Sinner's Creed (Sinner's Creed #1) Page 6

  “It’s perfect,” she tells me, as if I had asked what she thought of the place. It’s the same thing she said to me at the warehouse. It’s nice to know she’s not hard to impress.

  “I have to go out.” Her smile falls some, but I can tell she is trying to hide her disappointment. I would love to be in her head, but if I had to guess what she is thinking, it would be that she will do anything to prevent me from thinking bringing her was a mistake. My heart does that weird fluttering thing where you can feel it skip a beat.

  —

  “Stay inside. Don’t leave. Don’t answer the door. If the building catches on fire, get your shit and find the nearest bus station to take you back home.” My voice is harsh when I speak to her, but it isn’t to hurt her or scare her. She knows this, because she doesn’t look offended. I remember she has to eat, and I know she won’t tell me if she is hungry. I’ll just bring her something back, but I don’t know how long I’ll be. Fuck.

  I drop her bag and stomp out, loading my shit up and speeding off to the nearest burger joint, which is just around the corner. I nearly bite the man at the counter’s head off when he asks me what I want, because I realize I don’t fucking know.

  She could be allergic to something or a vegan or some shit. One thing about the club, I knew all that shit about my brothers. But I don’t know anything about Saylor.

  Most girls eat salad because they’re on a diet or care about the way they look. Judging by Saylor’s body, she takes care of herself. But she isn’t like most girls in any other aspect, and I wasn’t gonna stereotype her just because she has a good body. So I order her the same thing I order for me—a cheeseburger and fries.

  When I walk in, she is just how I left her except her boots are off. She is propped up against the headboard, her ankles crossed, writing in a leather-bound book. A diary? People still did that? Social media seemed like all the diary you would need, but here again, Saylor didn’t seem like the type that would put her thoughts all over the Internet for the world to fucking see. Just seeing her with a diary had me liking her a little more, although I liked her enough just fine.

  “Are you allergic to anything?” I snap, then mentally kick myself for being such an asshole.

  “Yes,” she says, closing her book and looking up at me. “Bullshit and politics.” She smirks. I’m allergic to the same damn things. Her sarcasm lightens my mood considerably and I take a seat at the small table, waiting for her to join me.

  “Something smells good.” She takes the seat across from me and props her legs on the bed. She grabs a burger without complaint and dives right in. Not bothering to check it and make sure it’s dressed the way she wants. She isn’t picky. I like that.

  “About earlier, ya know, at the store, I wasn’t praying for myself.” I stop eating, not wanting the sound of chewing to prevent me from hearing whatever she has to say.

  “I prayed for you. For your safety and your understanding and your forgiveness.”

  I’m confused and the wrinkle in my brow shows it. Forgiveness from him or from her?

  “I think you are a very special person. You deserve a life with someone that can give you far more than I can. I hope you will forgive me for not being what you need.” Her eyes are full of sorrow and I wonder why she thinks so low of herself.

  I’m already making plans to call Shady and get a list of every man she has ever had a relationship with. I will interrogate each and every one of them until I find the son of a bitch who has made her doubt herself. When I find him, I will rip his limbs off one by one and I will do it in a way that he will stay alive for the whole fucking procedure. I want him to suffer.

  Before I let anger completely consume me and fuel my desire to kill, I leave a part of me open so I can provide comfort to her. I grab my bag and pause in front of the door.

  “You are all I need.” And I fucking mean it.

  5

  MARTIN WALTON’S GRAVE looks like it hasn’t been visited in years, and at the bottom of the vase beside it, under the faded, artificial flowers, is a note attached to a prepaid cell.

  There is an address on the note and a time. The address leads me to a trailer park, and I hide my bike off the road about a half a mile away. I walk the short distance to the run-down trailer located in the very back. There are no cars, no lights, and no sign that anyone has been here in months. The grass is tall, but there is a trail to the back door that tells me someone has been here recently. My target must be using it as a hideout and it thrills me that he thinks he is safe. Not a chance, motherfucker. I look at my watch and it’s a little after midnight. This time tomorrow, he would be dead.

  Travis Cool, or T-Man, had a problem with getting laid. Or maybe he just liked the thrill of fucking a comatose woman. Whatever his reason for using date-rape drugs for his pleasure was wrong. He hadn’t been reported to the authorities as far as we knew, but I’m sure after he sees me, he is gonna wish he had. Prison would be a lot better than what I had in store for him.

  He would likely have never been caught if he hadn’t fucked up and messed with someone who had ties with the club. I don’t know who she was or what her connection was, because it didn’t matter. What mattered was that I was sent to do a job to avenge a woman who meant something to one of my brothers. Therefore, she meant something to me.

  It happened a few months ago, but planning a hit on someone takes time. We had to make sure there was nothing that could be used to point the murder toward the club. Now that all the loose ends were tied up, it was time for T-Man to meet his maker.

  This brought thoughts of Saylor’s earlier confession to my mind. There is no way that she and T-Man shared the same maker. Saylor was pure, beautiful . . . flawless. T-Man was scum, ugly, and unworthy of breathing the same air as Saylor. I would have to find out her religion, and his. Maybe they had two different gods. That would explain it.

  My mission tonight is to scope out the place and plan my entry. I crawl under the back of the trailer and begin to cut away the insulation and cheap particleboard flooring. Once inside, I do a sweep of the place, and am gone within five minutes.

  I return to my bike in a hurry, ready to get the hell away from here and back to the woman I know is waiting for me. I try not to let what-ifs cloud my head, but it’s pointless. What if she left? What if she decided I wasn’t what she wanted after all? No. She would be there. I know it, or I keep trying to tell myself that.

  —

  By the time I make it back to the motel, my chest is tight and I’m finding it hard to breathe. I grab my bags and can’t get the key in the lock fast enough. When the lock clicks, I take a deep breath and push open the door; expecting the worst is always best.

  There is no denying that Saylor is here. Her scent fills the air and I can make out her silhouette, even in the darkness. She is sleeping. I close the door gently, cussing the fucker for being so loud. She is on her side, her hair unbraided. She has showered and the dampness of her hair has tamed it somewhat so that it lays across the pillow. Fucking beautiful.

  I leave her to shower, and instead of cringing when I see all her female shit covering the counter, I welcome it. I like knowing her shit will be sitting next to mine tonight. It is a reminder that she is real.

  I take the bed next to Saylor’s because it’s the right thing to do. I never was one to really follow the rules, but I want to try to do right by her. I watch her back, wishing she would turn over so I can see her face, but instead I memorize the curve of her body. Her hips are full compared to her waist, and the slope of her body reminds me of a half-moon. I reluctantly let my eyes close, but her face is still the only thing I see.

  “Dirk?” I hear her voice in the darkness and open my eyes to find her propped up on an elbow, searching the room.

  “I’m here,” I say and it’s soft, comforting. A tone used for soothing and reassuring—one I don’t use very often. She turns so she is facing me and sits on the side of the bed.

  “Can I sleep with you?” she asks
, and she sounds so fucking lonely that I want to kill myself for leaving her.

  “Yes.” She doesn’t hesitate and I see she is wearing a T-shirt and nothing else. I lift the covers, and she slides in, her back to my front. Her hair is everywhere and covers my face. She lifts her head and tries to smooth it down, but I stop her. “Leave it.” I wrap my arm around her waist and she locks her fingers with mine. Her scent is all around me. Her body is warm and smooth and I feel myself harden against her.

  “I tried to wait up for you, but I fell asleep.” She waited for me. This means that she would deprive herself of sleep, just to be with me. There goes my heart again, doing that fucking thing. “Dirk?” I like it when she says my name and I think she knows it. That is why she says it all the time, or that’s what I want to believe. “Yeah?” She is silent and the anticipation is fucking killing me. I will her to talk, and breathe a sigh of relief when she finally sheds mercy on me.

  “You make me feel safe.” I know this, but it still feels good to hear her say it.

  “You are safe,” I tell her. I would never let anyone touch her, and I mean it so much that I have reassured her when usually I wouldn’t say anything.

  “Not just from the world, but from my own thoughts.” I’m a man who knows about thoughts, and I know how bad they can affect you. I feel my grip around her waist tighten. “And that’s what I’m scared of most,” she adds on a whisper. What haunting thoughts could Saylor possess? If her mind wasn’t a part of her, I would steal it and trade my soul for one that brought her happy thoughts. I kiss her hair and she sighs. I think it makes her feel special. “Good night, Dirk.”

  “Good night, baby,” I tell her, because I’m pretty fucking sure that makes her feel special too.

  —

  I feel Saylor crawl out from under my arm just as the sun is making its way through the crack in the curtains. The bottom of her ass is visible to me and either she isn’t wearing panties, or she is wearing a thong. I will take her either way.

  I watch as she searches the counter for something and I find her face in the mirror. Her brows are drawn together and I don’t know if it’s out of pain or because she can’t see.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. My chest is tight and my stomach knots with worry.

  “Just looking for some headache meds,” she answers, and I watch her squint at her own words as if it pains her to talk. My chest tightens further and so does that knot in my stomach. It’s just a headache, but if she hurts, I hurt. It’s that fucking simple.

  She finds what she is looking for and I hear her tearing the plastic off a cup before filling it with water. She takes the meds and stands at the sink, her head down and her arms locked, holding herself up. She is sick and I don’t want to lay here and do nothing.

  I’m out of bed and standing behind her, looking at the two of us in the mirror. She doesn’t look up, and I can’t see her face because her hair is hiding it. My concerned face is very similar to my pissed-off one, and I make a note to work on that.

  “Sometimes,” she starts, then takes a deep breath. Her voice is low and I hold my breath because I don’t want to make any noise to add to her discomfort. I hear a horn honk in the distance, and I’d kill that motherfucker if I thought I could get to him in time.

  “I get really bad headaches. It’s my eyes.” I’ve heard of this. She wasn’t wearing glasses yesterday, but judging from the contact solution and case on the counter, I’m pretty sure she was wearing those. “I’m fine.” Her voice is stronger, reassuring, but when she looks up, her face is pale and her lips are white. She is sweating and this is not a headache, it’s a migraine. I’m sure if I asked, she would say she was nauseous. But I won’t. Nothing makes you more nauseous than when someone asks if you are.

  I take her by her hand, my other going around her waist, and lead her back to the bed. Once she is under the covers, I go back to the sink to get a cold rag. By the time I make it back, she is turned on her stomach and the covers are off. I swallow hard at what I see.

  It’s not a thong she is wearing, and she’s not naked. It’s boy-shorts. The kind that a girl’s ass cheeks hang out of. They are black and have lace around the edges. Fuck. I force my eyes from her ass and move her hair until her neck is bare. I place the cold rag on it and she mumbles something I think is a thank-you. I sit on the other bed and stare at her, unsure of what to do.

  “Dirk.” I’m not even sure it’s my name she says, but I’m on my feet, leaning over her. “Hold me.” There is no mistaking those words and I do as she says. I lay on my side and put my hand on her back. I stroke her because it seems like something I would like her to do to me. I’m not disappointed. Saylor is soon asleep and so am I.

  Before I open my eyes, I can feel her looking at me. She is humming. I don’t know the song, but I’m sure she hums it better than any Grammy winner could sing it. I open my eyes and she stops humming, so I close them again. I can hear the laughter in her voice as she starts humming again. For the split second my eyes were on her, she looked fine. Better than fine. There was no trace of this morning’s migraine on her face. Maybe it was just a headache. I’ve never known a migraine to disappear within a few hours.

  “Are we going to ride today?” She quits humming to speak to me and her voice is just as pleasing as her hums.

  “I have to leave,” I tell her and wonder if I will ever be able to share what I do, or what I will tell her when she finally asks. She knows I’m not leaving for good. The fact that we have crossed that bridge and she now trusts me, tells me that we are making progress. I look at the time and see I have two hours before I have to leave. I’m hungry, so I’m sure she is too. “Get dressed,” I tell her and roll away from her and toward a cold shower.

  Most men claim they can’t live without pussy. I have been trained to live without food, water, and light. Pussy was the last fucking thing on my mind. But I now see why men say it. I’ve never had a woman like Saylor in my life. Hell, I’ve never had any woman in my life, but I see the impact she has on my self-control. I can feel it slipping, and soon, I’m gonna fucking lose it.

  I’m washing my hair when I feel her behind me. I try to ignore her, but she puts her hands on me and they are full of soap, just like the last time we showered together. The cold water doesn’t affect her in the least. I like how she washes me. I can’t remember it ever being done before. And I really like that she expects nothing in return.

  I’m clean enough and I step out without facing her. I have too much shit to do today to have visions of her naked under a cold stream of water in my head. It will be hard enough as it is.

  I’m dressed before she is out, and now I’m rethinking taking her somewhere for lunch. I know it’s shitty of me to keep her cooped up in here alone, but being around her softens me. I need to get into kill mode and she will fuck up my vibe.

  “I’ll be back,” I yell through the door and leave before she has a chance to answer. This time I grab chicken sandwiches instead of burgers. I know it’s not an equal exchange. I know it won’t make up for it. But just the fact that I tried makes me feel better.

  Saylor seems to sense when I’m going to fuck up because when I get back, she isn’t dressed, ready for me to take her out. She is wearing another T-shirt and some shorts, sitting at the table waiting for me. She didn’t wash her hair and I’m glad she chose to leave it like it was.

  “I got chicken,” I say as a form of greeting. She smiles and I’m forgiven, not that she was pissed in the first place. We eat in silence and I wait for her to break it. She lets me suffer until we are almost through, then she finally speaks.

  “I like that you don’t talk a lot. Have I told you that?” She looks at me and her face is confused. She is thinking hard, but there is no need for it. I know every line she has ever said to me, and that’s not one of them.

  “No.”

  “Well, I do,” she says and continues eating. I want her to talk more. I only have forty-five more minutes before I leave, and I want to
hear her talk the whole time. It’s not good, I know that. I am contradicting myself. I didn’t take her to eat because I needed space from her. Now I want anything but space, and I don’t care that it will likely fuck up my game tonight. “Does my talking bother you?”

  “No.” Hell no. Fuck no. No.

  “Riding is therapy for you, isn’t it?” she asks me, and by the way she is looking at me, she wants an answer.

  “Yes.” I’ve forgotten my food. I’ve forgotten T-Man. I’m just sitting here waiting on her to finish whatever it is she wants to say. If there even is anything else she wants to add.

  The next thirty-nine minutes are pure fucking turmoil. I have to leave and she hasn’t said another word. We just sit in silence. She writes in her diary. I watch her write in her diary. When it’s time for me to leave, I’m so anxious to hear her voice that I can’t wait to tell her I’m leaving because I know she will say something.

  “I’ll be back later. Have your stuff packed and ready. But don’t wait up. I don’t know when I will be back. It might be late. But it shouldn’t be too late.” I’m rambling. I’ve never rambled in my entire fucking existence. What is it about her that makes me do crazy shit that’s just not me? I’m pissed when I grab my bag and stomp toward the door. I’m dangling by a thin rope off the side of a mountain. I don’t even want to hear her talk because I’m sure she will say something that will push me over the edge.

  “Dirk?” She says my name like she wants to ask me something. She wants me to look at her. I don’t want to, but I can’t fucking help it. I turn to her and she is serious. There is no smile, just wide, honest, green eyes that suck me in with the force of a category-five hurricane. “You’re my therapy.” And just like that, I’m falling.

  —

  I’m in the woods waiting for T-Man to arrive at the place he thinks is a safe house. Strapped to my side is my Stroman miniature dirk that will take his life. It is only about three inches long, but the blade is sharp and effective when used in the right area.