Sinner's Creed (Sinner's Creed #1)

by Kim Jones

  9

  THE NEXT MORNING, I find Saylor writing in her diary at the small table across the room. She doesn’t know that I’m awake, and I take this time to study her. Her hand is moving fast across the pages of her diary, and her face tells me she is in deep concentration. I know if she is writing about yesterday, they are definitely words I don’t want to see. And I don’t want her to think about it. I want her to forget it ever happened.

  “Do you believe in God, Dirk?” she asks without looking up. How the hell did she know I was awake? I shouldn’t even ask myself that. I already know the answer. It’s because she is in my head. And if she is, then she should know the answer to her question. But I tell her anyway.

  “Yes.” She turns to look at me and she is surprised. Shocked. Unbelieving. Maybe I should elaborate. I don’t want to, but I will because I owe it to her. “I believe there is a God, I just don’t believe that he created me.” That probably sounds crazy to her ears, but it makes sense to me.

  “Why would you think that?”

  I clear my throat and continue. Even though this shit is too deep to talk about when I first wake up. “There is no way the same creator of someone as perfect as you, is responsible for creating someone as fucked up as me.” She still doesn’t get it. I can tell this by the incredulous look on her face.

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I tell her, and I wait for the whining to start. I wait for her to tell me how important it is that I change my ways. I wait for her to bitch at me for not taking this serious. I wait for her to quote scripture and start singing hymns. I wait for that look of pity or disappointment. And I wait. And wait. And wait. And it never comes.

  The subject is dropped. That look of happiness that covered her face when she first mentioned her god is still in place. But now, it’s directed toward me. I’m glad. I’m a jealous man. I hate to be jealous of the creator of the universe, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t glad that I am back at the forefront of her thoughts.

  “I’m really, really hungry.” Saylor’s words along with her growling stomach are music to my ears. Now she needs me. It may just be to feed her, but it’s good having her back at my mercy.

  I stand, ignoring thoughts of what I want to eat this morning, and grab a pair of clean jeans, thanks to Saylor. She runs around the room gathering her shit while I watch. But when she takes her shirt off, I can’t watch any longer. My willpower isn’t strong enough. I have to walk out.

  The Colorado air is clear and cool. I almost feel guilty for lighting a cigarette, but when I inhale the smoke into my lungs, I no longer care. It’s Saturday and we will be in Jackpot by nightfall. There is a mandatory meeting, and someone from each chapter is required to be there. I’m not part of a chapter so the responsibility falls on me.

  I get that sick feeling in my gut when I think about what will happen when I get there. Saylor will be the topic of conversation, and I will have to keep my shit in check. I can’t lose it on my brothers. If I do, then I will be dealt with, which means Saylor will be dealt with too.

  I take a deep breath and vow to myself to not fucking think about it anymore. I’ll handle it when I get there. But, when Saylor walks outside with her bag slung over her shoulder, thoughts of the club and what might happen to her hit me full force. The innocent look she wears reminds me of how much I might’ve fucked up her life. I grab her bag, packing the bike with more force than necessary.

  “Dirk? You okay?” Her sweet, cautious voice is laced with concern.

  “Let’s go,” I snap, immediately regretting it. I’m not pissed at her, but the hatred I feel for myself right now is too strong for me to attempt to not sound like a dick. When she makes no move to get on, I chance a look at her. She looks annoyed.

  “Dirk,” she says to me, her hands fidgeting nervously with the hem of her shirt. “You are the only reason I smile. You are the only person I want to be with. You are my reason for everything. Don’t shut me out any longer.” She doesn’t wait for my answer. She just climbs on the bike and waits for me to mount so we can leave. But I have another plan.

  I lift her from the bike and carry her back into the room. I slam the door behind us and sit her on one bed, then take a seat on the other.

  “Ask me anything,” I say, hoping like hell that she doesn’t ask just anything. But it’s time I’m honest with her. Might as well clear the air before we get the wrath from Nationals.

  “Tell me about your parents.” Shit.

  “I didn’t know my mother, but my father was a shithead.” That’s a good way to start. “My grandfather wasn’t a very good role model, but he was all I had. He raised me. He was a member of Sinner’s Creed. I was brought up in the life of an MC. It’s all I knew. All I know. What I am. And all I’ll ever be.”

  I watch the sadness build in her eyes before she hides it. I don’t want her feeling sorry for me. I’m just before telling her that when she asks another question.

  “Tell me something about you. Something that has nothing to do with the club.” Her smile is encouraging and I find myself wanting to tell her shit that some know, but not because they ever asked. Just because they’d known me all of my life and it’s how I’d always been.

  “I don’t like people touching me and I don’t like conversation.” I’m not sure what else to say. But, as I sit here and stare at Saylor, whose eyes light up every time I share a little more about myself, I can’t help but feel like there is something else she needs to know.

  I should rehearse my next lines in my head, but I’m just gonna say it as it comes to me, which I’m sure I’ll regret. “The only time I like being with women is when I’m buried balls deep inside them, but I like being with you all the time.”

  I watch the jealously flare in her eyes when I tell her about fucking women—a line I could have worded differently. Then I watch it melt when I mention I like being with her. I’m sure her stomach is doing that flipping shit mine’s been doing here lately.

  Now it’s time for me to ask some questions. “What triggers your migraines?” I watch her tense and I know that either I’m not gonna like her answer or she isn’t gonna tell me the whole truth. I’m betting on the latter.

  “I think it’s the high pressure.” I’m calling bullshit and when she continues on a ramble, I know my instincts are right. “I’ve had them for years. I don’t take medicine to prevent them, I can only take it once it happens. And it always happens in my sleep. Usually after a really long day.” Her voice drops several octaves when she tells me the last part, and now my mission is to do what I can to prevent it.

  “We won’t ride so hard anymore,” I tell her. I’m not growling, but that calm tone I’ve been working on ain’t nowhere in sight either.

  “I don’t want to slow you down,” she says, and does so in a way that is pleading. She is hoping, or probably praying, that I don’t leave her behind or change my mind about bringing her with me. I concentrate on that soft tone I know I’m capable of and force myself to use it.

  “You won’t. I’ll make it work.”

  “Will you tell me why you got so mad at me when I answered your phone?”

  “Because they know who you are and, because of who I am, the club will stop at nothing to ensure their safety.” It’s evasive, but it pacifies her. And I’m sure she already knew what the answer would be before I told her.

  “Did I get you in trouble?” No, baby. You got yourself in trouble. But that’s not information she needs to know. And once again, she isn’t worried about herself, only me.

  “I stay in trouble.” My words are funny to her. And I think I just made a joke. Or something like it.

  —

  We stop on the road later that evening and I order us a pizza from a gas station. We take a seat in the small dining area, and I watch as Saylor scarfs it down like she hasn’t eaten all day. Then I remember she hasn’t. I’m not even sure she ate any of the Skittles that we bought along t
he way. Since I’m not that hungry, I’m guessing she fed them all to me.

  “When you’re fucking hungry, you need to tell me,” I snap, and when her frightened, innocent eyes land on me, I wish I wasn’t such an asshole. I could sit here and wonder why she looks scared, but I know it’s because I just bit her head off. She is still looking at me, unsure of what to say. That’s a first.

  I take a deep breath and I can’t even look at her when I speak. “I want you to tell me if you’re hungry. I’ve rode by myself for so long that sometimes I forget about your . . . needs.” My voice is calmer, but I want to hit something. I hate apologies and even though I didn’t give her one, it was something like it, and I hate those too.

  “Okay, Dirk. It won’t happen again.” Her voice is so full of regret that I have to punish myself by looking at her. But she is lost in her own thoughts. And I want to know what they are. And when she repositions and faces me, I know she is fixing to tell me.

  “I’m gonna try to say this without scaring you. I don’t want you running for the hills.” I want to laugh at her words. She doesn’t scare me and I wouldn’t run from her no matter what she said.

  “When people have feelings for one another, sometimes all they can think about is them. Not eating or sleeping or . . . well, really they don’t think about anything. It’s like the excitement they have for one another outweighs their body’s need for the basic essentials. That’s how I feel. The high I get from being with you has me forgetting to eat, sleep, or even think. Then, when I do eat, I realize I’m starving. When I do sleep, I find myself crashing with so much fatigue, I don’t even move in my sleep. And when my thoughts are somehow not centered on you, that’s when reality steps in and I have one of my crazy episodes.” My mind is running a hundred miles an hour. And there is only one thing I want to do: scream and run for the hills.

  “I’m going to smoke,” I huff, hearing her laughter as I walk out.

  If I had Oprah’s number, I’d call her right now and give her my left nut for some advice. I heard every word that Saylor said. I’ve run the lines in my head over and over, and they still have me all twisted up on the inside. But what’s more fucked up is that I feel just the way she does.

  I try to remember what life was like before she slept with me every night, and what I recall is a little disturbing. In five years, there has never been a woman who I didn’t compare to Saylor. There has never been a night when I didn’t see her face in my dreams. And the more I remember, the more I realize these feelings aren’t as foreign as I thought—now they are just real.

  —

  I don’t know how long I’ve been outside, but when I come back in Saylor is sitting at the table, writing in her diary. We’ll be in Jackpot soon and there are some things we need to discuss before we get there.

  “We will be meeting up with the club tonight.” I guess that’s a good way to start. When I don’t get a reaction out of her, I continue. “Don’t ask questions, and if you are asked any questions don’t lie, but be as evasive as possible. I don’t want them knowing any more about you than they already do.” Saylor finally looks at me. By the way she is fidgeting, I know she is nervous.

  “I really messed up when I told them who I was, didn’t I?” Saylor is smart. I never had to confirm her fuckup; she knew the moment she answered the phone that it was a mistake. But she needs to know the truth and I now know that she can handle it.

  “Nationals are a group of higher-ups in the club. They call the shots and they are the ones who give me my orders. By having you with me while I’m working, it makes you a liability. Nationals will stop at nothing to ensure club business stays club business. My word should be enough to convince them that you don’t know anything, but I don’t know how this will be handled.” I wait for her reaction to my words and get exactly what I expect: nothing.

  “So, are you in trouble?” she asks, and the nervousness is back. Maybe she doesn’t understand the severity of the situation.

  “This isn’t about me. It’s about you and your safety.” I’m growing impatient, and the tone of my voice shows it. She needs to have a better regard for her own well-being and stop fucking worrying about me. When she speaks, it’s clear she is exasperated.

  “Just tell me, Dirk. Are you in danger with the club?” I take a deep breath and sit up, trying to find the right words. Maybe I need to scream at her to get her to understand. Maybe I need to shake the shit out of her. Or maybe I just need to answer her infuriating fucking questions.

  “No.” That’s all she is getting. I can take care of myself. The only way I would be in danger is if Saylor did something stupid, which I know she wouldn’t. Or if they ordered me to do away with her, then I would have to fight a losing battle with them, or do as they said—which would never fucking happen.

  Saylor doesn’t seem nervous anymore, just complacent. And I’m not sure how that makes me feel. “I got this, Dirk. I won’t disappoint you, I promise.”

  I watch as she walks away, her ass swaying with every step until she disappears into the bathroom. She could never disappoint me. But I can’t dwell on that heart-swelling feeling I have about her trying to make me proud, because another feeling is overpowering it. Curiosity. Because I know my beautiful mess of a goddess has a plan forming in her head.

  —

  We arrive in Jackpot, Nevada, just as the sun is setting. Go fucking figure. When we pull up outside the run-down bar where the annual party is being held, I feel the sickness setting in. Saylor has been all smiles, shits and giggles the whole ride, and I don’t understand it.

  A line is forming outside to greet us. I’m so busy searching the faces of my brothers, trying to read their reaction, that Saylor has to call my name to get my attention.

  “Dirk.” I get off the bike and look at her, the smile she wears calms me instantly.

  “Everything is going to be fine.” I can’t believe that this woman is bringing me comfort and reassurance when it should be the other way around. And that sickness in my stomach is replaced with something different. A feeling I’m still trying to process.

  I help her off the bike, wishing I could kiss her, but this is my club. My brothers. My life. I won’t look like a pussy in my world. I’ll reserve that side of me for when I am alone with Saylor. Which is exactly where I want to be right now. Everyone gives me space, waiting for me to acknowledge them before they say anything.

  “Just stay close to me. I’ll handle everything,” I tell her before walking toward the crowd. My body is stiff, my muscles are tight, and I can feel the vein in my neck throbbing with each heavy beat of my heart. I’m in kill mode. It’s just a precaution, but it’s the best defense I have.

  I don’t hold Saylor’s hand. I don’t have to. The fact that she rode here with me should let everyone know who she is with. I don’t tell them her name because it is none of their business. I give them my salute, shaking hands with a few of the older ones that have been around the longest, and walk inside with Saylor on my heels.

  I know they are looking. I know what they’re thinking. I just hope nobody does anything stupid. I would hate for Saylor to witness what I am capable of.

  Once inside, Shady is the first face I notice. He smiles and I glare. He sees Saylor, smiles wider, and I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up. My face must tell him how bad I want to rip his fucking head off, because his smile dies and he gets right to business.

  “’Sup, Dirk?” Shady asks, shoving his tattooed hands into his pockets. I give him a nod before walking through the bar and out the back door to a private porch guarded by SAs and enforcers. They move when they see me, and I notice all six Nationals are here. Good. I can get this shit over with and not have to repeat myself. Each one stands and greets me. I shake their hands and even hug the National president, who has a Prospect help him stand. This man is the reason I’m still alive.

  “Dirk, my brother,” he says, and even after all these years, his raspy voice still slows the heart in my chest back
to its normal rhythm.

  “Roach.” I don’t say any more because he isn’t listening anyway. His eyes are on the woman who is standing behind me. I watch as they widen slightly at the sight of her. Not that I can blame him. His head turns from side to side as if he can’t believe she is real. I turn my body so that I can see them both, and when my eyes land on Saylor, I realize I haven’t even noticed that her hair is down. Or what she is wearing. Her hair is everywhere, which is nothing unusual, but the wind has added to its unruly nature. She is wearing ripped jeans that sit low on her waist, a white T-shirt that fits tight to her tits, and a silver necklace I have never seen before that says the word faith.

  But it’s not her hair or her clothes that have the attention of everyone around me; it’s her smile. It’s not that breathtaking, teeth-baring smile she gives me, and it’s not a small polite smile. It’s a smile that is full of kindness and warmth and makes you feel at peace when you look at it. I’m so caught up in the feeling of ease that has consumed me that it doesn’t bother me when she speaks. The sound is so welcoming that I don’t want her to stop.

  “Hi, Roach. I’m Saylor Samson.” I stand in a trance as she takes a few steps forward and leans in to give Roach a kiss on the cheek. And even that doesn’t bother me. I pull my eyes from Saylor to gauge Roach’s reaction. He seems as possessed as me. Then, this man who wears a patch labeled funeral director surprises us all when he smiles.

  After Saylor has been introduced to everyone outside, they ask her to sit. I feel my uneasiness growing again and I will Saylor to smile at me. But she doesn’t even look my way. Her focus is solely on the six men seated around her. I stand to the side, within arm’s reach of her, and get a quick count of weapons. Surprisingly, there are only two. I know I can get to them before they draw them.

  “Well, tell us about yourself,” Jimbo, the national VP, says. I stare at him as he takes a deep pull from his pipe, then blows his smoke out on a cough before passing it.