by Kim Jones
I’m exiting and we haven’t been riding an hour. Waffle House seems like a good place to eat, and I tell myself it has nothing to do with the fact that it is the closest restaurant to us.
I find us a booth in the back where I can see my bike, and she sits across from me. I like this because I can look at her. Like I always do. Or stare. Whatever the hell you want to call it.
When the waitress comes, she ignores Saylor and looks at me. I find her unappealing, but I see the look of lust in her eyes. I can read her just like I can read Saylor. The only difference is when I see it on Saylor, my dick gets hard. When I see it on the waitress, it’s fucking annoying.
“Coffee and water,” I grumble, and she hasn’t even asked. But she is a waitress. What the fuck else does she want? When she turns to Saylor, her look of lust turns to distaste. If I hit women, I would slap her. Saylor just smiles and orders chocolate milk. It’s not surprising.
I watch Saylor look over the menu, and I try to figure out what she would want. My best guess is a chocolate chip waffle, or an egg-white omelet. I don’t know why these two things pop in my head, but they do. She likes chocolate, and even though she has proven to not be a health nut, I’m sure at some point she does eat healthy.
I’m still looking at her, trying to burn a hole into her mind, when the waitress returns. She is looking at me again and it pisses me off. Everyone knows, ladies first. What a fucking idiot. But we need to get on the road and I don’t want her to spit in my food.
“Steak and eggs. Medium on the steak, over-medium on the eggs.” I’m telling her this while I’m looking at Saylor. Her head is cocked to the side and she is eyeing me.
“Are you in my head?” she asks with a curious smile. I wish Saylor, I fucking wish. “Same for me,” she tells the waitress, and she doesn’t look at her either. I’m glad she can’t take her eyes off me.
“When I was little, my mom had this boyfriend and he would never let me order for myself. Even when I was old enough to know what I wanted, he would always order for me.”
I watch as she takes a sip of her milk, and I’m so happy she is talking that the waitress could shit in my food at this point and I wouldn’t care. “He always made me get a waffle. Just because I was a kid doesn’t mean I had a bad taste in food. So my mom and I went out once without him and she told me to get whatever I wanted, so I ordered what he always had. Steak. And I loved it.”
She laughs at the memory, but even her laughter can’t help this feeling that I am just like her mom’s boyfriend. Not that I would ever make her get a fucking waffle, but I did think that was what she wanted. Do I label her as an immature adult? Do I consider her childish? I mean, she did order chocolate milk.
“Why did you order that drink?” I really need to work on my tone.
“Because it’s chocolate milk.” I’m confused by her answer. She said it like her reason was obvious, and I don’t know what the fuck that means, and I don’t like her being so damn evasive. It’s a first for her.
“Try it.” I look down at the milk. Does she think I’ve never had it? “Some things in life you just can’t pass up. Chocolate milk is one of them.”
I look at her and I see a sadness in her eyes. I don’t know if it’s because I’m an asshole and I hurt her feelings or because some old memory is triggered, but I’m drinking because I’m hoping it will take her sadness away. When I drain half of her glass without realizing it, I finally understand her answer. And I don’t know why in the hell I ever passed it up.
We’ve eaten and are now just staring across the table at each other when I finally address the big-ass elephant in the room. “About this morning,” I say, hoping she will take the conversation from there. I watch her face flush and I wonder if she had already forgotten about nearly dying this morning. “Before that.” Her cheeks darken further and she drops her head.
“What about it?” She is way too nonchalant.
“You could have been killed, Saylor.” My emphasis on the word kill does little to scare her.
“But I wasn’t.” I stare at her, wondering if I should lean over and shake her. Does she not realize the danger she is in as long as she is with me? “I was scared. Hell, I was terrified. But for some reason, it was kind of exciting.”
I watch her eyes grow at the memory and it makes me want to hit something. I don’t know what I’m more pissed at. Her for being so fearless, or me at being so proud that she is an adrenaline junkie—just like me.
“You’re fuckin’ crazy,” I say, more to myself than to her. She snaps her head up, then throws her straw at me. I’m starting to think she’s serious, when she smiles.
“I prefer the term ‘fucked up.’” She smiles wider and I just shake my head. I turn away from her and can’t help but smirk. Saylor Samson may very well be fucked up. But she’s my kind of fucked up, and I wouldn’t have her any other way.
8
WE’RE IN COLORADO, it’s four in the morning, and Saylor is not in bed. I’m scanning the room, willing my eyes to adjust to the darkness, trying to find her. She is not in my bed, not in the other bed, and not sitting at the table. But the bathroom door is shut and I know it was open when I went to sleep. I should wait five minutes, figuring she is probably just pissing, but only two pass before I am on my feet. I knock on the door, but there is no answer. I try again and still, no answer. The door is unlocked, and when I push it, something is lying against it. I feel myself panicking. I know it’s her.
“Saylor!” I yell, beating on the door like a maniac, because I am one. Because I don’t know what the fuck is wrong.
I push against the door gently, until there is enough room for me to stick my head in. And there she is. Curled in a ball on the floor, in the dark with her hands over her ears. I push further, watching her tiny, still body slide across the tile, and finally there is enough room for me to walk in. I’m on my knees in front of her and now that I’m here, I don’t know what the fuck to do.
“Please don’t yell,” she whispers, and it is a plea that is barely audible.
“What’s wrong?” I try to whisper, but my heart is racing, along with my mind and adrenaline, so my voice is harsh and way above a whisper. I see her flinch, and I swear I’ll cut my fucking tongue out if I speak too loud again.
I put my hand on her shoulder and bring my face closer to hers. Her breathing is steady, like she has been asleep. I know the motel ain’t the Roosevelt, but the beds aren’t that uncomfortable. I would prefer them over the floor. And then I smell it. The sickening sweet and sour odor of vomit, and I still. “My head. It hurts. I need my medicine.”
I reluctantly leave her and sort through the shit on the counter to try and find some Tylenol. When I grab Saylor’s bag, what I find is a prescription for Imitrex. I ignore the fact that Saylor has an issue with migraines that is severe enough that she has to take prescription meds, and return to her with water and the pill bottle.
“How many?” I whisper successfully.
“Just one.” I help her sit up and place the pill on her tongue then lift the glass to her lips. When she is finished, I hold her in my arms, allowing all of her weight to be on me. I will sit like this for the rest of the day, as long as she is comfortable and in my arms.
“Will you help me back to bed?” I gather her in my arms and carry her back to our bed, but when I try to lay her down she clings tighter. So, I lay on my back and put her on top of me. Her head is on my chest, her hair in my face, and I’m rubbing her back because it seems like that’s what I’m supposed to do.
“Thank you, Dirk,” she says to me and when she speaks my name, a greedy part of me thanks her aching head for giving me this moment to take care of her. I should say something. Good night and sweet dreams don’t seem appropriate, but since I’m enjoying her need for me much more than I should, I reward her with that word of endearment that is growing on me.
“Anytime, baby.”
—
There is no sign of what happened this morning registe
ring on Saylor’s beautiful face when I wake up to find it looking at me. I won’t bring it up unless she does, and by the way she looks, she isn’t going to. I don’t blame her either. If I woke up wearing a radiant smile and feeling as good as she looks, I wouldn’t want the reminder either.
“Okay, don’t be mad.” I immediately tense at her words as she sits on her knees in the bed next to me. She is dressed, her hair braided, and she has makeup on. I couldn’t be mad at her no matter what she did. She could have shaved my head. Masturbated without me. Ate all the Skittles. I don’t care if she painted my fucking toenails. Anything.
“I went next door and did laundry.” Except that. I’ve had people in the past tell me to count to ten when I became angry. I’m at five and I can’t last any longer. My temples are throbbing and I feel my whole body get hot. I’m fucking pissed because she left the room. Without me. When she was under strict instructions to never leave.
“I told you to not fucking leave this room.” I’m growling. I’m growling through clenched teeth, and it is at the infuriating woman that I thought could do nothing to piss me off. When her smile widens, I become more pissed.
“Wait!” she says, holding her hands out to me, as if I’m fixing to bolt. Which is exactly what I want to do. She clumsily gets off the bed while I just lay here, watching her every move. “Look! I did your laundry too!” She is still smiling. I’m still pissed. And her attempts at pleading her case are pissing me off further.
Then her smile dies and she bites her lip. “On a scale of one to ten, how mad are you?” she asks cautiously. And I know there is more. “Okayyyy, a ten it is.”
Now she looks nervous. Really fucking nervous. She is fidgeting and biting her lip and looking at everything but me. Maybe it’s because she was sick last night. Maybe it’s because she looks so fucking good this morning. Or maybe it’s just that I’m losing my edge, but I feel my anger dissipate just a little. A fraction. A fraction of a fraction. But I feel it. So she did our laundry. She fucked up and left the room, but she had good intentions.
“Um,” she starts, and my face has softened, I can feel it. I’m willing her to go on, and I almost want to smirk at her. Then, I see my cell phone in her hand. And my eyes lock on it. When they do, she notices and the fight dies from her as she sighs and decides to tell me everything that is on her mind.
“Your phone rang, and I answered it.” She doesn’t have to say any more. I’m on my feet and over to her, snatching the phone from her trembling fingers before I can stop myself. I flip open the screen and find Nationals as the last received call. I’m shaking. I can feel the angry tremors all over my body. I glare at her and she speaks, without having to be told. She is scared, frightened, terrified, and she damn well should be.
“I just said hello and this man asked who I was and I told him Saylor and he asked why I was answering your phone and I said you were asleep and he said not to interrupt you and then he asked where I was from and I told him ’cause I knew y’all must have been friends and . . .”
I’m not listening anymore. I’m in the bathroom away from her and her motherfucking rambling. I’m still pissing when I hear her voice through the door. “Dirk, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I shouldn’t have answered it.”
It’s not that she answered it. It’s that Nationals knows she is with me. And they know her fucking name. And where she lives. And if anything goes wrong, they will eliminate her because that’s how the game is played.
She is not innocent in this. They don’t know what all she knows and they don’t care. All they care about is protecting the club. Which is what their job is. It’s what my job is. Until I let a woman into my life and took her around the country with me while I took care of club problems. I did this. I couldn’t be pissed at Nationals—I couldn’t be pissed at her. But I am.
Her life is now in danger because she made it that way. I tried to protect her, but now there is no protecting her. She belongs to the club. They will take no chances, and they shouldn’t.
“Get your shit,” I snap at Saylor, even though she is standing by the door with her backpack on, ready to go. I throw on some clothes, and stomp out the door with her on my heels. I should take her to the nearest airport and send her ass home, but now I can’t. Now she will make that journey to Nevada with me, and she won’t be just some girl like I planned to introduce her as. She will be exactly what she told them, which is exactly who she is—Saylor Samson, a threat to Sinner’s Creed.
—
I don’t know what is gonna happen when we get to Nevada. The worst keeps popping in my head. Worst as in they tell me to get rid of her. Make her disappear, or they tell me they are gonna get rid of her and make her disappear. Who did I want more? Her or the club? I couldn’t live a life where they both existed. It wasn’t possible.
I expected Saylor to perform her normal ritual when I finally decided to stop for the night—six hundred miles later. But she didn’t. She went straight to the bathroom, took a shower, and when she came out, she kept her head down and her eyes out of sight. I decided then that I needed a drink.
So now I’m sitting in a bar, less than a mile from where she is probably sleeping, attempting to drown myself in a bottle of whiskey that I can’t bring myself to touch. I’ve been sitting here looking at this fucking glass for almost an hour, and all I can see in the amber liquid is her face. This must be what depression feels like.
I put the glass to my lips, but before I can take a sip, I’m greeted by a woman who is anything but Saylor. A month ago, I would be banging her in the bathroom in a matter of minutes, but now all I can think about is how her perfume doesn’t smell like citrus. How her eyes are not that breathtaking shade of green. How she doesn’t have a heart-stopping smile and how her hair is perfectly straight and there isn’t a light socket in sight.
She is rubbing on me, wrapping her arms around my neck and shoving her big fake tits in my chest. She is telling me that she will suck my cock and how she knows I’m big, but that’s okay because she doesn’t have a gag reflex. She is grinding her hips in a way that lets me know she is good at what she does.
But she isn’t my kind of good. My kind of good is awkward, inexperienced, and perfectly imperfect. My good is in a T-shirt and panties that cover a set of tits that are small and natural, and the sweetest pussy I have ever tasted. And my good is alone. And I am here. And she is guilty of nothing but being the best thing that has ever happened to me. And I’m a fucking fool if I sit here one second longer.
I slide the woman the whiskey, lift her from my lap, and head back to the one thing that can save me from this drowning pool of depression. My life vest. My rescue. My Saylor.
—
Saylor is in the bed farthest from the door when I come in. She is on her side, facing away from me, and she is asleep. I sleep in the bed closest to the door, and tonight, she will sleep with me. I kick off my boots, and gather her in my arms. Hers instinctively go to my neck and I don’t know if it’s her or her subconscious that wants me, but some part of her wants me and that’s all that matters. Saylor is not asleep, though.
“I’m sorry, Dirk. I’m so sorry.” I could correct her and chew her ass for saying it, but there is no need. Right now, she really feels that way. And I haven’t given her any reason to feel different.
“I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m so stupid!” She is disappointed, sad, hurt, angry, and regretful. And each one of these emotions is directed at herself. I would feel much better if they were directed at me.
Now, Dirk. Now is the time to say something. I’m opening my mouth to speak. I might even be preparing to make those shhhing sounds that you use to calm women and babies, but Saylor is sniffing me and she doesn’t like what she smells.
“You’ve been with someone.” Her tone is not accusatory. She is saying it like this is her punishment, and she is willing to accept it. “I can’t believe I’ve done this. I’ve ruined us. I’ve ruined you. I’ve ruined everything.”
Sh
e sounds so defeated that I can literally feel my heart breaking. I pull her closer to me and she doesn’t pull away. She holds tighter, touching every part of my cut as if to mask the woman’s scent with her own.
“I haven’t been with anyone. Not since I’ve been with you.” I could elaborate. I could become that poor, desperate motherfucker who tries to make his woman understand that it wasn’t his fault. But with Saylor, there is no need for elaboration. She believes me and I know this by her cry of relief that soon turns to a guttural sob of reprieve.
I want to show her there is no one else. I need to show her how much I worship her. I never want her to doubt me. I never want her to regret who she is, no matter what the cost might be. I roll her to her back and climb between her legs. She is sobbing in my perfumed neck, and I have to pry her hands from around me.
“I need to kiss you, baby.” And that’s all she needs. Her hands stop fighting. Her body relaxes and she makes an attempt to stifle her cries so I can kiss her mouth. But I don’t want the set of tear-stained lips on her face. I want the smooth, wet lips of her pussy.
When my head is between her thighs, her legs are open—inviting me in, and there is dampness on her panties where she is wet for me. I want her taste so fucking bad that it takes every ounce of my willpower not to shred through the material with my teeth. I’m so impatient that I don’t bother to remove them, I just pull them to the side and slide my tongue between her slick lips.
My moans mirror hers as I devour every drop of her arousal, kiss every inch of perfection, and fill her with my fingers. I let her come and I continue. I kiss her, lick her, overwhelm her with my mouth until she is breathlessly begging me to stop. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve tasted her release, how many hours have passed and how long I have been in the heaven that’s between her thighs. But, when I come up to kiss her mouth, she is without energy, without thought, and without a tear. And just like every other way, I like her just like this.
