by Kim Jones
I can’t let thoughts of Saylor take over right now, because she makes me weak. Instead, I let the lyrics to Metallica’s “Seek and Destroy” pound into my head. An hour later, I’m ready to kill. I have only one thought on my brain. Blood. Red blood that will seep out of T-Man, through the cheap particleboard of the trailer and onto the ground.
When I see him pulling in, I feel that familiar sense of power coursing through my veins. Tonight, I’m the reaper in black. I’m hell and I’m knocking on his front door. And he doesn’t even fucking know it. When he is inside and alone, I wait. I wait for him to get comfortable. I see him look out of the window a few times, but he gives up all too soon.
I crawl out of the darkness and under the trailer to the back room where I cut a hole in the floor last night. I remove the carpet and now I’m in his house. He is on the phone, so I wait for him to end the call. He is promising dinner to someone on the other line. He laughs. He is happy. He sounds fucking ecstatic, but it won’t last long. I know the conversation is winding down, so I advance. When he says good-bye, I’m standing behind him.
When your mind is made up to kill someone, never hesitate. Do your fucking job. But it needs to be painful. That was my order. I kneel behind him and slice his tibial tendon. When he falls to his knees, I wrap my arm around his throat and place my knife behind his ear. His screaming stops and his hands come to my arm. He is thrashing, breathing heavy. He is panicking, and I think of all the women who panicked after waking up bruised and battered and not knowing what happened.
He is telling me he has money. He will pay me. I don’t need his fucking money and because he insinuated that I do, I stab my knife into the cartilage of his shoulder. He screams louder. He should know why this is happening, but I want him to hear it from me.
“You fucked up. You drugged the wrong woman. You fucked with something that belongs to Sinner’s Creed, and now you will die at the hands of a brother.”
He is begging now, swearing that he doesn’t know what I am talking about. He just wants to live. He is sorry. I’ve heard it all. There is nothing he could say that would ever make me change my mind. But, before I kill him, I have to know.
“What religion are you?” I ask, and my question catches him off guard.
“I-I’m an atheist.” I knew it. And then, I cut his throat.
I hang around long enough for T-Man to choke to death on his own blood, then I leave the same way I came in. There will be no tracks, no fingerprints, and no evidence. A smooth kill, just how I like it.
—
I walk the mile to my bike with thoughts of Saylor praying in my head. I’m glad she and T-Man didn’t share the same god. I would never be able to process how that shit worked.
I’m ready to get back to Saylor. I’m so ready, I’m practically running. When I get there, I will want to sleep with her, but I can’t. We have to leave. We need to get as far away from here as possible. I’m sure the body won’t be found for a couple of days. No one knew about T-Man’s “safe house” but him. I plan to be long gone by then.
When I get to my bike, I remove my gloves and hoodie and stuff them in a plastic bag before putting them in my luggage. I grab a fresh shirt and my riding gloves and throw my helmet on. By my calculations, I should see Saylor in fourteen minutes.
It only takes me twelve, but there are people outside in the parking lot so I keep riding. I stop at a store down the street and fuel up. I go inside, get what I need, and park my bike behind the building. I walk back to the motel and wait for the men to go inside. I don’t want any witnesses. Even though no one saw my bike within a mile of T-Man’s house, I don’t want to take any chances.
An hour passes before they leave and I should already be a hundred miles from here. I decide to leave the bike, and Saylor and I will just walk back to it.
I find her in the room, sound asleep. I hate to wake her, but we have to leave. She is in the bed we slept in together and she is hugging a pillow. My pillow. Her face is buried in it. She missed me.
I find her stuff packed in her bag and sitting at the foot of the bed. Her clothes are laid out and she is wearing nothing but her shirt and panties. If she has to wear clothes, I like these best. I sit down beside her and gently shake her shoulder.
“Hey,” I say, barely above a whisper. I watch her eyes open and then close as she buries her face further in the pillow. It’s cute.
Cute.
I don’t like that word and I vow to never use it again.
“Saylor,” I say a little louder this time, and I watch her take a deep breath. She is agitated.
“I’m up,” she says and her tone is one I haven’t heard. And that word I vow to never use keeps popping in my head. Her hair is already braided and I watch in amusement as she grumbles the entire time she puts her clothes on. “Two thirty in the morning. I swear. I’ve been asleep for five minutes. Just long enough to start a dream. Then I have to get up.” I almost want to smile. Almost.
“What was your dream?” I ask, and my question surprises me. I know why I asked. I want her to tell me it was about me.
“Doesn’t matter,” she mumbles, and I like this side of her. It’s different. It would annoy most men, but I like it. She is perfect enough that it’s okay for her to be a little bitchy every now and then.
I’m in a good mood. I get like this every time justice is served. I’m still riding high on the horse of power and I don’t see getting off of it anytime soon. She betters my already good mood, and I feel like laughing. But I don’t, of course.
“It’s always the good part.” She is standing in front of me and she is no longer aggravated. She is curious. She is hoping that by explaining it to me, she will be able to find the answer for herself. “Right when you know it can’t get any better, so it doesn’t. It ends. Poof. Gone. Just like that,” she says with a snap of her fingers. “I don’t get it. Even if you didn’t wake me up, something else would have. I’m destined to never complete a good dream. It’s just not in the cards.”
I don’t want to leave. I want to sit here and let her lecture me on dreams and how they come to an abrupt stop just before the good shit happens. But we have to go.
“You ready?” I ask, knowing that she is. Her backpack is in her hands, her clothes are on, and she is standing, waiting on me.
“Yeah. I’m ready.” I stand up and I am only a couple of inches from her. I dig in my pocket and hold out a pack of Skittles. My reward is a huge smile and a hug. I wrap my arms around her awkwardly, wondering why this is so easy when we are in bed and so weird when we are not.
“You, Dirk. Man of my dreams. Man who wakes me up before the good part in my dream. Man who brings me Skittles, are even more perfect than I thought.”
I was in her dreams. She said so. She thinks I’m perfect. She said that too. I’m trading in my power horse for a kitten because now I feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside. And I’m gonna name that kitten Saylor. And I hate fucking kittens. And I hate this warm and fuzzy shit. And we need to leave before I get pissed because someone gave Saylor the wrong definition of perfect.
I take her hand and she walks beside me in silence back to the bike. I heard a quote once that said beauty was in the eyes of the beholder or some shit. Maybe perfection was the same way. Everything Saylor thinks is perfect is anything but. But, if she believes it, then maybe it’s true. Who am I to judge her opinions?
When I’m a good hundred miles away, full of Skittles and low on energy, I pull over on the side of the interstate and make the call to Nationals on the prepaid that was left for me. When the call is connected, there is no greeting, only silence.
“I guess the benefit will go toward a funeral.” I hang up without a response and smash the phone into the pavement with the heel of my boot. When it’s completely crushed, I kick the bigger pieces into the grass and head to the next town.
I stop just south of Birmingham and fuel up. The gas station offers breakfast and I send Saylor inside to get us something. She returns
with a bag of shit and I survey it while I smoke.
“I got two biscuits, three packs of Skittles, two OJs, a Mountain Dew, a Coke, a few granola bars, some M&M’s, a pack of peanuts, and a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.” I just stare at her. Was I depriving her of food? Was she that fucking hungry to buy out a damn convenience store at five in the morning?
“A road trip ain’t a road trip without junk food, and I get tired of sitting in a motel without anything to snack on. There is only so much sink water I can drink before I go crazy.” I fed her. I start to tell her that, but she stops me when she pokes her lip out in an exaggerated pout. “I’m sorry, did you want something?” This is funny to her, and her comment is kinda funny to me. Kinda.
“I’m taking the Cheetos,” I say, and my comment makes her laugh. It’s a beautiful sound. And all I can think about is how perfect she is and how fucking lucky I am.
6
I FIND A motel similar to the one in Troy and go inside to pay, leaving Saylor with the bike and the twenty-pound bag of snacks. When I come out, she is taking a picture again. When we get to the room, she walks around with her eyes closed and inhales, again. Then she tells me it’s perfect, again. I see a pattern forming and it is so intriguing, I want to know why she does this. I will ask her. Eventually.
We have two beds again and I will take the one unoccupied until she asks me to sleep with her, which I’m sure she will—if the pattern continues. I take a shower then join her for breakfast at the table.
“You know what I like about biscuits?” she says through a mouthful of food. I don’t know, but I’m dying to hear. I want to know more about her. Even the simple shit. Like what she likes about biscuits. “Jelly. It’s like dessert.” I see her point. I wait for her to say something else. I’ve never hated the silence; I’ve always welcomed it. But when she is with me, all I want to hear is her. We can talk about anything. Fucking female problems if she wants. I’m debating asking her a question. One that’s simple, like her favorite color.
I shift in my seat, willing my mouth to speak. “What’s your favorite color?” she asks, and I shoot her that looks that says, Are you fucking kidding me? but she is undeterred. “Mine is black. Is that weird?”
Her face is pinched in confusion. She wants an answer, but I can’t speak. My brain is still processing how the hell she can read my thoughts. Maybe she is a witch. That would explain this crazy spell I seem to be under.
“Yellow. And it’s not weird.” I huff, and grab my bag before heading into the bathroom. Thoughts of the supernatural and witches and those people who can move shit with their eyes are pounding in my head.
Maybe I’m just that transparent. I light a smoke and then another one, trying to get my pulse to return to normal. When I feel half-ass like myself again, I return to the room.
She is in bed, writing in her diary. I strip down and she watches with lustful eyes. Then she licks her lips. And I go hard. I crawl into the bed she isn’t in and roll onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow. It has that motel smell, and I wish I had her pillow instead of this one.
I close my eyes, and before the darkness sets in, I feel her sitting on my ass. She is wearing my favorite outfit. I don’t have to look at her to know it. I can feel the heat from her pussy through my boxers and her naked legs on either side of my hips.
“I’ve always been a dreamer,” she says as her hands rub together and then stroke my back. They are wet with lotion. The pressure is intense, but feels so fucking good I almost moan. “I’ve wanted to be just about everything. It started with a lawyer when I was a kid. I didn’t even know what they did, but I wanted to be one.” She makes her way to my shoulders, then slides her hands down my spine, across to my hips, and back again to my shoulders.
“Then I wanted to be a teacher. I like kids, but twenty-four of them for eight hours a day is too much.” I’m trying to concentrate on her words, but her hands are all over me and it’s hard to focus. “Anyway, I aspired to be a singer and when that didn’t work out, I chose massage therapy. I never made it through the whole class, but I did learn the basics.” And it shows.
I feel myself relax under her touch, and eventually my body has the same consistency of the jelly we ate this morning.
“I love the way your muscles feel under my hands,” she whispers, and I tense at her choice of words. Love. Not like, but love. “I want to rub you every day.”
I want her to. And I want her to tell me she loves doing it. That word sounds perfect on her lips. She is humming. I don’t know this song either, but it’s beautiful. I don’t know if it’s her humming, her touching me, or the fact that I used up all my energy killing a man this morning, but I fall into the deepest most restful sleep I’ve had in years.
—
The next morning, we’re up early and ride hard until I reach Oklahoma City. I check in at a motel, watch Saylor perform her ritual, and then hit her with the news of my leaving.
“I have some business I have to handle. I booked the room for two nights. It might be tomorrow before I’m back.” I watch as she falls on the bed, clearly exhausted from the long ride.
“’K. I’m just gonna take a bubble bath and watch a few chick flicks.” She doesn’t seem bothered in the least about my leaving, and I wonder if she’s thankful for some time alone. When I watch her drag herself back out of bed to retrieve her bag by the door, I know it’s only the exhaustion talking. We rode too hard today.
I pull some twenties out of my wallet and lay them on the table by the window. “Order some takeout. I’ll be back later.” She stops long enough to look at me, then offers me a smile.
“Be careful.” No one had ever told me to be careful. Shady had once said “don’t die,” but that was as close as I’d gotten to anyone caring.
“Will do.” I leave, knowing I can’t stay any longer. I need to put distance between us and the softening effect Saylor has on me. I need to get focused. I have a job.
Oklahoma City has a problem and I’m the solution. My orders today were to pull the president’s patch and give it to the sergeant at arms, and eighty-six the current vice president. Eighty-sixing someone can involve a few different things, but the outcome is the same. He will never ride for an MC again. But this one deserves a visit to the hospital as his parting gift. And that’s exactly what the fuck he is gonna get.
“Headstrong” by Trapt is blaring in my ears when my tires hit the pavement, and the song is so fitting I put it on repeat. This is who I am. This is what I do. I’m not the lust-struck, hand-holding, tear-wiping pussy I’ve been the past several days. Today, I’m Dirk—Sinner’s Creed Nomad National.
—
It’s late when I roll into the Sinner’s Creed Oklahoma City chapter’s clubhouse. They are all here waiting for me. They were informed I was coming and I know they are scared. Every fucking one of them.
This is a 1 percent MC. These are men who are trained to hurt, trained to endure hurt, and trained to kill. But only a few can compete with the best. And I’m the best. I’m the best at hurting, enduring, and killing. I’m the man they fear because I have nothing to lose, and they know that.
I have no home, no family, and nothing but this patch that keeps me alive and makes this life worth something. I’m the man they fear because I’m the one who puts them in their place when they fuck up. It’s in my blood to be a member of Sinner’s Creed. I’m third generation, and I’m old school.
I don’t take shit, I don’t give shit, and I don’t give a fuck about the politics. I respect every man that wears the same patch as I do, but I only like a few of them. By like I mean I can be around them for an extended amount of time and not want to rip their fucking heads off.
I tried being a brother in a chapter. It wasn’t for me. Nationals knew I belonged, they knew I was a soldier, and they knew I couldn’t handle the brotherhood aspect of the club. I was valuable. Too valuable and too informed for them to let go. That’s how I became the youngest Nomad in the history of the Sinner
’s Creed MC. I started when I was twenty-one, I was given my Nomad rocker at twenty-three, and I’ve been busting heads all over the U.S. and bordering countries ever since. Tonight would be no different. Almost a decade of experience was under my belt, and my skills showed it.
I push through the door of the clubhouse and make my way to the back, where church is being held. I stand by the door and respectfully wait for their invitation. Even I don’t bust into someone’s territory without asking. I never disrespected my brothers and I would break the knees of any man who did.
I am waiting for less than five minutes before I’m summoned into church. I usually hoped things would go smoothly. Tonight, I want shit to get out of control. I need to blow off some steam.
“Nationals have made a decision. I’m here to enforce their decision.” I walk to the president first and pull my knife out of my cut. There is no fear in his eyes, only sorrow. He hates to lose the presidency and I hate to take it from him, but he had his chance and he failed. Pussy fell at his feet because of the P patch he wore, and it was his undoing. If you can’t run your house, you can’t run your club. He should have kept his dick in his pants and his ol’ lady wouldn’t be taking everything he fucking owned. I think of Saylor and how if she was my wife, I would never have any desire to touch another female. I don’t have the desire now and I haven’t even marked her as my property.
Fury. Rage. Hate. That’s what I’m feeling this moment, and it’s directed toward the motherfucker whose officer position I am fixing to take. Just the thought of some son of a bitch treating Saylor like this asshole treated his wife has me seeing red.
I cut the patch off his cut, close my knife, and deliver a right hook that breaks his jaw. I hear chairs slide across the floor and I know the others are fixing to challenge me.
