Sinner's Creed (Sinner's Creed #1)(14)

I look to see if she is serious. She isn’t. I take her hand and help her from the bike and she sashays away from me, still smiling. I fill up the tank, then stand by the pump waiting on her.

I hear bikes pull up and my eyes search their backs, looking for colors but finding none. They are independents. Just average Joes out for a ride. But when their conversation turns to the “hot piece of ass” walking across the parking lot, they become average Joes with a f*cking death wish. They shout to her, but she has eyes only for me. And she is smiling.

“They bothering you?” I ask loud enough for the shitheads to hear. I’ll kill them if they are. Right here in this f*cking gas station parking lot. I’ll rip their eyes out and make her a necklace with them if they offend her.

“Nope. They bothering you?” she asks, still smiling as she pops a piece of candy in her mouth. Skittles. I think.

“Yes.” I growl. And they are. I’m waiting for her to tell me to calm down or ignore them, but she just keeps smiling.

“Well, let’s get the hell outta here then.” She grabs her helmet and I watch her put it on, her fingers pulling the strap tight under her chin. Then she stands there and waits for me. I’m still debating whether or not I should leave bodies in the parking lot. But she is ready to ride. I have a feeling there will be a lot more like them, and the thought makes me want to use these pricks as an example of what happens when people f*ck with, look at, or even think about Saylor Samson. She knows I’m deliberating, so she waits.

This is why I like her. I’m sure if I did kill them, she would still be waiting for me, right here by my bike. Not theirs. I pull my helmet over my head and straddle my bike, standing it up and waiting for her to follow suit. She does and the feel of her weight on my shoulders as she uses me to balance makes all thoughts of independents with death wishes die. When we pull out, I watch her stick her middle finger in the air at the three men. She can’t see it because it’s hidden behind my full-face helmet, but the corner of my mouth turns up.

Several miles down the road, her hands are on the visor of my helmet. She is trying to lift it. I don’t know why and I make no move to help her. My brain is too busy trying to process her actions. She gives up, then slips her fingers under the bottom and I feel them on my chin. I sit completely still, wondering why I haven’t moved her hand away from my face. Then I feel something small and round between her fingers. She finds my bottom lip and slips it inside. It’s a Skittle. A f*cking Skittle. I hold it between my lips as she stares at me in the mirror, keeping her fingers wedged under my helmet and on my chin. When I began to chew, she smiles and gives me a thumbs-up and turns her head to the side, as if asking me if it’s good. My thumb rises just an inch off the handlebar, and she beams.

For the next several miles, she feeds me Skittles. And I like it. And it’s driving me insane. One minute I’m anticipating how I will kill someone and the next I’m being fed Skittles. By a woman. Who is on my bike. Riding with me to perform a hit for the MC.

When the Skittles are gone, she frowns at me and I feel my own frown forming. She won’t touch me anymore. But Saylor doesn’t disappoint. Her hands are no longer touching my mouth, but they are sliding over my arms, under the sleeves of my T-shirt, and across my shoulders.

She begins to massage her fingers into my tight muscles and I feel them relax under her touch. It feels . . . good. Women touch me when I f*ck them, but it’s always their long, fake nails that are raking down my back while I pound into them. This is intimate. She is getting nothing in return. She is doing this because she wants to. And she is singing. I can’t hear her and there is no music, only the sound of my pipes, but I see her lips moving and I’m sure the sound is heavenly.

When we hit the Alabama state line, I pull over at the first gas station I see and message Nationals, asking them when Pete’s birthday is ’cause the club doesn’t have it written down. There is no Pete. He has no birthday. This is part of the code.

The coordinates tell me I’m going to Banks, Alabama. I know Banks. It’s a small town of about two hundred people. I know who is in Banks, and the other 199 people there will be better off once he is gone. Saylor sits behind me, patiently waiting for me. When my work is finished, I get off the bike and hold my hand out to help her.

“I was thinking.” So was I, but her thoughts have got to be more interesting than mine. “We should take a picture.” I don’t agree, and a small part of me wonders if she will be upset when I tell her this. But pictures leave a paper trail. Just like the credit card I use to get gas. The difference is this credit card isn’t mine. It’s a fake. A picture with my face in it with Alabama in the background links me too close to the crime scene. And that reminds me why this was a bad idea. If Saylor told anyone where she was going or who she was with, I would have to call this whole thing off. That would piss off the club, which in turn would piss me off. I slam my fist into the gas pump. I’m so f*cking stupid.

“Who did you tell about me?” I ask, my eyes closed.

“Nobody.” Her voice is small, but unafraid.

“Saylor.” My tone is warning—warning her she better not be f*cking lying to me. She says nothing and I turn, expecting that look of guilt liars wear. But she is sad. Sad because I don’t believe her? Sad because I’m yelling? I don’t f*cking know, but she needs to tell me.