Sinner's Revenge

by Kim Jones

  “I’ve earned every penny I’ve ever spent and then some.” The ice is in her eyes. The steel is in her voice. The conviction she so often conveys is in her words. She means what she says, and I believe her.

  “I would say thank you, but you owed it to me, so I won’t.”

  “I don’t need your thanks, Zeke. All I need is for you to know that I always keep good on my word.” Diem didn’t have to buy a truck to prove that to me. I already knew it. But, since she’s being so generous, I know something else she promised that I’m still waiting on. Neither of us had won the bet, so she doesn’t have to give it to me tonight, but I’m hoping like hell she will.

  She notices the flash of heat in my eyes, and it feels like someone dashed it with cold water when I watch that wicked smile creep across her face. I already know what’s coming, and I start shaking my head in protest.

  “Welcome to locker 8794,” she says, holding her arms out and looking around for emphasis. “Where no other man has gone before.”

  * * *

  My phone rings in the early hours of the morning waking me. I untangle myself from Diem and reach over to the nightstand, hitting things until I find it.

  “Yeah?” I say gruffly.

  “Get up. Meet me at my house. I have something for you.” Rookie hangs up in my ear and I slide quietly out of bed. I make minimal noise getting dressed and grabbing my duffel, but Diem speaks to me before I can make a clean getaway.

  “You coming back?” she asks sleepily. She’s most beautiful and vulnerable this time of day—sleepy and naked and tangled in my sheets. My very expensive sheets.

  “Not sure, pretty girl. Stay though. Be here when I get home.” She nods, submitting to my demand before turning over on her stomach. I leave the bedroom quickly, and I don’t look back.

  * * *

  Rookie lives about an hour from me. I drive my new truck to his house, getting there as fast as possible. He’s standing outside when I arrive, smoking a cigarette. Rookie is always calm and controlled, so there is no way of knowing if what I’m walking into is bad or really bad. To him, it’s all the same.

  He motions for me to follow him and leads me to his shed. Flipping on a light switch, two dead Death Mob members, riddled in bullet holes, lay on the floor. Next to a woman.

  “Who’s she?” I ask, pointing to the half-naked woman.

  “Collateral damage,” he says, lighting another cigarette.

  “I don’t like collateral damage.” My temper is rising as I look at the young woman who Rookie has been kind enough to turn faceup and cover with a sheet.

  “Yeah? Me neither. But they killed her, so I killed them. I figured I better take them all.”

  “Why did they kill her?”

  “Don’t think they meant to. She was standing across the street when they shot. They missed me. But they got her. Right in the heart.”

  “Fuuuuckkk.” I run my hands through my hair. “What happened?”

  “Said they recognized me. From Houston. They’re from the town just up the road, Shady. I was out getting shit for Carrie and they just confronted me. You think they’re onto us?”

  I shake my head, but I’m still unsure. “Nah. Just coincidence. You know her name?” He hands me her purse and I find a driver’s license with her address and name. “Anyone else see you?”

  “Nobody that I know of. But I was wearing black and it was dark so even if they did, they wouldn’t be able to make me out.”

  I nod, putting my hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “It’s all right.” He just shrugs. Unaffected on the outside, but something tells me he’s struggling on the inside. “Get rid of them. I’ll call Tank to take care of her. She deserves a proper burial and her family deserves some kind of explanation.” It wouldn’t be the truth, but it would give them closure.

  I put in the call to Tank, who shows up an hour later. He assures me he can handle it with no problems. I trust that he will. We burn the cuts at Rookie’s house, and the sun is up when I finally make my way back home. My phone flashes with a text from Diem.

  See you around.

  And just like that, my day got even shittier.

  14

  “I’M GOING TO be staying the next few weeks with you,” Diem informs me the next weekend. We’re in my recliner, watching westerns, and she’s wearing my shirt.

  “You are?” I ask, unable to drown the happiness that is bubbling in my gut. I hate the feeling.

  “I’m getting some home improvements done. Someone told me a couple of weeks ago that my house pretty much looks like shit.”

  “Whoever they are sounds like a real douche bag.”

  “Yeah, he is.”

  This is how all conversations seem to go between me and Diem. There is no normal everyday talk. No how are yous, or was your day goods or can I get you anythings. We argue over everything. We call each other names. I hate her and she hates me. We fuck like wild rabbits and each time is better than the last. I like it this way. So does she.

  This week will be no different. I’m sure of it.

  * * *

  “I need Carrie’s number,” she tells me on Monday. I’m at the table, pretending to work on my laptop. When what I’m really doing is playing a game of Solitaire—that she just rudely interrupted.

  “For what?”

  “Because I want to ask her something.”

  “She’s not your friend, you know. You have no friends. Nobody likes you.”

  “Give me the number,” she demands, but I don’t give out my friend’s numbers. So I call and give Carrie hers.

  Thirty minutes later, Diem informs me that we are going to see a band in Concord tonight. She’s already confirmed it with Rookie, or Joe as she knows him, and Carrie and I don’t like being the fourth fucking wheel. So I call Rookie and chew his ass for making plans without me. He blames Carrie, like the pussy he is, because he knows I could never be mad at her.

  We meet up at the club and I’m surprised to see Carrie in something other than scrubs. No wonder Rookie keeps her hidden beneath those shapeless clothes—the woman is built like a brick shithouse. She’s got a body like Kate Upton—big natural tits, thick legs, and long brown hair. I feel so guilty about checking out my brother’s woman that I tell him just how hot I think she is.

  “Damn, Rookie. Carrie is fine. No wonder you don’t bring her around that often.” My eyes trail up her long body. She’s wearing a short black dress with heels so high they make her almost as tall as Rookie.

  Pride sparkles in his eyes as he takes her in himself. “I’m gonna marry her,” he says, as nonchalantly as if he was telling me he had to go take a piss.

  “What? Why?” I ask, shocked at his admission.

  He just shrugs. “It’s important to her, so it’s important to me. Speaking of ol’ ladies, yours is pretty fine herself.” I follow the direction of his chin tip, and Carrie seems to blur out of the picture when I look at Diem.

  Motherfucker . . .

  She’s wearing a turquoise blue dress that ties around her neck. It dips down low in the front, exposing the sides of each of her perfect tits and dips even lower in the back—a hairsbreadth from the crack of her ass. Her olive skin looks darker against the material, and the silver straps of her shoes climb all the way up her calf. How the fuck had I not noticed her before now? The truck was dark. We were arguing when we left, so I was avoiding her. But was I really that blind?

  “We’re going to dance,” she tells me, and all I can do is stand here and gape as she sashays onto the dance floor with Carrie in tow. Rookie claps me on the back, finally snapping me back to reality.

  “Come on, brother. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  * * *

  Rookie and I are at the bar having a drink with Mick, who coincidently happened to be here too. I’m introduced to his friend, Joel, who I know now is his lover. Fine
by me. I should introduce them to Saylor’s friends Donnawayne and Jeffery. Everyone is having a good time. The guys are drinking, the girls are dancing, the night is perfect.

  But then I hear them.

  The unmistakable sound of Harley-Davidson motorcycles. It could be a bunch of guys just out on the town. But my gut tells me it’s not. By the way Rookie is looking at me, his is saying the same thing. My whole world changes in the blink of an eye when six Death Mob members walk in, scanning the crowd. I grow tense, knowing that Rookie had killed two of their guys out in the open just a few days ago. They look at us but don’t concentrate too long, and I let out a sigh of relief. It’s time to go.

  But the band decides to cover The Pretty Reckless’s “Heaven Knows” and it just so happens to be Diem’s favorite fucking song. So I’m forced to stay a little bit longer.

  Death Mob is loud and obnoxious, speaking crudely to a group of women near the bar and shouting their demands to the bartenders. I don’t like it. The hate I have for them grows as I watch them disgrace all MCs with their behavior. Sure I’d done my fair share of hell-raising, but only in places that belonged to Sinner’s Creed. This is not their usual spot, but they’re letting everyone know that this is their territory. Concord is their town. And they can act however the fuck they want.

  Don’t get involved.

  Don’t get involved.

  I’m chanting to myself. I’m trying to find anything to watch other than the scene in front of me. I look at Diem as she moves her ass on the dance floor, her eyes trained on me. I’m counting the beats of the song, and it seems never ending. Then my eyes fall back to Mick and his friend as they sit minding their own business and share a moment. And I’m not the only one who notices.

  One of Death Mob’s members says something to his brothers, and soon all their eyes are on Mick and Joel. I turn to Rookie to see the vein that appears on his forehead as his anger rises. It tells me that he can’t distance himself from what’s happening much longer. He hates Death Mob as much as I do. It’s hard when you’re within spitting distance of men worthy of a slow death and you can’t do anything about it.

  When one of them puts their hands roughly on Mick’s shoulder, I’m on my feet. As I walk over, I know I’m making a mistake. I’ll raise the suspicions of everyone here and draw the attention of Death Mob chapters from near and far. But I don’t care. When I see Rookie stand and walk behind me, I know he don’t give a shit either.

  Mick sees me approaching and the relief is evident on his face. He looks like he’s fighting to contain a smile too. He thinks his new friend Zeke is coming to his rescue. But he’s wrong. Tonight, I’m not his friend, and I’m not Zeke.

  Tonight, I’m a one-percenter.

  I’m Sinner’s Creed.

  I’m fucking Shady.

  15

  DIEM

  BAD BOYS. THERE’S something about them. It’s almost like they possess some magical power that controls your mind . . . and your heart.

  I’ve always been drawn to them. I like the way their appearance screams confidence. I like the way they make me feel safe. I like that even though everything inside me tells me to stay away, I can’t. The goose bumps, the butterflies, the thrill and the fear always win against original, ordinary, and safe.

  I guess it’s the rebel in me. The bitch that claws at my skin, forcing me to adhere to something I know is no good for me. The lady dressed in red that cheers for the evil that’s buried deep within me. The Diem that longs to let the man take control. Whichever one it is telling me that Zeke is who I want is throwing one hell of a celebration right now. Because what I’m witnessing in this moment, is the fucking epitome of a bad boy.

  I’ve been watching him and Joe for the last five minutes. His transformation isn’t instant, but changes by the second. One minute he’s calm and collected, and then his eyes narrow on something. I can almost hear the rush of blood in his veins as it flows faster and faster toward his quickening pulse.

  The steady rhythm of his heart has intensified to a hard punch that vibrates his shirt with every beat. His nostrils flare with every new idea of pain he wants to deliver. The knuckles on his once-relaxed hands are now bone white, stretching his skin to the point of breaking. He taps his foot as if he’s counting, trying to calm himself. But the rage is too intense, and when he finally has enough, he stands.

  I feel like the world shifts on its axis. The floor seems to shake with his every step—not from the weight of his body, but out of fear. He exudes the power of a god. So much so that I stand expectantly, waiting for him to summon lightning from the sky. I’ve never been so captivated by anyone in all of my life. Just the mere thought of his presence makes me feel like I’m safe from everything.

  Joe flanks him, and although he’s significantly bigger, he seems small compared to Zeke. He’s angry too, but can’t hold a candle to the evil that’s radiating off the man beside him.

  I move closer, although I’m sure he can be heard from anywhere in the bar. Even though his voice is low, the strength and conviction in it allows his words to carry far beyond normal reach.

  “Get out.” His demand leaves no room for negotiation—no conversation, no options, and no fucking excuses. My whole body just melted, and he’s done nothing but speak.

  The men he’s confronting are the notorious Death Mob one-percenters. They’re big, mean, and look down at him as if he’s nothing more than a smear of dog shit on the bottom of their shoes. Once again, he’s outnumbered, outsized, and doesn’t care.

  Instead of getting nervous for him, I become excited. Everything around me blurs, as my eyes focus on the only man in the room. He’s not intimidated. If anything, he’s confident in his ability to take on the six bikers, without the least little bit of doubt. It’s almost like he has a personal vendetta against them, and has been looking forward to this opportunity for quite some time.

  Everything seems to happen too fast for my eyes to see, and too quick for my brain to register. It’s not your typical barroom brawl—this is a one-man show. Joe is caught up in the mix, but it’s clear he’s only there to prevent them all from jumping in at the same time.

  If Steven Seagal and Jean-Claude Van Damme had a baby, I’m sure Zeke would be the result. His moves are quick, precise, and he seems to be one step ahead of the men he’s fighting. The blows he lands are always in the right places, dropping the men completely or at the very least bringing them to their knees. If I wasn’t seeing it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe he was capable of doing so much damage.

  Even though he’s good, he’s not a ninja. I flinch every time he gets hit, but he doesn’t seem to feel it. He’s in the zone. Or he’s immortal. Or he spikes his drinks with a liquid form of kryptonite. That would explain why his beer tastes so good. Why he tastes so good.

  After what seems like forever, but is really only a couple minutes, security shows up and breaks up the fight. The bikers are escorted from the bar. Surprisingly, they leave without argument, carrying the ones out that are still unconscious. They’re screaming “fuck you” and “you’ll be seeing us again” all the way to their bikes.

  The smell of whiskey, blood, and leather hangs heavy in the air. But it can’t mask the scent of male sweat mixed with a little smoke, a hint of cologne, and a whole lot of Zeke.

  He’s standing in front of me, his breath heavy and his eyes blazing. They’re focused solely on me, and I can feel the intensity of their heat in places I want his mouth. He has a small cut on his lip, and a slight swell in his jaw. The cut wells with blood and I’m tempted to lick it. And the beads of sweat above his lips. And everything else I can put my tongue on.

  He’s under my skin. He’s in my head. He gives me everything I never knew I wanted and then some. If I thought I was falling before, I’m sure of it now. There is no place in this world I’d rather be than in his arms, on his nerves, and at his house. He makes me feel
like there is something magical inside me. He brings out my worst, then contradicts it with my best.

  I never want to be where he isn’t. He wants the same thing. And like me, he just can’t admit it. But this man would kill for me. I know it. He’s holding in a secret that I haven’t figured out, and frankly I don’t care to. Everything that’s bad about him and unknown to me only makes me want him more. And by the look he’s giving me, he wants me too.

  “You okay?” he asks, and a small hint of regret flashes in his eyes.

  “Yes.” I had a smart-ass comeback, but I couldn’t manage to find the air to say it. I’m just as breathless as he is and I haven’t done a damn thing.

  I’m waiting for him to give me a smirk, or for his concentration to break. But his fierce gaze never falters. It’s like he’s trying to tell me something with his eyes—something I don’t want to hear. He’s giving me a warning. He’s telling me that this is who he is. That he’s a bad guy. That he’s no good for me, blah, blah, blah.

  So I match his glare with a glare of my own. I’m giving him a warning. I’m telling him this is who I am. That bad guys don’t scare me. And that I don’t care if he’s no good for me, because the reality is, I’m really not that good for him either.

  16

  SHADY

  “YOU ARE SO fucking hot!” Diem says for the hundredth time since we left the bar. She’s buzzed. And horny. And that’s fine by me. I need the distraction.

  We’re in the truck and she has my dick in her hands, her mouth on my neck, and my new shiny truck isn’t new and shiny anymore because I keep hitting ditches. Finally, I pull over.

  No sooner is the truck in park than I’m in her mouth. And just like she promised—I’m all the way at the back of her throat.

  “Motherfucker . . . ,” I groan, fisting my hand into her hair. Her mouth is like a vacuum suctioned around my cock. Her tongue is practicing magic on my shaft. She’s gripping me with muscles I never knew existed inside a woman’s mouth. Her lips are pinched tight, forcing all the blood to the head of my cock as she pulls back. Then they part—and the feeling of release is so overwhelming, I almost come in her mouth.