Sinner's Creed (Sinner's Creed #1)(30)

Suddenly I can’t wait any longer to hear her voice. I’ve only heard her talk a few times today but it wasn’t enough. And we need to discuss what happened last night.

I’m exiting and we haven’t been riding an hour. Waffle House seems like a good place to eat, and I tell myself it has nothing to do with the fact that it is the closest restaurant to us.

I find us a booth in the back where I can see my bike, and she sits across from me. I like this because I can look at her. Like I always do. Or stare. Whatever the hell you want to call it.

When the waitress comes, she ignores Saylor and looks at me. I find her unappealing, but I see the look of lust in her eyes. I can read her just like I can read Saylor. The only difference is when I see it on Saylor, my dick gets hard. When I see it on the waitress, it’s f*cking annoying.

“Coffee and water,” I grumble, and she hasn’t even asked. But she is a waitress. What the f*ck else does she want? When she turns to Saylor, her look of lust turns to distaste. If I hit women, I would slap her. Saylor just smiles and orders chocolate milk. It’s not surprising.

I watch Saylor look over the menu, and I try to figure out what she would want. My best guess is a chocolate chip waffle, or an egg-white omelet. I don’t know why these two things pop in my head, but they do. She likes chocolate, and even though she has proven to not be a health nut, I’m sure at some point she does eat healthy.

I’m still looking at her, trying to burn a hole into her mind, when the waitress returns. She is looking at me again and it pisses me off. Everyone knows, ladies first. What a f*cking idiot. But we need to get on the road and I don’t want her to spit in my food.

“Steak and eggs. Medium on the steak, over-medium on the eggs.” I’m telling her this while I’m looking at Saylor. Her head is cocked to the side and she is eyeing me.

“Are you in my head?” she asks with a curious smile. I wish Saylor, I f*cking wish. “Same for me,” she tells the waitress, and she doesn’t look at her either. I’m glad she can’t take her eyes off me.

“When I was little, my mom had this boyfriend and he would never let me order for myself. Even when I was old enough to know what I wanted, he would always order for me.”

I watch as she takes a sip of her milk, and I’m so happy she is talking that the waitress could shit in my food at this point and I wouldn’t care. “He always made me get a waffle. Just because I was a kid doesn’t mean I had a bad taste in food. So my mom and I went out once without him and she told me to get whatever I wanted, so I ordered what he always had. Steak. And I loved it.”

She laughs at the memory, but even her laughter can’t help this feeling that I am just like her mom’s boyfriend. Not that I would ever make her get a f*cking waffle, but I did think that was what she wanted. Do I label her as an immature adult? Do I consider her childish? I mean, she did order chocolate milk.

“Why did you order that drink?” I really need to work on my tone.

“Because it’s chocolate milk.” I’m confused by her answer. She said it like her reason was obvious, and I don’t know what the f*ck that means, and I don’t like her being so damn evasive. It’s a first for her.

“Try it.” I look down at the milk. Does she think I’ve never had it? “Some things in life you just can’t pass up. Chocolate milk is one of them.”

I look at her and I see a sadness in her eyes. I don’t know if it’s because I’m an * and I hurt her feelings or because some old memory is triggered, but I’m drinking because I’m hoping it will take her sadness away. When I drain half of her glass without realizing it, I finally understand her answer. And I don’t know why in the hell I ever passed it up.

We’ve eaten and are now just staring across the table at each other when I finally address the big-ass elephant in the room. “About this morning,” I say, hoping she will take the conversation from there. I watch her face flush and I wonder if she had already forgotten about nearly dying this morning. “Before that.” Her cheeks darken further and she drops her head.

“What about it?” She is way too nonchalant.

“You could have been killed, Saylor.” My emphasis on the word kill does little to scare her.

“But I wasn’t.” I stare at her, wondering if I should lean over and shake her. Does she not realize the danger she is in as long as she is with me? “I was scared. Hell, I was terrified. But for some reason, it was kind of exciting.”

I watch her eyes grow at the memory and it makes me want to hit something. I don’t know what I’m more pissed at. Her for being so fearless, or me at being so proud that she is an adrenaline junkie—just like me.

“You’re f*ckin’ crazy,” I say, more to myself than to her. She snaps her head up, then throws her straw at me. I’m starting to think she’s serious, when she smiles.

“I prefer the term ‘f*cked up.’” She smiles wider and I just shake my head. I turn away from her and can’t help but smirk. Saylor Samson may very well be f*cked up. But she’s my kind of f*cked up, and I wouldn’t have her any other way.





8


WE’RE IN COLORADO, it’s four in the morning, and Saylor is not in bed. I’m scanning the room, willing my eyes to adjust to the darkness, trying to find her. She is not in my bed, not in the other bed, and not sitting at the table. But the bathroom door is shut and I know it was open when I went to sleep. I should wait five minutes, figuring she is probably just pissing, but only two pass before I am on my feet. I knock on the door, but there is no answer. I try again and still, no answer. The door is unlocked, and when I push it, something is lying against it. I feel myself panicking. I know it’s her.