Sinner's Revenge

by Kim Jones

  She leans into my touch. “Tell me why.”

  “Because I knew she wouldn’t feel like you.” My words are directed toward her, but it’s like as I say them out loud, the truth of them is registering for the first time with me too. “She didn’t smell like you. She didn’t taste like you.” I pause, narrowing my eyes at my own confession. “She wasn’t you, Diem.” Dropping my voice, I place my forehead against hers. “None of them were you.”

  “You mean that?” she whispers, still sniffling.

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t even like me.”

  I smile. “You don’t like me either.”

  She laughs, and I didn’t realize how much I missed the sound. We just sit a minute, both of us looking down at our intertwined fingers in her lap. “I can feel my control slipping, Zeke,” she says, her head leaning a little heavier against mine at the admission.

  “What are you so afraid of?”

  After a long pause, she finally answers. “Weakness.”

  “You don’t have to be strong all the time, Diem. You can let go. With me.” She raises her head to look at me, her eyes guarded as she studies the sincerity in my expression for a long time.

  “Don’t treat me like your whores, Zeke,” she says, and the warning can be heard loud and clear. “You told me I was different from them. I was different from my mother. Make me feel that way.”

  Unsure of how else to prove it, I kiss her. Not a fast kiss to hurry up and get the ball rolling, but a slow, torturous kiss that has her melting in my arms. She doesn’t taste like cinnamon or tequila or ice cream. It’s just her mixed with a hint of smoke—the perfect concoction.

  I wrap my arm around her waist, flipping her until she’s beneath me—not on her knees in front of me or between my legs, but to where I’ll have a full view of her face when she falls apart. Her hands fist in my hair, and I easily grasp them both in one of mine and hold them over her head. She struggles with the loss of control, and I drag my lips to her ear.

  “I got you.” I run my hand under her shirt, lazily dragging my fingers up her side until she relaxes. I squeeze her hands, letting her know to keep them there, then release them and fist her shirt in my hands. I pull it over her head, to find her not wearing a bra. It’s only been two days since I’ve seen her tits, but they’re better than I remember. Her nipples harden with the intensity of my gaze. “They’re fucking perfect,” I say, watching them pucker further when my breath blows over them.

  Her back bows off the floor when I take one in my mouth. She whimpers in need and I massage her other breast with one hand, using the other to unsnap the button on her shorts. My tongue trails down her stomach, where the bruises have almost completely faded. I kiss along the hem of her shorts and in the wake of my lips, I leave a path of goose bumps.

  My fingers curl around her shorts and she lifts her hips. I drag my eyes back up her body—she’s naked and shaking in anticipation for me. For Zeke. Fuck, she’s beautiful. Breathtaking, gorgeous, submissive, vulnerable, needy . . . all the things I’ve never seen her be. Like this, she’s a stranger to me. And I don’t know what way I like her better. Maybe because I like them all.

  I stand over her, watching her eyes grow hungry as I remove my boots, my shirt, then my jeans. Her breath catches at the sight of my cock, hard and ready for her.

  Only her.

  Diem.

  I sheath it with a condom, torturing her further by prolonging the process. When she presses her thighs together and grinds her hips looking for release, I finally show her mercy. Laying back across her body, I support my weight with my arms. Her knees separate, inviting me in. Slowly, her warm, wet pussy surrounds my cock, and I groan at the feel of her tight walls as they clench around me, pulling me further inside.

  I fuck her slow, not letting one moment of her response to me go unnoticed. I don’t fuck her hard and fast, even though her heels dig into my ass, urging me deeper. I don’t want to fuck her like before. I don’t want to fuck her like I have any other woman. Because they were all whores. So I give her a side of me I’ve never given to them.

  My mouth finds hers and we kiss; the intimacy is foreign to me, but it feels so right. I couldn’t imagine fucking her any other way. I want to kiss her. I want to take my time. I want to explore every part of her body with my mouth, my hands, and my cock.

  When I feel her tighten around me, her eyes close, but I want to see her when she lets go. “Open your eyes, Diem. Look at me.” Surprisingly she does. And I’m thankful. I was prepared to stop and force her to look at me. But she’s letting me control her. And when her eyes lock on mine, there is no doubt—no fear, no walls, no ice, and no indifference. They tell me everything. They burn with desire and trust. The impact of what I see on her face is more powerful than the way her pussy squeezes my cock as she comes.

  Her moans fill the room, drowning out the song completely. The sound alone is enough to have me coming too. With her, my feelings are heightened, and the fight for control is the hardest battle I’ve ever faced.

  I lean down and kiss her, feeling her body shake as I rock my hips inside her a few more times. I move to lay beside her, and she folds her body into mine. Her head rests on my chest, her leg is tangled with mine. My arm goes around her waist and I hold her. Just like I hold her when we sleep. And when she sits in my recliner. Just like I should. And just like I’ve never held anyone else.

  17

  “WHAT’S YOUR LAST name, Diem?” The thought that I don’t know it suddenly coming to mind. We’re in the kitchen and she is cooking me breakfast. One I’m sure will be just as disgusting as everything else she has ever cooked.

  She turns to look at me, leaning against the counter. Her eyes survey me in nothing but a pair of basketball shorts and I can’t help but smirk when she blinks a couple of times to gather her bearings. “What’s yours?”

  “Would it make a difference if I told you?” I ask, grabbing the OJ from the fridge and drinking straight from the carton.

  “Well that depends.” She turns her back to me as she asks, “What if it’s Dahmer? Or Bundy or Sells? Then I might think you were a serial killer. That would make a difference.” She finally turns around so I can see her face. I study it to see if she’s serious. Thank fuck she’s not.

  “You caught me.” I smile. She’s knows I’m joking. What she doesn’t know is that I’m worse than any serial killer she’s ever Googled.

  “Unless you plan to marry me, why do you want to know?” I laugh at the thought of marrying her crazy ass. That would never happen. A lifetime with a nut like her wasn’t in my future plans. But my eyes move to her ring finger and I imagine how it would make me feel seeing her wear one. One that I gave her.

  I really can’t imagine spending the rest of my life with her. It seems unreal. But the thought of not having her in my life hurts in places I don’t like feeling pain. Dead in my chest. In the center of my fucking heart. I don’t want her to think about anyone else. I don’t want her to be with anyone else.

  “You and me,” I start, narrowing my eyes on hers. “We’re something. I don’t know what it is, but when you said you were going to wear those heels for another man, it drove me fucking crazy. Those shoes, and every other pair you own, they belong to me. Those tiny little feet of yours, belong to me too. All ten of your toes, your fingers, your smile, your laugh, and that sweet pussy . . . it all belongs to me.”

  She smiles, trying to appear unaffected, but her eyes widen at my admission. “Getting attached, are we?” My silence speaks for itself and the moment she realizes her assumption is true, all humor is lost and her cheeks turn pink with embarrassment. “Oh,” she says, busying herself with the burnt eggs in the skillet.

  “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that the feeling is mutual.” I walk up behind her—noticing how she stills when she feels my presence.

  “Hardly.” She
attempts to scoff, but it comes out as a whisper. A very unbelievable whisper.

  “Then why can’t you look at me?” My pulse is beating faster than it should. I feel like I’m on a high. I’m fucking giddy when I let the realization settle inside me that she is in my kitchen, half naked, recently fucked, and cooking me breakfast. Then I feel murderous when I think about her in someone else’s house doing the same. Is this what infatuation feels like? If so, I’m fucking crazy about her.

  She finally turns around, and a hint of fear is in her eyes. Along with that same burning need I feel inside my chest. “Because this is something. And the feeling is mutual . . . and it scares the shit outta me.”

  Even though everything inside of me is screaming to make this a special moment, the seriousness of it is just too much. So I smirk. And she pushes me. And the moment is lost, but the truth is out—something that had to be said has finally surfaced. Now she knows that I’m hers. And she sure as fuck is mine.

  * * *

  The breakfast is worse than I ever could have imagined. I’ve never eaten dog shit, but I think if it was scrambled in eggs, her cooking is exactly what it would taste like. So I offer to buy breakfast instead. Diem agrees only after telling me that hell would freeze over before she cooked me eggs again. I believe her. I thank her too.

  Now we’re at the Hillsborough Diner and are waiting patiently for our food, which just so happens to be nearly every damn thing on the menu. The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable at all. If we have nothing to argue about, conversation seems awkward. But I want to know everything about Diem. I know it’s selfish to not tell her much about me, but I can’t stand not knowing shit about her.

  “Tell me about your job,” I say. Her eyes drag up from the coffee cup in her hands. She continues to blow on it, looking at me annoyed.

  “Why?” She takes a sip, makes a face, adds more sugar, then looks at me over the top of her cup.

  “Because, regardless of how much we are unlike normal people, I think we should at least attempt to try and get to know each other.” Or me just get to know you, I think.

  “I already know everything about you. Just like you know everything about me. Or at least the important stuff.”

  “The only thing I know about you is that you’re exasperating, infuriating, and completely fucking crazy.”

  “You forgot thief.” She beams proudly.

  I decide to let it go. If I pushed any further, I’d sound like one of those housewives off them reality TV shows. Diem would have a damn field day with that.

  Our food comes and we eat in silence. It’s only when we’re down to the chocolate chip waffle we agreed to share that she speaks.

  “I love chocolate,” she says, scraping all my chocolate chips to her side. The fact that I let her is a milestone. If Rookie would have tried that, I’d stab him with my fork. “I like flowers. My favorite season is spring, and I hate the beach.”

  “No girl hates the beach,” I say, figuring long walks on the beach with the sun setting in the background and all that romantic shit is on every girl’s fantasy list.

  “I’m not your ordinary girl, Zeke. Haven’t you figured that out?” True. “So there are a few things about me. Not that I give a shit, but please, enlighten me with a little bit about yourself.”

  I smirk. She wants to know. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t be looking at me so expectantly. “I love chocolate too. I hate flowers because they smell like funeral homes. I’ve never been to a beach.” With that, her eyes grow wide with shock.

  “Are you serious?” I nod. “Who the hell don’t like flowers?” I stare at her in confusion, thinking the beach was a much bigger deal than flowers. Then she smiles. “The beach really is overrated, but you should go. I’ll take you.”

  Now I really am confused. “But you said you hate the beach.”

  “I do,” she says, shrugging. “But I’ll go for you.” She stares at the table, her brows drawing together in confusion at her words. Then, she mumbles something and excuses herself. While she’s gone, I pay the ticket. And for some fucking reason, I can’t keep the smile off my face.

  * * *

  “What’s Diem’s favorite color?” Carrie asks me. It’s been two days since I’ve heard from Diem. After breakfast, she’d left and has yet to call or text. To escape the feeling of loneliness in my house, I’d come to Rookie’s.

  “Hell, I don’t know,” I tell her, flipping through a magazine on the couch. She’s sitting in the floor folding clothes while Rookie washes dishes—domesticated pussy.

  “How do you not know? I mean if y’all are official, then you should know these things.”

  “We’re not official. It’s . . . complicated.” Really complicated.

  “Are you having sex with other people?” she asks, and I shift uncomfortably at her question.

  “No. But just because we’re monogamous doesn’t mean we’re official.”

  “Yes it does,” Rookie calls from the kitchen.

  “Well, do you know her favorite movie? Or what makes her laugh? Or her favorite food? I mean . . . anything?” I don’t meet Carrie’s eyes. I don’t know if it’s because I feel ashamed or because I feel like it’s none of her business. Either way, I become aggravated at the situation.

  “I know who she is. I know what kind of person she is. And I know that she loves chocolate and flowers. I think that’s enough,” I say, unable to keep the grit out of my tone.

  “It is enough,” Rookie snaps, suddenly appearing in my line of sight. There is no mistaking the warning in his tone. I’m not pissed at Carrie. I’m pissed at myself for not knowing these things. But I damn sure didn’t make it sound like that.

  “It’s fine.” Carrie pushes at Rookie’s leg, trying to remove him from between us. When it doesn’t work, she peers around him. “As long as you know that, that’s all that matters. You’ll figure the other stuff out along the way.” She gives me a smile that could melt an iceberg, and it makes me feel like shit.

  I stand, figuring my time here is up considering Rookie is still looking at me like he wants to kill me. “Take care of that woman,” I say, pointing down at Carrie. “She’s too damn good for you.”

  In my truck, I’m calling Diem before I hit the highway.

  “Hello,” she says breathless, her voice echoing through the sound system.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, my blood turning cold and my voice deadpan. Now I know what she felt like when she called while I was getting head.

  “I’m running. What do you want?” I nearly wreck with relief, and when I let out a breath, she laughs. “Damn, I should have played that better.”

  “Not a good time for that,” I growl, trying to calm myself down.

  “What’s wrong?” She’s serious now, genuinely concerned. I’d play on that, but I’m too worked up.

  “I need your favorite color. Carrie wants to know,” I half lie. I want to know too.

  “Red. Bright red.” I listen to the sound of her feet on the pavement . . . a steady, fast-paced jog.

  “What makes you laugh?” I ask, my voice lower. Damn, I wish I was with her. Running right beside her and watching her tits bounce up and down.

  “I’m not much of a laugher,” she pants, then only the sound of her breathing fills the truck. She’s stopped running and is trying to catch her breath. “You,” she starts, still struggling. “You make me laugh. That’s why I do shit to piss you off. It makes me happy.”

  I make her happy.

  Sure, it’s in a fucked-up kind of way, but still . . .

  I make her happy.

  “Why all the questions, Zeke?”

  I think about that a minute before finally telling her the truth. “I just want to know . . . I want to know everything about you.”

  Time seems to stand still while I wait for her to answer. Forever seems to pass before
she finally does. “If I tell you something, will you stop asking questions?”

  “Yes,” I agree without hesitation.

  I hear the sound of her feet moving once again. Slower this time. “I’m still figuring myself out. But when I’m with you, I feel like I’m finding me. All my favorite things are determined by who makes me happy. So ask me that. Ask me who makes me happy.”

  “I already did,” I say, starting to wonder if I heard her wrong the first time. But when she answers, my chest fills with pride and I know what I heard was right.

  “Then you already know everything about me.”

  The phone disconnects before I have time to tell her that if what she says is true, then she already knows everything about me too.

  18

  “DO YOU HAVE an answer yet?” I look out across the patio at all the leaders of Sinner’s Creed, who are anxiously awaiting my decision about their offer. They want me to become a Nomad. They want me to pick up where Dirk left off. Houston and San Antonio were a trial run, now they want me to go nationwide. They’d offered to give me six months to think about it. I didn’t need that long. I’m ready.

  “Yes. I’d be honored.” Shaking hands with all of them, I stand and let them cut my bottom rocker off. The Texas patch is folded and put away, and one that reads “Nomad” is handed to me in return.

  Pulling the small sewing kit from my inside pocket, I remove my cut and take a seat. The lighting out here is shitty. It would benefit me better to go inside. But there’s something about the struggle that makes me feel like I’m more worthy.

  Eight years ago, I sewed on my Prospect rocker, sitting in a field, in the middle of the night. The only lighting I had came from matches that I’d light and hold between my teeth until it burned my lips. It took four hundred and seventy-three stitches, six hours, and twelve needles, but I finally finished.