Sinner's Revenge

by Kim Jones

  11

  “I NEED YOU back in Houston.” Nationals’ orders the next evening come as a surprise to me. I had plans for Death Mob tonight, but the club comes first.

  “When?”

  “Yesterday.” The phone disconnects and I’m on my feet. Diem looks at me from the couch, and I feel her eyes on me until I disappear into my room. Locking the door behind me, I pull the duffel that’s already packed from under my bed. Unlocking my safe in the closet, I grab a few stacks of cash, a couple of guns, and a cell phone.

  When I open the bedroom door, Diem is standing on the other side, her eyes narrowed on me. “I have to leave. I’ll be back in a few days.” I notice how her face falls a little at my words. I hope she don’t start asking questions. “Do you have a phone?” I ask, knowing she would need a way to call if something happened. And because I want her to call me.

  “That thing that connects you to the outside world? Oh yeah, I’ve been using it for days. Haven’t you noticed?” Smart-ass. “Have fun on your super-fucking-weird, late-night business trip.” She throws me a fake smile. “Who knew website designing was so exciting?”

  “It’s my family. They need me.” My answer wipes the arrogance right off her face. I almost feel guilty for how sympathetic she looks. “See ya around, pretty girl.” I give her a wink, and the slight tremble in her knees at my words doesn’t go unnoticed.

  I drive my rental to the airport, calling Cleft on my way, who tells me there is a ticket waiting for me. “Your things are already here in Houston,” he says, and I feel my chest swell with pride. My things are my bike and my cut.

  “Good. I need you to ship a cell phone to my house. Get it through a local carrier and put it in Zeke’s name. Nothing fancy, just something with text and calling.”

  “Done. Anything else?”

  “Yeah,” I say, wondering if it’s a mistake. “Send some flowers too. A bunch of ’em.”

  “That all?”

  “And some of those Atomic Fireball candies.”

  “Are you trying to get laid?” Am I? That would be better than saying I’m doing it because I feel like shit for leaving her all alone for a while.

  “Maybe.”

  “Well she must be some woman. I’ve never known you to have to work for pussy.” I start to snap his head off and tell him it ain’t like that. Instead, I just hang up before I say anything.

  * * *

  Houston is a clusterfuck. San Antonio is a shitstorm. Production is behind. Officers aren’t enforcing the bylaws. And I know my time here is gonna be a helluva lot longer than a few days.

  Without Dirk, the chapters are starting to fall apart. With him in mind, everyone knew that if they fucked up, he would be paying them a visit. Until I officially take over Dirk’s role in the club, I can’t demand anything of them. But Nationals wants me to sit in and listen. Observe what’s happening in church and report back to them. It makes me feel like a rat.

  Rocks has been the president for the Houston chapter for years. But you’re only as good as your team. And his team was failing him. Miserably. There were too many club parties and not enough business. Half the members weren’t even riding. They were a disgrace to all one percent clubs. But most of all, they were a disgrace to Sinner’s Creed.

  So I called Nationals and told them the situation. I was more than surprised when they told me to handle it. Jimbo put in the call to Rocks himself, and told him to invite me to church. And that I was stepping in as a National and would be making decisions on their behalf. Rocks wasn’t happy about it. Neither was I. Houston was my home chapter. I didn’t want to be an asshole, but I didn’t want to see my brothers eighty-sixed either.

  It’s the second night I’ve been here and I’m anxious as church begins. I’m even more anxious that I haven’t heard from Diem, even though Cleft assured me all my packages had been delivered. As we crowd around the table, every eye is on me. Rocks told them why I was here. And like him and me, they aren’t happy about it.

  “Okay, Shady,” Rocks says from the VP seat while I’m sitting in his. “The floor is yours.” Pissed about the situation and pissed about Diem, I go straight to business. Letting my anger overpower the uneasiness I’m feeling.

  “You’re not doing your job. Just because the money is good, don’t mean it’s easy. The work is hard. The risk is high. You knew that shit when you signed up. Ever since Dirk’s been gone, you’ve gotten lazy. Production in Houston is two weeks behind everyone else. Other chapters are complaining, saying that y’all are receiving special privileges because of me. I don’t like that.” Just saying the words pisses me off further. If anything, they should be working harder than anyone because of me. They should be picking up my slack while I’m gone. That’s the job of a good brother.

  “I’m pulling your bottom rockers.” The air in the room grows thick with tension at my words. Every brother at the table looks at me with a different emotion—hate, betrayal, envy . . . but some look at me with respect. “I’ll give you two weeks. If you’re not ahead of everyone else, I’ll pull back patches. After that, you’ll be sewing on Prospect rockers. I don’t think I have to tell y’all what happens if you fail then.”

  Cuts are laid across the table as I use my knife to remove the Texas patches one by one. The bottom rocker represents your state—what charter you belong to. Having it removed is a way of branding those that aren’t living up to the expectations of the club. It’s a blow to a man’s pride. He’s no longer worthy of a full patch. And to get it back, he’ll have to earn it.

  Before I leave, I call Nationals and inform them of my decision. They’re not surprised by my actions, they’re proud. “You’ll make a fine Nomad, Shady. Now go to San Antonio and do the same.”

  The news of what happened in Houston spread like wildfire. By the time I left, they were working harder than any chapter in the country. When I finally make it San Antonio, they’re throwing a party in my honor. I’m sure it’s in hopes to avoid having their patches pulled. But just to show them I’m not impressed, I called a meeting as soon as I walked in the door. Now the only man wearing a bottom rocker at my party is me. And just like I saw in Houston, respect is in the eyes of some of my brothers.

  * * *

  I’ve been gone for two weeks.

  Two long fucking weeks.

  I’ve thought of Diem every day since I left. Not one moment has gone by that I haven’t wondered what she was doing. If she was wearing my shirt. How she was feeling. If she was thinking of me . . .

  But my pride was too big for me to text or call. She must have been suffering from the same prideful issues. Because in two weeks, I haven’t heard from her either.

  I’m nervous when I pull up to my house. I’m not sure what to expect. When I hear a glass shatter against something inside, I grab my piece from my bag and nearly knock the door off the hinges trying to get in. My mind races with thoughts of what I’m up against. An intruder? Has Death Mob figured me out? Has the club found out about Diem? Is there a raccoon in the kitchen . . . again?

  Shards of glass litter the living room floor. The broken pieces were once a plate. Other than the hundreds of tiny, sharp objects, everything else seems to be in place. My boots crunch across the glass as I keep my gun up and make my way to the back of the house. Kicking open my bedroom door, the barrel of my automatic comes face-to-face with the strikingly beautiful Diem.

  “Get that fucking thing outta my face,” she greets, slapping the barrel of my gun out of her way before pushing past me.

  “Well, hello to you too.” I turn to follow her, but she stomps back into the room before I can take a step—attempting to slam the door in my face. I catch it with my hand, unable to hide my smile. Damn I’ve missed her cocky ass.

  Speaking of ass, she looks perfect. No bruises. No slow movements. She’s all sexy and pissed dressed in an outfit that I’ve never seen her in. Thinking back, I
remember Rookie telling me that Carrie had brought her some clothes after our last incident. And I’ll have to remember to thank Carrie for her choice.

  Tight jeans, an even tighter top, and lo and behold . . . fucking shoes.

  “What are you smiling at?” she snaps, filling her duffel bag with clothes. She’s leaving?

  My smile fades as I realize that’s exactly what she’s doing. “Where you goin’?”

  “Where you goin’?” Her shitty attempt to impersonate me has me smirking once again. “You wanna know where I’m goin’? None of your fucking business. That’s where.” She’s so pissed her voice is shaky, and for the life of me I can’t figure out why.

  “Diem,” I start, but she whirls around on me and pokes her tiny finger in my chest, managing to push me back a step.

  “Don’t you ‘Diem’ me. You’ve been off for two weeks doing who knows what with who knows who.” She stomps across the room, then comes back, knocking shit over on the dresser as she does. And all I can do is stand and watch in amusement. “I’ve been here, Zeke. Stuck in this fucking house eating carbs and watching westerns and counting the blades of grass in the yard. I’ve drove myself crazy while you’ve been partying and playing and probably eating steaks and drinking premium liquor and fucking random whores in some shitty southern brothel.”

  “Diem,” I try again, but the look she shoots me has me shutting my mouth.

  “I will kill you, Zeke. I’ll take your gun and put a bullet in your head. Both of them,” she adds, her eyes dropping to my crotch. My dick starts to swell at just the sight of her looking at it.

  “Calm down. I told you, I was with my family.”

  “You think I give a shit what you’ve been doing?” she yells, and my eyes widen at her outburst. “Well I don’t. I’m leaving.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  The silence is deadly. But her look is even more lethal. “Excuse me?” she whispers, and it’s so threatening, I swallow. Then I check to make sure my gun is still securely in my hand.

  “I said, you’re not leaving.” The words aren’t out of my mouth before I’m ducking. Something hard hits the wall behind me and I turn to see my iPod laying on the floor—the screen cracked and busted. Before she can throw the other object, a lamp, I move. Knocking it from her hands, I pull her to me, forcing her to look up at me.

  “I’ve been with my family,” I snarl, noticing how my glare does nothing to intimidate her. “I didn’t think I would be gone that long, but I was. So get the fuck over it.”

  “Fuck. You,” she whispers, her breath blowing over my face. It’s intoxicating and I want nothing more than to kiss her. And something in her eyes tells me that she wants me to. So I don’t. Instead, I let her go.

  I’m nearly to the door when her words hit me in the back, and pierce straight through to my heart. “I needed you.” I freeze, keeping my back to her so she can’t see the regret in my eyes. She continues to kill me with her words, completely unrelenting in true Diem fashion. “I asked you for help and your exact words were anything.”

  I hear the sound of a bag zipping, and I know she’s really leaving. And she’s hurt. Not physically, but in the worst kind of way. I’d given her my word, and then like always, I’d put the club before everything else. Because the club is what’s most important in my life. But the truth is, she’s important to me too.

  “Don’t leave,” I say, turning to face her. She stands tall and proud, her head lifted high. Her eyes are cold, lifeless, and narrowed at the corners. She looks right through me, like I’m not here demanding her to stay.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” she offers, a sardonic smirk playing on her lips.

  Anything.

  “Move aside, or I’ll rip this whole fucking house to shreds. It’s your choice.” Her voice is harsh. Her expression hard. Her words promising. And I don’t doubt her. But I haven’t wanted to do anything but kiss her since I first saw her moments ago. I thought I could deny her, but I can’t. And I’ll be damned if she tries to stop me. In this moment, no one could.

  Closing the distance between us, I toss my gun on the bed then reach for her throat. When I tighten my hold, her eyes widen in shock, but it’s her parted lips that let me know she wants this just as much as I do. My mouth crashes to hers. Her body fights me, but her tongue submits, letting me suck on it and taste her. She kisses me back with passion, while her hands fist in my hair, pulling tight like she’s trying to pry my head away from hers.

  But it only lasts a second. Then she’s pulling me to her. She can’t get enough of me. Her fingers claw at my neck—forcing my mouth to crash harder against hers. She tastes like fucking sunshine.

  “I missed you . . . ,” I say, not fully breaking the kiss. “So fucking much . . .” She moans into me, and I know in this moment that everything we’ve been denying each other is finally over.

  Pushing the duffel off her shoulder, my fingers curl around her perfect ass, lifting her around my waist effortlessly. Her legs circle my hips and I walk forward, pushing her into the wall and kissing her harder when she groans with pleasure at the roughness. I kiss her neck, sucking hard on the sweet, watermelon-scented flesh that I’ve missed.

  Impatient, my fingers curl around the V at the collar of her shirt and rip the fabric open. Then I rip her pretty lace bra that’s also new to my eyes. Two perfect fucking tits stare back at me, and I lift her higher so I can take the light brown peaks into my mouth. Loosening her legs from around me, I hear the sound of her jeans as they hit the floor, then her fingers are on the buttons of mine. I step back long enough to push them to my knees, grab a condom from the dresser next to us and keep my eyes on hers as I sheath my dick.

  They’re burning with desire. With raw fucking need to have me inside her. There’s no love or passion, just a primal craving that demands I fuck her on the same level of insanity that she drives me to. Lifting her again, I drop my head and watch as my cock goes inside her—needing no guidance or direction. Out of pure instinct, I find her swollen, wet pussy and drive deep, burying everything inside her but my balls.

  She feels like fucking satin. She’s smooth, wet, warm, and I have to pause to keep from coming—and I haven’t even gotten started. I distract myself with her mouth—kissing her softly at first, then building it up until we’re both breathless. Her hips jerk. Her legs tighten. She pulls my hair so hard it hurts. She’s doing everything in her power to get me to fuck her. And when I finally get my shit together, fuck her is exactly what I do.

  When she screams, I match it with a growl and slam her small body on top of me, over and over. I’m hurting her . . . but it’s the good hurt. The kind that has her hissing in pain and begging for more in the same breath. My fingers dig into her sweet ass that fits perfectly in my hands. Her fingers claw into my back, tearing deeper into my flesh with every pump of my hips.

  We’re scarring each other.

  Hurting each other.

  Torturing each other.

  And it’s never felt so fucking good.

  “I fucking hate you,” she says through her teeth, moving her hips to meet me.

  “Not as much as I hate you,” I growl, and like the fucked-up creatures we are, our words are our undoing.

  She screams as her pussy clenches around me. Her orgasm wracks through her body violently. I bury myself deep, stilling so she can feel the way my cock pulses as I come inside her. I don’t cover her in sweet kisses or tell her how awesome she was. Because she already knows. Instead, I bury my face in her neck, nipping at her skin with my teeth, then licking it with my tongue. She rubs her hands across the swollen scratches on my back. It’s as intimate as we get, and neither of us would have it any other way.

  Slowly, her legs untangle from my waist. I hold her by her hips until she can stand on her own. But even then, I don’t want to let her go. Not just yet. I keep her pressed against the wall, sympathizin
g with my cock that softens the instant the cool air of the room hits it—no doubt in shock after leaving the hottest, sweetest pussy it’s ever been inside of.

  “I’m still leaving,” she says, breathless and beautiful and impossibly fucking infuriating.

  “You can try.” I place my forehead against hers, trying to find the strength to take my hands off her hips.

  “What if I do?” I hear the smile in her tone and can’t keep from smiling myself.

  “Then you do.” I lean closer, biting her ear before whispering, “And I’ll just fuck the urge out of you again.”

  12

  DIEM STAYED. SHE tried to leave twice. Keeping good on my word, I fucked it out of her both times. But when I woke up this morning, she was gone. All that was left was a note.

  Shithead,

  Playtime is over for me. I have to get back to work. Maybe I’ll call. Maybe I won’t.

  —D

  She’ll call. I’m sure of it.

  I spend the day trying to get my house back in order. When she left, she made sure to leave me with the mess she created. I think it was her way of punishing me. But a part of me is glad she’s gone. I need the time to get my head back in the game. I have plans this week. Plans for death. I drive north to Tamworth, New Hampshire, calling Rookie when I’m fifteen minutes out. We meet up at a motel with Tank to go over the plan once again.

  The chapter has ten patch holders that would be present at church. They don’t have a clubhouse, so instead they meet up in the president’s shop located just outside his house. As is tradition in their chapter, the ol’ ladies gather inside the house, which is about forty feet from the shop. And most of the time, the Prospects stay under the porch, completely out of view of the shop, until the meeting is over.

  So not only are we putting Prospects at risk, but now the ol’ ladies are a potential threat too. Rookie has been staking out the site for quite some time and assures me the women never come outside. To take out ten patch holders in one night would be worth the risk. But I know if I had to kill a woman, it would be a hard pill to swallow.