Sinner's Creed (Sinner's Creed #1)(21)

“Doesn’t matter,” she mumbles, and I like this side of her. It’s different. It would annoy most men, but I like it. She is perfect enough that it’s okay for her to be a little bitchy every now and then.

I’m in a good mood. I get like this every time justice is served. I’m still riding high on the horse of power and I don’t see getting off of it anytime soon. She betters my already good mood, and I feel like laughing. But I don’t, of course.

“It’s always the good part.” She is standing in front of me and she is no longer aggravated. She is curious. She is hoping that by explaining it to me, she will be able to find the answer for herself. “Right when you know it can’t get any better, so it doesn’t. It ends. Poof. Gone. Just like that,” she says with a snap of her fingers. “I don’t get it. Even if you didn’t wake me up, something else would have. I’m destined to never complete a good dream. It’s just not in the cards.”

I don’t want to leave. I want to sit here and let her lecture me on dreams and how they come to an abrupt stop just before the good shit happens. But we have to go.

“You ready?” I ask, knowing that she is. Her backpack is in her hands, her clothes are on, and she is standing, waiting on me.

“Yeah. I’m ready.” I stand up and I am only a couple of inches from her. I dig in my pocket and hold out a pack of Skittles. My reward is a huge smile and a hug. I wrap my arms around her awkwardly, wondering why this is so easy when we are in bed and so weird when we are not.

“You, Dirk. Man of my dreams. Man who wakes me up before the good part in my dream. Man who brings me Skittles, are even more perfect than I thought.”

I was in her dreams. She said so. She thinks I’m perfect. She said that too. I’m trading in my power horse for a kitten because now I feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside. And I’m gonna name that kitten Saylor. And I hate f*cking kittens. And I hate this warm and fuzzy shit. And we need to leave before I get pissed because someone gave Saylor the wrong definition of perfect.

I take her hand and she walks beside me in silence back to the bike. I heard a quote once that said beauty was in the eyes of the beholder or some shit. Maybe perfection was the same way. Everything Saylor thinks is perfect is anything but. But, if she believes it, then maybe it’s true. Who am I to judge her opinions?

When I’m a good hundred miles away, full of Skittles and low on energy, I pull over on the side of the interstate and make the call to Nationals on the prepaid that was left for me. When the call is connected, there is no greeting, only silence.

“I guess the benefit will go toward a funeral.” I hang up without a response and smash the phone into the pavement with the heel of my boot. When it’s completely crushed, I kick the bigger pieces into the grass and head to the next town.

I stop just south of Birmingham and fuel up. The gas station offers breakfast and I send Saylor inside to get us something. She returns with a bag of shit and I survey it while I smoke.

“I got two biscuits, three packs of Skittles, two OJs, a Mountain Dew, a Coke, a few granola bars, some M&M’s, a pack of peanuts, and a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.” I just stare at her. Was I depriving her of food? Was she that f*cking hungry to buy out a damn convenience store at five in the morning?

“A road trip ain’t a road trip without junk food, and I get tired of sitting in a motel without anything to snack on. There is only so much sink water I can drink before I go crazy.” I fed her. I start to tell her that, but she stops me when she pokes her lip out in an exaggerated pout. “I’m sorry, did you want something?” This is funny to her, and her comment is kinda funny to me. Kinda.

“I’m taking the Cheetos,” I say, and my comment makes her laugh. It’s a beautiful sound. And all I can think about is how perfect she is and how f*cking lucky I am.





6


I FIND A motel similar to the one in Troy and go inside to pay, leaving Saylor with the bike and the twenty-pound bag of snacks. When I come out, she is taking a picture again. When we get to the room, she walks around with her eyes closed and inhales, again. Then she tells me it’s perfect, again. I see a pattern forming and it is so intriguing, I want to know why she does this. I will ask her. Eventually.

We have two beds again and I will take the one unoccupied until she asks me to sleep with her, which I’m sure she will—if the pattern continues. I take a shower then join her for breakfast at the table.

“You know what I like about biscuits?” she says through a mouthful of food. I don’t know, but I’m dying to hear. I want to know more about her. Even the simple shit. Like what she likes about biscuits. “Jelly. It’s like dessert.” I see her point. I wait for her to say something else. I’ve never hated the silence; I’ve always welcomed it. But when she is with me, all I want to hear is her. We can talk about anything. Fucking female problems if she wants. I’m debating asking her a question. One that’s simple, like her favorite color.

I shift in my seat, willing my mouth to speak. “What’s your favorite color?” she asks, and I shoot her that looks that says, Are you f*cking kidding me? but she is undeterred. “Mine is black. Is that weird?”

Her face is pinched in confusion. She wants an answer, but I can’t speak. My brain is still processing how the hell she can read my thoughts. Maybe she is a witch. That would explain this crazy spell I seem to be under.