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

by Kim Jones

  I bring in the turkeys that have been on the smoker since yesterday, load, unload, and reload the oven racks at Saylor’s demand and help her set the table with real, matching dishes I was sent to buy last week, before I’m instructed to go get a shower.

  As I let the water beat down on me, I wonder how in the hell I got here. My morning has flown by and Saylor has been so busy trying to make today perfect that I haven’t even gotten a chance to kiss her and tell her good morning. When she slips in behind me and wraps her arms around my waist, I know my little mind-reading witch is finally gonna shed some mercy on her man.

  “Thank you for helping me make this happen, baby. You’ll never know how much it means to me.” Her words are forced and I know she is struggling to keep it together. It is no secret that this is the last Thanksgiving Saylor will ever have. I turn in her arms and wrap her in mine.

  “You don’t have to thank me. It should be me thanking you for giving me my first ever real Thanksgiving dinner.” She knows it’s my first because we talked about it. But she also knows that this one would mean more even if there’d been years of them before it. I grab her hair in my hand and gently pull until she is looking up at me. “Don’t be sad. Today is gonna be perfect. Just like you.”

  And then I kiss her. I kiss away her doubt and her thoughts and her worries. Because that’s what I do. I’m the man of Saylor Samson. And I will be for the rest of my life. No matter how long that is and no matter how long she’s in it.

  —

  My house is full, everyone is hungry, and Saylor is the most beautiful hostess I have ever seen. She wanted us to dress up so we could take a picture. My look told her I wasn’t. But her frown told me I was. She wanted me to wear something bright because she had never seen me in anything but black. So, I’m standing in the kitchen, daring someone to say something about the bright yellow collared shirt I’m wearing. I even tucked it in. And wore the new jeans Saylor bought me.

  I look like an idiot, but nobody is noticing what I’m wearing ’cause they’re all looking at her. Saylor is wearing a yellow dress that wraps across her chest, showing perfect cleavage, and belts at her waist. The sleeves are long but the dress stops just above her knees. On her feet is a pair of shoes that she calls “wedges,” and they’re yellow too. She said we look like Skittles. Which reminded her to get onto me about leaving the empty packs on the nightstand by our bed.

  When everyone is seated, ready to dive in, Saylor grabs my hand with one of hers, then offers the other to Carrie, who sits on the right of her and asks if anyone wants to say grace. My eyes dart around the room, wondering how the club would react to her request. I don’t know if this isn’t uncommon or if they’re so hungry they’ll do just about anything to eat, but they all hold hands and take off their hats. Rookie agrees to bless the food, and I watch as all my brothers bow their heads while he gives thanks. When the prayer is over, I realize I’m the only man who didn’t bow, and the only man who didn’t say amen.

  Everyone eats, complimenting Saylor on how good everything is, and she smiles then tells them that I helped too. I’m trying to force myself to eat, but my appetite is gone. Here, in my house and at my table, are the men I call family and the woman I love. I look at each of them smiling, eating, and acting as if it’s just another Thanksgiving Day. But it’s not. It’s Saylor’s last Thanksgiving Day. And right now, I feel like I’m the only motherfucker who cares about that.

  I’ve tuned out their laughter, their talk, and their indifference to the turmoil that is happening in our lives. I’m ignoring everything they say and do. I’m wanting nothing more than to flip this table over and shatter every fucking dish in this house, and then dare them to ask me what’s wrong. Someone is telling a story and when laughter erupts so loudly that it breaks through the silence I’ve created, I’m on my feet and out the front door.

  At the sound of my chair hitting the floor, their laughter silences. And now, the only noise I hear is the heavy beat of my heart. When the door opens then closes behind me, I’m expecting Shady or Jimbo. What I don’t expect is to see the face of my love. I’ve ruined her perfect Thanksgiving, but the look in her eyes isn’t disappointment, it’s understanding.

  “I know it’s hard, Dirk. I know every day I smile and act like nothing’s wrong, but I feel what you feel too. I’m worried about what tomorrow will hold. I’m nervous about next month. I’m terrified of the unknown. But, more than that, I’m scared of what I’ll do when I don’t have you.” I light a cigarette, knowing if I continue to look at her that I’ll break.

  “I’m trying, Saylor,” I tell her, but I can’t even meet her eyes. I’m staring out into the yard, searching for something to focus my wandering eyes on so they don’t land on hers.

  “You’re more than trying. You’re making me happy.” She wraps her arm around my waist and tucks into my side. I put my arm around her shoulders and hold her closer, wishing like hell I had the strength she did. “Some people say tomorrow everything will be better. I don’t think that.”

  I find the courage to look down at her, and I’m expecting tears, but what I find is a beautiful smile on the face of a beautiful girl. My girl. My happy girl. “I think that today is great, and yesterday was even better.” Saylor isn’t living for the future; she’s living for the present, and it’s the past that makes her feel alive.

  —

  Time seems to fly by. Before I know it, it’s Christmas Eve and I’m helping Saylor wrap all five thousand presents we bought at the Black Friday sale. It was a fucking disaster and if I lived another hundred years, I would never want to put myself through that again. Even Saylor said that that was a day she could have lived without.

  I told her it wasn’t necessary for us to shop on sale and she said it was the experience she wanted. I’m glad she got it. I just hate I had to be there. So did the little smart-ass working at Target. After he got smart with Saylor, twice, I snatched him up from behind his register then shoved him to the ground. I didn’t hit him but my mug shot was now on the corkboard when you walked in, listed under “Barred for Life.” Not that I give a shit. Plus, it made Saylor horny as hell and we had a chance to christen our new SUV—the one I bought because she said it would be nice to have one. When I took her to pick one out she was skeptical, but when I informed her the heat in the old truck was going out, she became excited. Saylor isn’t very fond of the cold.

  I tried to convince Saylor that Christmas wasn’t about presents, and she agreed. When I got comfortable with the fact that we wouldn’t have to do any shopping, she came back at me with “it’s about giving, not receiving.” So I tried to convince her that I should give her something, because she’d already given me herself. That didn’t work either. She said we should spend a day doing something the other one loved most, and not buy each other gifts. But we should buy Donnawayne, Jeffery, Rookie, Carrie, Shady, Jimbo and every-fucking-body else in the club a gift too. So we did. Because Saylor always wins.

  I’ve wrapped the last pocketknife, the last pair of leather gloves, and the last fucking V-neck of my life. Never again will I do this. Which reminds me that Saylor never will either, and it brings me back down to earth. I shouldn’t bitch about these kinds of things because Saylor would probably give anything to do it again. When I told her this minutes ago, she never answered. When she pauses her wrapping and looks at me across the mountain of shit scattered in our living room, I know she is finally gonna respond.

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “You wouldn’t?” I ask, the disbelief evident in my voice.

  “No.” She is sure of her answer, but she needs to say more to convince me. When she sighs, I know she’s in my head. Good. She’ll give me what I want.

  “You know all that talk you have about selling your soul to the devil? How you’re convinced that there is a god, but you aren’t worthy of his love?” Here we go. I’m taken back to Thanksgiving, where I told Saylor the devil had possession of my soul. It derived from our conversation about p
raying before we ate. She said that if I believed in God like I said I did, then I shouldn’t have a problem with prayer. When I told her I wasn’t worthy of his time, she told me for thanks, he would make time. Now she thanked him every time we sat down to eat. I still didn’t bow. Or say thanks. Or amen. Prayer was her thing, not mine.

  “Well, what if I told you, that I had the same bargain, but it was with God. What if I had a choice to live out a long and fruitful life here on earth, or one that was short, but actually meant something? Would you still think I would do anything to prolong my days here?” It’s just a metaphor. That really didn’t happen. It couldn’t have. But I don’t want to discuss this anymore.

  “I think we need fewer friends and shorter Christmas lists.” She laughs and the subject is dropped, and I almost want to thank God for that. Almost.

  —

  Christmas morning at our house is not what I had planned. Saylor wanted a sleepover. And that’s what she got. So instead of me waking up early to give her breakfast in bed, I’m up helping her cook pancakes for all the pajama-wearing hard legs that are asleep in my house. They include Shady, Donnawayne, and Jeffery. Rookie and Carrie were invited, but they were spending Christmas with her family. Jimbo was invited, but after running into Donnawayne and Jeffery one Sunday evening when they decided to stay over, he said he wouldn’t be able to make it. I didn’t blame him—I couldn’t really imagine them having much to bond over. Their candy cane–foot pajamas made me want to puke. When Saylor said she’d order them in my size, I had to take my bike out—alone. When I returned several hours later, I found her still laughing. It made me forget her appalling suggestion and fall in love with her a little more. I loved seeing her so happy.

  When we were all in the living room, piled on top of each other because of the mountain of presents and enormous fucking tree that took up half the house, Saylor stood in the middle of the room, ready to hand out gifts. But first she took the time to close her eyes, hold out her arms, and breathe in the scent of pine and maple syrup and someone’s, probably Shady’s, rotten-ass feet.

  I didn’t pay much attention because I’d seen her do it so many times before, but everyone else in the room watched her with curious faces. When she was finished, the excitement in her eyes was so much that I found myself smiling at her, even as she took my picture. Today really would be a great day, and tomorrow, we would say yesterday was better.

  Shady is pumped about all the cool new shit he has, and I realize that this might have been his first real Christmas too. Most of the men in our club come from broken homes and fucked-up lives. That’s what drove us to be a part of Sinner’s Creed. Here, we mattered.

  I assisted in all the shopping, but when it came to Shady, I made sure it was things he could actually use. Like new leathers, a breather kit for his bike, and a set of Vance & Hines pipes. Saylor picked out a shave kit, socks, some black hoodies, and an iTunes gift card.

  Donnawayne and Jeffery squeal and hug Saylor every time they unwrap a new present. It’s only clothing, but apparently its nice shit ’cause they “just can’t believe she got this.” When they announce that they want to try everything on, I decide I need a smoke. Shady agrees and joins me on the porch.

  “Saylor seems happy,” Shady tells me once we are away from the chaos happening in my house.

  “She is happy.” As I’m saying this, I hear Saylor laugh.

  “When y’all heading back?” Leave it to Shady to ruin a perfect Christmas. I refused to think about what would happen in just a few days, but now that he had brought it to my attention, there was no escaping the reality of what was fixing to happen.

  “Friday.” That was the day after tomorrow. Too soon. I knew life was about to get hard. I knew it would be hard for Saylor to endure, and hard for me to watch. I wanted to be selfish and ask her again to not do this. But I wouldn’t. This was Saylor’s decision, one she was hell-bent on keeping, regardless of the consequences.

  Shady says something, but I’m more interested in looking at Saylor through the window than listening to him. She’s wearing her hideous Christmas pajamas and her glasses and has her hair on top of her head. But what’s so stunning is the smile she has on her face. Her laughter fills the room and I close my eyes, memorizing the sound and putting this image with it. This will be her last Christmas, her last time in Nevada, and the last day of life as we know it. Tomorrow we will step back into reality, and it’s the last place I want to go.

  —

  It’s early, maybe four in the morning, when I feel Saylor sit up in bed. So I sit up too.

  “What’s wrong?” Because something has to be. But Saylor doesn’t answer me, she just stares straight ahead. I turn the lamp on and ask again. “What’s wrong?”

  “Do you know who Samson is?” Her voice is calm, sweet, and melodic. She isn’t sick and I’m glad she isn’t crying. And the only Samson I know is Saylor Samson. “He was a man who was given supernatural strength. He had lots of hair, tons of it. That was his source of power.”

  I’m not following. Saylor puts her hands into the thick, unruly curls of her own hair and pulls it around to her face to examine it. “I don’t believe that my hair is the key to my power or strengthens my relationship with God, but I don’t want to wake up to find clumps of my best asset on my pillow. My hair makes me who I am.”

  She looks at me and is just as confused as I am. I want to give her words of wisdom, but I just woke up and I don’t know what in the hell to say. But I better say something because she is staring expectantly at me as if I can give her some insight into her epiphany.

  “Your hair is beautiful. It’s fucking amazing and it’s one of the things I love most about you. But it’s not why I love you, and it doesn’t make you who you are.” That sounds pretty convincing to me, but Saylor frowns and is now even more confused.

  “Then what does?” This time, I don’t have to think about what to say, because the words are spewing from my mouth before I can stop them.

  “I don’t know what that special thing is. I don’t have a name for it. All I know is that you are you, and that’s everything I need. Your good outweighs my evil and your love overpowers my hate. Whatever makes you you, gives me something that I never knew existed . . .” I can’t name it because I’m too caught up in the realization and truth in my words.

  “What?” But Saylor already knows the answer.

  “Hope.”

  21

  NOT TWO HOURS later, Saylor is straddling me in the bed, holding a pair of scissors in one hand and some clippers in the other.

  “What are you doing?” I still haven’t mastered the art of not sounding like a dick, but it doesn’t faze Saylor anymore.

  “I want you to cut my hair.” No. Hell no. I haven’t said anything because the look I’m giving her should say it for me. “Please?” Her begging will get her nowhere.

  “Saylor, no.” She pokes her lip out, but she has already accepted defeat.

  “Dirk, yes.” She is persistent, even when she knows she will lose. “If I cry, will that help?”

  “Yes.” I can’t lie to her. She smiles, and I’m thankful that she would never guilt me with tears.

  “Well, will you make love to me at least?” That, I can do. I grab the scissors and clippers from her hands before she hurts herself, and throw her on her back. The passion for me in her eyes will never get old, but will it be the last time I see it?

  I kiss her, letting thoughts of this being the last time we make love run through my head. If this is it, then how does she want it? Slow and sensual lovemaking so I can cherish her? Or fast, hard-core fucking just the way she likes it?

  “Dirk,” she whispers, and I don’t know if she is begging or wants my attention. When she breaks our kiss and pulls away from me, I have my answer.

  “Stop overthinking this. I know things are fixing to change, and when they do we will take it one day at a time. Right now, we have to live for the moment. That doesn’t mean it is or it isn’t the last
one we will have.”

  I decide that from now on, I will do what makes both of us happy. So I make love to her. I love her slow, taking time to kiss her and taste her. Then, I fuck her hard. I drown her screams with my mouth when she is beneath me, and then let them rattle the windows when she is on her knees in front of me. By the time she is spent and I am too, we both have what we want, and if it’s the last time, it was the greatest. If it’s not, then I’ll make sure next time is even better.

  —

  It’s Friday, and I’m feeling an emotion I’m not familiar with and I don’t like. Nervousness. We are sitting in a little room, waiting on a doctor to come back with Saylor’s blood test results. The nurse already came in and drew samples, took her vitals, and complimented her wild and untamed hair about ten times. This makes Saylor smile, or should I say smile more. She has been happy all morning.

  I think she doesn’t want to show how nervous she is because she doesn’t want to upset me, but it isn’t because I’ve seen any sign of wariness from her. She looks genuinely happy. And regardless of the situation, I can’t help but be driven by her happiness too.

  Now I’m taking pictures of her with big ass Q-tips up her nose. Photography is something I’ve gotten pretty good at, considering Saylor has done nothing but take pictures and “capture moments” for the past two months. Every picture she is in, I have taken. Except for the ones where she is with me, or where we are posing with our closest friends. Another brother assumed the responsibility then. Friends. I have friends. I’ve yet to fully grasp that concept, but it’s growing on me.

  A knock sounds at the door and before we can get the tongue depressors and cotton balls off our faces, two doctors walk in.

  “Miss Samson. Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” a young man with a foreign accent says. He can’t be much older than Saylor, but the title on his name tag clearly states that he is indeed a doctor. A specialist at that.