kisses me back. My dick hardens at the contact. This is the most delicious she’s ever tasted. Two of my favorite flavors combined.

  Before she becomes breathless and I lose control, I pull back slowly. “Sleep, pretty girl,” I whisper. And with one final nod, she does just as I ask.

  * * *

  Diem sleeps all night and most of the next day. I checked in on her from time to time, but she never stirred. She still hasn’t eaten, but she did drink some water sometime during the night. When she finally wakes up, she doesn’t say much. She just names off some things she needs, then asks for her bag. I’m hesitant to leave her, but I do and head into town for everything she listed.

  By the time I’m back, she’s showered and is standing in the kitchen. I freeze at what I see. She’s wearing one of my shirts. Even though I’d dressed her in it, I’d yet to notice. Now that I am, I realize I like what I see.

  “You can’t pack for shit. What did you think, I was gonna sleep naked?” She’s leaning over the sink, peeling boiled eggs with one hand while she holds the other near her stomach.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m eating boiled eggs. It’s the only damn thing you have here.” She looks better—like she feels better too.

  “Well, I wasn’t expecting company,” I say, setting the bags on the counter. I grab a beer, then lean against the fridge watching her. She’s all legs in my workout T-shirt that has the arms and neck cut out, giving me a view of her sides and hips. There isn’t any underwear in sight and I shift at the thought. Fucking pervert. The woman can barely get around.

  “I changed your sheets. I didn’t feel comfortable sleeping on something that might be infested with some STD.” Popping an entire egg in her mouth, she starts the process of peeling another one.

  I don’t bother telling her I’d already changed them. I’ll just let her think what she wants. “You shouldn’t have. Really. ’Cause you’re sleeping on the couch.” I might be nice, but I’m not that nice. Clearly, she can take care of herself. And this Diem isn’t the one I saw yesterday.

  “The fuck I am,” she says, her mouth full. “You forced me here, so I’m taking the bedroom. You can sleep on the couch.”

  I shake my head. “Not happening. And you can leave anytime you want. What happened to ‘Please help me, Zeke’?” I say, imitating a whiny voice that sounds nothing like her.

  “I had a moment of weakness. Starvation and dehydration will do that to you.” For emphasis, she downs a glass of water, then puts another egg in her mouth.

  “You’re such a pig.” I smirk.

  She just shrugs. “Call me whatever you want. I’m still sleeping in the bed. I don’t give a shit if you’re in it or not.” Images of Diem in my bed wearing nothing but my shirt are something I don’t want flashing in my mind. “Did you get the stuff?” she asks, and suddenly I feel like it’s my balls she’s chewing on. Not eggs. And I don’t like the feeling.

  I don’t answer as I walk out of the house, slamming the door behind me. Taking my frustrations out on my punching bag in the shed, I try to find the answer to the one question probing my brain. What the hell am I doing? Not only do I not know her, there is something about her I don’t trust. And I’m letting her sleep in my house? What the fuck?

  Two hours later, I’m exhausted from my workout and have to drag myself inside and to the shower, completely ignoring Diem on the couch. I let the water beat down on me until it runs cold, then I wrap a towel around my waist before walking to my room. And there she is, sprawled out on my bed with her arms and her legs stretched in every direction.

  “Get out of my bed, Diem,” I growl, rummaging through my drawers in search of some clean underwear.

  “Put some damn clothes on. There’s a lady in the house.” There’s laughter in her voice, and when I turn she is smiling. It’s a sight I hadn’t realized I missed. With the thought of making her blush, I remove the towel and stand in the middle of the room, bare-ass naked.

  She scans my body, and it’s all I can do not to shake my dick at her. Her eyes widen as she stares at me, not breathing and unmoving. I smirk. “Wanna take a picture?” She jerks her eyes away, her lips pressing in a thin line. I don’t know if she’s mad because she got caught or mad because she likes what she sees. I don’t really give a shit either way.

  “You don’t wanna play that game with me, Zeke. Trust me.” She’s right. I don’t. I can barely stand the thought of her in my shirt. Much less out of it. I pull on some jogging pants, then set the house alarms from my phone. “I need my wrists wrapped.” I raise an eyebrow at her. “Please,” she adds, saying the word like it tastes bad in her mouth.

  I wrap her wrists quickly, noticing how she watches my face as I work. I hate how she looks at me. I like it too. It’s like she’s trying to tell me something with her eyes. But when she speaks, she’s just a bitch. I like her better mute.

  “There,” I say, throwing the tape on the dresser. “Now get out of my bed.”

  “No.”

  “Diem.”

  “Zeke.”

  “You’re starting to piss me off,” I snap, but the truth is, I enjoy our bullshit banter.

  “This,” she says, circling her face with her finger. “Look at it. Does it look the slightest bit like I give a shit about your feelings?” I lied. I don’t enjoy this. Not even a little bit. I hate her. I really do.

  “That,” I say, mirroring her finger-waving shit. “Is fixing to look a helluva lot worse. I’m not playing with you, Diem. I’m fixing to fuck you up.” She laughs. Bitch.

  “Seriously, Zeke? You expect me to believe that? You’d never hit a woman. Trust me. I know the men capable of it. You’re not one of them.” Anger ignites inside me at the thought of her even knowing people like that. Much less being their victim. Although I don’t think I could blame them. They just didn’t have the tolerance I did. The before-Saylor Dirk,
would’ve done choked her ass out.

  “You’re pushing my fucking limits.” I sit on the bed, forcing her to move over before I crush the rest of her ribs. She does, but she’s not happy about it.

  I turn the TV on and she looks at me like I’ve just committed some act of treason. “I’m tired.”

  “Go to sleep,” I say, leaning back on my arm and flipping to the Western Channel.

  “I can’t. The TV bothers me.”

  “Then get your ass on the couch.”

  I feel her eyes burning into me. I don’t want to look, but that force she has pulls my eyes to hers. Then, the most wicked smile I’ve ever seen crosses her face. “You know, it’s kinda hot in here.” With that, she slips her arms inside her shirt, my shirt, and pulls it over her head. And this time, I was going to look.

  The two most perfect tits I’ve ever seen in my entire life stare back at me. They’re bigger than a handful, but not by much. I can tell by just looking at them that they’re not fake either. I have a thing for natural, beautiful tits with small, light brown nipples that look better in my mouth than on her chest. Feeling my cock stiffen, I remember he does too.

  Before I start thinking with the wrong head, and she has a chance to push the covers off the rest of her body, I’m on my feet. I’m frustrated because I can’t have her, and even more so because I actually want her. She isn’t even my type.

  Grabbing my pillow, I walk out, taking the remote with me.

  “The T—,” she starts, but I cut her off.

  “Turn it off your fucking self.”

  * * *

  “I’m gonna kill her, Rookie. I swear I’m gonna do it.” I’m in the shed, considering flying back to Jackpot for the night. I’d have to be back by tomorrow, but it would be worth it.

  “Dude, it’s three o’clock in the morning. My ol’ lady I ain’t seen in three months is naked and in my bed, and I’m outside on the phone with you. So next time, kill her first. Then call me and I’ll come help bury the body. Until then, throw the bitch out, or sleep on the couch.”

  The phone disconnects. So much for fucking brotherly love. I light a cigarette, thinking about taking my bike out, when I hear her calling my name. I run full speed inside, panic filling me. How can I care about someone’s well-being so much and hate them at the same time?

  I bust through my bedroom door, flipping the light on and scanning the room for intruders or ghosts or spiders. Fucking something. But what I find is an amused Diem, alone and safe in my bed. Back in my shirt.

  “Where’s the fire?” she asks, fighting a smile.

  “Diem,” I say in warning.

  “I was just going to see if you would turn the air on. It’s seriously hot in here.” She fans herself dramatically. And it’s my breaking point.

  “That’s it. I can’t do this.” She looks a little worried, as she should. Careful not to kill her, I grab under her knees and around her back. She hisses at the movement, and not one fucking inch of me feels sorry for her. Lifting her from the bed, I take her to the living room, and deposit her gently on the couch—fighting the urge to throw her through a window.

  “If you come back in my room, I’m gonna break your legs. You don’t believe me, then try me.” My voice is hard, cold, and so harsh that she presses further into the couch.

  When I’m alone, in my bed that smells just like her, I finally settle in for a peaceful night of sleep. And I don’t get a wink of it.

  8

  THE NEXT MORNING, I’m in kill mode. Not because of the woman staying in my house, or the fact that I’ve had no sleep in two days, but because today is the day I get to settle a score. I’ve waited weeks for this day—giving Death Mob enough time to let their guard down again after my last kill. There are several mutual MCs who said Death Mob claimed their “missing members” were due to a change in National hierarchy. Apparently, some members didn’t agree and decided to cut their losses and get out. It was a perfect assumption—eliminating Sinner’s Creed as a suspect. This knowledge is what I’ve been waiting for to put my plan back in full swing.

  Tonight I’ll be travelling three hours away to Bristol, Vermont, where Death Mob is throwing a birthday party for a local chapter member. The need to kill and get away from here is so desperate that I’m already packed and ready. And I still have twelve hours before I can leave.

  “Going somewhere?” Diem asks from the couch as I throw my bag on the floor and take a seat in the recliner.

  “Yeah.”

  My short answer doesn’t appease her and she looks at me expectantly. When I don’t say more, she pushes further. “Well, where you going?”

  “Away. I’ll be back tomorrow.” I flip through the channels, then realize I’m starving and walk to the kitchen to dig for some food. I can feel her as she follows behind me.

  “You leaving now?”

  “No. Tonight.” I rummage through the fridge. Not finding anything, I move to the cabinet.

  “That sucks,” she murmurs mostly to herself.

  “I said I’d be back tomorrow,” I find myself saying, and I feel a hint of regret for leaving her. She’s only been here a couple of days.

  “Oh no, don’t get it twisted, Zeke.” I turn to see what she finds so amusing. “It sucks because you don’t leave until tonight. You have my permission to leave now if you want.” She looks at the floor, fighting her smile.

  I slam the cabinet and she jumps. Then grabs her side and winces, taking short, shallow breaths. I close the distance between us until I can feel her breath on my face as she looks up to meet my eyes. I’m sure mine are cold and lifeless, just how I feel right before a kill. No sympathy, no understanding, and no tolerance for bullshit.

  “I don’t ask for permission, Diem. If I want something, I take it.” Before she says something that will make me do something I regret, I grab my bag and leave.

  * * *

  Claudette’s is a shitty little strip joint discreetly located in an old, rundown building just inside the Bristol city limit. The strippers are homely and thin—preferring a line of coke over a decent meal. The main room is dimly lit, illuminated only by strands of randomly hung Christmas lights. The stench of the building is old and musty, even though they try to cover up the smell with vanilla scented candles. It’s the kind of place most people avoid. Good thing the man I’m fixing to kill doesn’t fall under the category of “most people.”

  * * *

  I’ve been watching him for nearly an hour, hiding in the shadows, which isn’t hard to do considering the poor lighting. Rookie is in my peripherals, but like me, he’s hidden from view. It’s just the two of us tonight—more than enough to handle this one-man job.

  I’m on my third beer when the man finally stands and makes his way toward the door. His bike is parked near the back of the building, which made the task of disabling his ignition that much simpler. I wait a full minute before I follow him out, giving Rookie a thirty second head start on me. As I round the side of the building, I come face-to-face with Rookie. The morose look on his face causes an uneasy feeling to settle over me, even before he speaks.

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  Every part of my plan has been flawless, but tonight, Death Mob threw a kink in it. At the back of the building, standing next to the patch holder, are two Prospects. Two young, innocent Prospects who don’t deserve to die for a brotherhood they aren’t even a part of yet. Their innocence is due to ignorance—they have no idea what Death Mob has done. Knowledge is privilege. It has to be earned. These men are still trying to prove themselves. Club business isn’t shared with anyone who isn’t a brother. And killing a third-generation member of the biggest one-percent MC in the nation is definitely club business.

  I want to call it off. I want to walk away and wait for another opportunity to present itself. I’m willing to let a man more than deserving of death live, just so these Prosp
ects can live too. But things don’t quite work out that way. Before we can leave unseen, they see us. Immediately, I’m made. The patch holder knows something is wrong, and reaches for his gun—leaving me no choice but to put a bullet in his head. And without hesitation, I kill the Prospects too. It has to be done. Now, their bodies will rot next to a man who was more than deserving of death. All because they chose to ride on the wrong night with the wrong club.

  Sickness fills my gut. And even the knowledge that I did this for Dirk isn’t enough to justify what I’ve done.

  I pull my bike into the shed a little after midnight. Too troubled by the thought, I don’t perform my usual ritual. Instead, I torch the patches in my shed until they turn to dust. I make the call to Rookie and he confirms that everything has been handled. He sounds bothered too, and I hate that I dragged him into this.

  “Shady, you did what had to be done. That’s what we do. It’s not their fault. But it’s not yours either. They chose to ride with outlaws. They knew it was a possibility.” His words do little to comfort me, but I thank him anyway.

  I disconnect the call, my eyes drawn to the dried blood caked around my fingernails. I’d delivered perfect kill shots on all my targets—ending their lives quickly and with minimal blood. But somehow, what little bit of blood there was managed to find me. It’s as if it was placed there by some higher power to serve as a reminder of what I was feeling for the first time in my life—remorse.

  I keep my hoodie pulled tight over my face and body to hide the bloodstained evidence when I walk inside the dark house. I don’t give the couch a second glance as I head straight to the shower. Watching the blood swirl around the drain as it fades to pink and then disappears, I wash the proof from my body—proof which reminds me once again that I killed two young, innocent men tonight. Six months ago, that could’ve been Rookie.