Sinner's Creed (Sinner's Creed #1)(22)

“Yellow. And it’s not weird.” I huff, and grab my bag before heading into the bathroom. Thoughts of the supernatural and witches and those people who can move shit with their eyes are pounding in my head.

Maybe I’m just that transparent. I light a smoke and then another one, trying to get my pulse to return to normal. When I feel half-ass like myself again, I return to the room.

She is in bed, writing in her diary. I strip down and she watches with lustful eyes. Then she licks her lips. And I go hard. I crawl into the bed she isn’t in and roll onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow. It has that motel smell, and I wish I had her pillow instead of this one.

I close my eyes, and before the darkness sets in, I feel her sitting on my ass. She is wearing my favorite outfit. I don’t have to look at her to know it. I can feel the heat from her * through my boxers and her naked legs on either side of my hips.

“I’ve always been a dreamer,” she says as her hands rub together and then stroke my back. They are wet with lotion. The pressure is intense, but feels so f*cking good I almost moan. “I’ve wanted to be just about everything. It started with a lawyer when I was a kid. I didn’t even know what they did, but I wanted to be one.” She makes her way to my shoulders, then slides her hands down my spine, across to my hips, and back again to my shoulders.

“Then I wanted to be a teacher. I like kids, but twenty-four of them for eight hours a day is too much.” I’m trying to concentrate on her words, but her hands are all over me and it’s hard to focus. “Anyway, I aspired to be a singer and when that didn’t work out, I chose massage therapy. I never made it through the whole class, but I did learn the basics.” And it shows.

I feel myself relax under her touch, and eventually my body has the same consistency of the jelly we ate this morning.

“I love the way your muscles feel under my hands,” she whispers, and I tense at her choice of words. Love. Not like, but love. “I want to rub you every day.”

I want her to. And I want her to tell me she loves doing it. That word sounds perfect on her lips. She is humming. I don’t know this song either, but it’s beautiful. I don’t know if it’s her humming, her touching me, or the fact that I used up all my energy killing a man this morning, but I fall into the deepest most restful sleep I’ve had in years.

—

The next morning, we’re up early and ride hard until I reach Oklahoma City. I check in at a motel, watch Saylor perform her ritual, and then hit her with the news of my leaving.

“I have some business I have to handle. I booked the room for two nights. It might be tomorrow before I’m back.” I watch as she falls on the bed, clearly exhausted from the long ride.

“’K. I’m just gonna take a bubble bath and watch a few chick flicks.” She doesn’t seem bothered in the least about my leaving, and I wonder if she’s thankful for some time alone. When I watch her drag herself back out of bed to retrieve her bag by the door, I know it’s only the exhaustion talking. We rode too hard today.

I pull some twenties out of my wallet and lay them on the table by the window. “Order some takeout. I’ll be back later.” She stops long enough to look at me, then offers me a smile.

“Be careful.” No one had ever told me to be careful. Shady had once said “don’t die,” but that was as close as I’d gotten to anyone caring.

“Will do.” I leave, knowing I can’t stay any longer. I need to put distance between us and the softening effect Saylor has on me. I need to get focused. I have a job.

Oklahoma City has a problem and I’m the solution. My orders today were to pull the president’s patch and give it to the sergeant at arms, and eighty-six the current vice president. Eighty-sixing someone can involve a few different things, but the outcome is the same. He will never ride for an MC again. But this one deserves a visit to the hospital as his parting gift. And that’s exactly what the f*ck he is gonna get.

“Headstrong” by Trapt is blaring in my ears when my tires hit the pavement, and the song is so fitting I put it on repeat. This is who I am. This is what I do. I’m not the lust-struck, hand-holding, tear-wiping * I’ve been the past several days. Today, I’m Dirk—Sinner’s Creed Nomad National.

—

It’s late when I roll into the Sinner’s Creed Oklahoma City chapter’s clubhouse. They are all here waiting for me. They were informed I was coming and I know they are scared. Every f*cking one of them.

This is a 1 percent MC. These are men who are trained to hurt, trained to endure hurt, and trained to kill. But only a few can compete with the best. And I’m the best. I’m the best at hurting, enduring, and killing. I’m the man they fear because I have nothing to lose, and they know that.

I have no home, no family, and nothing but this patch that keeps me alive and makes this life worth something. I’m the man they fear because I’m the one who puts them in their place when they f*ck up. It’s in my blood to be a member of Sinner’s Creed. I’m third generation, and I’m old school.

I don’t take shit, I don’t give shit, and I don’t give a f*ck about the politics. I respect every man that wears the same patch as I do, but I only like a few of them. By like I mean I can be around them for an extended amount of time and not want to rip their f*cking heads off.