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

by Kim Jones

  He uses the back of his hand to slap me across my face, the force of his swing throwing me to the floor. I feel the blood running down my cheek from the gash in my face caused by the big skull ring he always wore. “Don’t you ever shake your head at me. If you got something to say, fucking say it. You’re not a mute, you little bastard. Do you hear me?” I try to talk, but I have no air in my lungs. I draw in a deep breath, but before I can speak, he is kicking me. I curl into a ball, holding my stomach. I’m coughing, struggling to breathe. My brain ignores the pain and focuses on his words. I have to answer him. I have to.

  “I’m not a pussy,” I say, forcing my eyes to look up at him. My tears have died, but the reason for them is still very much alive in my head. The nightmare. The one that kept coming back.

  “Good. Be a man, Dirk. Don’t ever let me see you cry again.” And he never did.

  The old, stained mattress still sits in the corner of the room. A pillow and an old blanket lay on top of it. I walk to the closet and look in. The light from the room is enough for me to see inside. An old suitcase, a pair of shoes, and poster of a motorcycle lay on the floor covered in dust and cobwebs. The hiding spot that protected me all those years was still there, covered with a piece of paneling. It was the one place Black didn’t know existed. He bought the house before I came along, but never had use for the room. I’m not sure he had even been in it until I moved in.

  I had a mattress and clothes. He said that was all I needed, so that’s all I got. I look around the room at the white, wooden walls that need to be repainted. The original hardwood floors are dusty and worn, and the bedroom window is covered in cobwebs. The silence is the best thing about the house. It always was.

  I cross the hall and turn on the light in what was once Black’s room. His bed is just like he left it—half unmade with his welder’s cap hanging on the post. His boots sit in the same place they did every night when he took them off, right by the door. The top of his dresser is an inch thick in dust and covers his loose change, spare keys, and an empty pack of Camel cigarettes. The black and white blanket over his window reads Harley-Davidson with the emblem printed in the middle.

  I don’t step inside. I wasn’t allowed in there before, and as far as I’m concerned, nothing has changed. I check the bathroom, flushing the toilet and running the tub and faucet to get the rust out of the lines before turning out the lights and walking back to the kitchen. The lighting is dim; only one bulb illuminates the whole front of the house. I will need to swap out the blown ones before I leave. The refrigerator is empty, and the only things in the cabinets are a few cleaning supplies and some old dishes. I turn the water on in the sink, waiting for it to clear before washing my face.

  I fucking hate this place. I don’t know why I torture myself by coming back here. I should have burned it down a long time ago. I grab my bags from outside and when the cool night air hits me, it helps to release some of the pressure in my chest. When I walk back in, it returns.

  I lock the door, then pull two pillows and a blanket from the tote and throw them on the now fully inflated mattress. The house is cool, even without air-conditioning. The weather has been in the fifties at night, and the large trees that surround the house help to shade it from the sun. Tomorrow, I will probably have to plug in a window unit. The lack of insulation keeps the house about the same temperature as it is outside.

  I’m undressed and just before climbing under the covers when I notice Saylor laying on the couch, sound asleep. How the fuck did I forget she was here? When my eyes land on her face, everything else disappears. My memories don’t matter. This house don’t matter. Black . . . He don’t fucking matter either. Only her. Saylor Samson.

  I walk over to her, looking down at the beauty her god created. One arm hangs off the couch, the other is above her head. Her nipples are hard under her shirt that is stretched tight across her chest. I wonder if it’s because she is cold or because she is dreaming of me.

  Her shirt is raised, making the lower part of her stomach visible, including her belly button that I have an urge to kiss. So I do. I place my lips on her stomach, the heat of her flesh burning them. I turn to look down her crossed legs, all the way to the tip of her boots that are covered in dust. I don’t know what I want more—to stand here and just stare at her fully clothed, or get her naked and hold her in my arms.

  The battle is quickly won and I start by taking off her boots, then remove her socks and kiss her pink-painted toes one by one. I pull her jeans down her legs, kissing every inch of skin bared to me. She hasn’t stirred, and I know she can’t enjoy this while she is sleeping, but that’s not why I’m doing it. I’m doing it because I like the way her skin feels on my lips. I want to cherish every part of her, and I know it’s not just because I care about her. It’s more, but I still can’t make out the word in my head.

  I kiss her hands, up her arms, across her collarbone, up her throat, her chin, her cheeks, her eyes, her nose, and then her parted lips. I carry her to the mattress, folding her into my chest and inhale her hair that still smells like her. Not a smoky bar, not perfume or hairspray, just her. I’m almost asleep. I’m in the hell hole I grew up in, and there isn’t a bad thought around. My mind is peaceful, my arms are full, and my heart is filled with something. That nameless emotion that I’ve never felt.

  “Dirk?”

  “Yes.” My voice is a hoarse whisper, and I feel her shiver when I place my lips on her head. What seems like forever passes before she answers. When she does, her voice is the same whisper, but this time it’s filled with conviction.

  “I think I’m falling in love with you.” And just like that, my nameless emotion finally has a name.

  I’m wondering why I’m not bolting. I don’t know why I’m laying here and although my heart has swelled, it’s not beating out of my chest. For some reason, her words just feel . . . right. Like I’ve heard her tell me a million times.

  Maybe it’s because she said she thinks she is falling in love. Maybe it’s because I don’t really know what love is. Or maybe it’s because I’ve known it all along. If love is accepting me, caring for me, trusting me, and allows me to accept, care for, and trust her, then she loves me.

  And then I feel it.

  My heart beats heavy against my chest. My head is swimming with ideas of what to do. The word love is pounding in my head. It’s in black and white and written on every surface my eyes land on. Love. Love. Love. Love.

  It’s too foreign to me. It’s out of my element. I’ve heard the word because my brothers throw it around all the time. But it’s not the word that bothers me. It’s the emotion.

  Saylor is stroking my back. And she is humming. I stay frozen beside her. I don’t want to move and I have to remind myself to breathe. The walls are closing in on me. Then she sings. I don’t know the song. I can’t make out all the words, but her voice is calming and I let it steady my heart, ease my mind, and relax me. She sings the song over and over. I’m not listening to the words, just the melody of her sweet voice. And I’m drifting with her voice in my ears and one question in my mind.

  Do I love her?

  —

  The feel of the hard floor I’m laying on wakes me. My trusty fucking air mattress has leaked to nothing more than a piece of flat material separating me and the dirty boards beneath it. Saylor isn’t beside me, not surprising.

  I stretch, my eyes focusing on the yellow-stained ceiling that reminds me of where I am. I take a deep breath through my nose, letting the smell of the house I hate so much reopen my wounds. When the scent fills me, I freeze. It doesn’t smell like old memories. It doesn’t smell like Saylor either. It smells like pine.

  I sit up to see Saylor sweeping the floor. She is wearing my earbuds, with my iPod stuck in the pocket of my shirt. And she looks beautiful. She hasn’t noticed me, and whatever song is playing has her in a good mood. I watch her while she nods her head, occasionally singing a line. Her voice is so low, I can’t make out the lyrics, and I’m su
re she is doing that to keep from waking me. And she doesn’t want to wake me because she thinks she loves me. Love.

  Thoughts of last night resurface and I’m on my feet in search of something that will take them out of my head. She sees me and smiles. I stare at her until I disappear down the hall. When I catch a glimpse of myself in the cloudy mirror, I wonder why I always have to look so damn pissed. I try to relax my face, but I still look pissed. Fuck it.

  Saylor is still dancing and singing in the kitchen, not bothered by my facial expression. I guess if it don’t bother her, it shouldn’t bother me. I snatch the earbuds from her ears and she beams up at me. Damn, she’s beautiful.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, or growl, or snap. I can’t be fucking normal. I can’t look normal and I can’t speak normal—obviously.

  “I’m cleaning.” I look around the room, and the kitchen counters are clean. The walls are clean. The baseboards are clean. The refrigerator looks brand new and the sink is filled with dark brown water. A pine-scented bottle of cleaner sits on the floor. The clean floor.

  “Why?” I ask, moving my eyes around the dining room that we are standing in. Everything is clean here too. Even the window. I can actually see out of it.

  “Well, if it isn’t obvious enough, this place was a mess. And it smelled funny. Like varmint shit . . . or something. And everything was sticky.” I watch her look around the room, her nose scrunched up and her eyes narrowed at the reminder. When she looks up at me, her face relaxes and her eyes widen. “Shit, baby. I apologize. I shouldn’t have said that.” She called me baby. She didn’t say sorry. “I like your house,” she adds. Her words are genuine and I believe her—not that I gave a shit in the first place.

  I like baby, but I think I like her saying my name more than I like the endearment. I like that she apologized, although one wasn’t needed.

  “I don’t want you cleaning my house. I never stay here anyway,” I say, ignoring my thoughts and focusing on the topic.

  “I don’t mind. I like your house. Really.” Her hand reaches out to touch my arm, reassuring me that her words are true. It wasn’t that she was cleaning my house, it was that she was cleaning a mess that wasn’t hers. “Will you give me a tour?” Her sweet question is accompanied by her sweet smile that is irresistible to me.

  I agree to the tour, then grab my bag from the couch, pulling my eyes away from her spellbinding smile, and throw some jeans on. I avoid looking at her bare legs and where my shirt stops on her thighs. If I looked, my semihard cock wouldn’t be semihard for long.

  I look around the old house that is only about a thousand square feet. There isn’t much to show. You can see the kitchen, dining room, and living room from anywhere you stand. The hallway leads to the bathroom and two bedrooms. It was simple. But it’s the story she wants.

  I debate about how much I actually want her to know for about two seconds before I decide that nothing I say would bother Saylor or make her think less of me. I just didn’t want her pity. If she started getting teary eyed or any of that shit, I would just shut up.

  “I don’t remember much about my life before I moved here. I remember being on the road a lot and staying with people I didn’t know. I’m not sure who took care of me before I was capable of taking care of myself, but someone must have because I’m here.” Black never told me about my mother. He never spoke of my father much either unless it was derogatory. I often wondered who fed me when I cried and changed me when I shit, but I didn’t know and never would, so it was a waste of time thinking about it. But I still did.

  “I was seven years old when a man, who I was told was my father, dropped me off here. My grandfather didn’t want me anymore than my ol’ man did, but he didn’t have a choice. I guess he could have dropped me off somewhere too, but he didn’t. I reckon that’s why I put up with his shit for so long. He must have cared about me to keep me around.”

  Thoughts of a life without Black were just as unpleasant as the memories of life with him. “Even though my life here was shit, it was life, and that was better than the alternative. Or so I thought.” I tense at my words, wishing I had kept them to myself. I look at Saylor, searching her eyes for the pity I hope is there so I can shut up, but her eyes are void of emotion, and her kind smile urges me to continue. Well, fuck.

  I grab a cigarette and have half of it smoked before I continue. “I never had a chance to be a kid. My grandfather, Black, had me doing club shit before I was old enough to know what I was doing. When I finally figured it out, I was so good at it that I didn’t want to stop. It helped me keep my mind occupied, out of Black’s way and in his good graces.”

  “What did you have to do?” I shouldn’t tell her. But I do.

  “When a shipment of drugs came, I prepared it for individual distribution.” I stare at the Formica dining table and matching chair where I spent endless hours cutting, weighing, and bagging cocaine.

  Mindlessly, my hand went to my ear, rubbing the permanent grooves caused from the mask I wore for so long. Sometimes days at a time. “I handled the money, making sure Black got a bigger cut, and figuring out a way to hide it. That’s how I got so good with numbers.”

  “Fifty-fifty is a deal made between fools. Sixty-forty is a silent deal for the man who no longer wants to be a fool.”

  “By the time I was twelve, I knew as much about the business as Black. At fourteen I was dealing. And at sixteen I had more respect than any man around these parts. Other than Black.”

  I look at Saylor’s face. It’s impassive. I wonder what she is thinking, but I don’t ask. I light another smoke, letting my eyes land on everything and letting everything trigger a memory.

  Kitchen floor: where I witnessed Black murder a man by strangulation. Refrigerator: the first time Black hit me. Couch: the orgy Black had with two women and three brothers. Living room window: the hours I spent looking out of it, waiting for Black to return. Front door: the hours I spent listening for it to open, waiting for Black to leave. The hallway: the last time Black hit me and the first time I hit him.

  I swallow hard, remembering that feeling of power I got when I realized I finally had control of my own life. I want to relive it like I have done many times, but I want to tell it more.

  “I was fifteen.” I stare down the hall, my eyes focusing on the closet door at the end of it. I feel Saylor’s eyes on me. At some point, she had climbed on the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining room. I clear my throat and start again.

  “I was fifteen when I transitioned from a boy to a man. I’d been gone all day, delivering shit to clients that had midmonth orders. It was July and unusually hot. I was so fucking tired. I’d sold out, which wasn’t unusual for me. But this time, Black didn’t have any for himself and was pissed when I showed up with a pocket full of cash and not a single bag of coke. I never argued with him. I just let him cuss me until that wasn’t enough, then I let him hit me until he was satisfied that I understood why he was right and why I was wrong. He started in, calling me every motherfucker in the book while he sat on his ass in the living room. When he didn’t get a response, he stood up and yelled louder. I walked down the hall away from him. Just like the coward he was, he pushed me from behind. I lost my balance and fell against the hall door.”

  I reach my hand up, fingering the scar in my brow. My eyes fall on the hinge at the bottom of the door, and I stare at it just like I did years ago. “I hurt him that night. I hurt him so bad that I spent the next three days nursing him back to health because I couldn’t bring myself to let him die. We never spoke of it and he never put his hands on me again. I just wish I had that strength when I was seven.” I’m staring at the hinge, replaying the scene again. Saylor’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

  “Where is he now?” I turn to see Saylor still on the counter, her hands fisted in her lap. Her expression is a mixture of anger and pride. But still, there is no pity. I think about her question before I answer. I could tell her simply, or I could tell her the wh
ole truth. She didn’t tell me she was proud of me for standing up to him, and she doesn’t have to. It’s written on her face. I did everything in my power to put that look on Black’s face and I never saw it. Yet this woman that I’ve spent less than two weeks with wears it. That in itself deserves the whole truth.

  “I killed him.”

  11

  I WATCH SAYLOR closely, waiting for her reaction, and I don’t expect any less than what she tells me.

  “Good.” She gives me a nod of approval, burning her eyes into mine like she wants me to feel the hate she has for this man that she doesn’t know. I could tell her how. I could tell her why, but I won’t. She doesn’t need the details. I’m sure she thinks it’s because of what he did to me, but it’s not. When I became a Nomad, I took a job. One that I did without question no matter the target.

  When I came to Nevada and my mission was to kill a man who stole from the club, I was more than happy to oblige. When I found out he was a brother, I was even happier. I would make him suffer longer because I expected more of him. I had trusted this man, as had my brothers. But, when I found out it was Black, my anger was replaced with guilt.

  I knew what Black had done all those years because I helped him do it. I stopped working for Black the day I almost killed him. It had been years since I’d been involved in the business, but I was still guilty. Telling the club was easy. I was ready to accept my fate because I deserved it. But, when I told them, they excused it without question. I knew they just wanted him dead, and they knew if any man should kill him, it should be me.

  “Tell me how you killed him.” I look at Saylor, wondering what she could ever get out of this. She reads my unspoken question. Witch.

  “I want to know so I can visualize it. I need that imagery to help me process everything you’ve told me. I want a happy ending to this story and that will give it to me.”