Sinner's Creed (Sinner's Creed #1)(32)

“I just said hello and this man asked who I was and I told him Saylor and he asked why I was answering your phone and I said you were asleep and he said not to interrupt you and then he asked where I was from and I told him ’cause I knew y’all must have been friends and . . .”

I’m not listening anymore. I’m in the bathroom away from her and her motherf*cking rambling. I’m still pissing when I hear her voice through the door. “Dirk, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I shouldn’t have answered it.”

It’s not that she answered it. It’s that Nationals knows she is with me. And they know her f*cking name. And where she lives. And if anything goes wrong, they will eliminate her because that’s how the game is played.

She is not innocent in this. They don’t know what all she knows and they don’t care. All they care about is protecting the club. Which is what their job is. It’s what my job is. Until I let a woman into my life and took her around the country with me while I took care of club problems. I did this. I couldn’t be pissed at Nationals—I couldn’t be pissed at her. But I am.

Her life is now in danger because she made it that way. I tried to protect her, but now there is no protecting her. She belongs to the club. They will take no chances, and they shouldn’t.

“Get your shit,” I snap at Saylor, even though she is standing by the door with her backpack on, ready to go. I throw on some clothes, and stomp out the door with her on my heels. I should take her to the nearest airport and send her ass home, but now I can’t. Now she will make that journey to Nevada with me, and she won’t be just some girl like I planned to introduce her as. She will be exactly what she told them, which is exactly who she is—Saylor Samson, a threat to Sinner’s Creed.

—

I don’t know what is gonna happen when we get to Nevada. The worst keeps popping in my head. Worst as in they tell me to get rid of her. Make her disappear, or they tell me they are gonna get rid of her and make her disappear. Who did I want more? Her or the club? I couldn’t live a life where they both existed. It wasn’t possible.

I expected Saylor to perform her normal ritual when I finally decided to stop for the night—six hundred miles later. But she didn’t. She went straight to the bathroom, took a shower, and when she came out, she kept her head down and her eyes out of sight. I decided then that I needed a drink.

So now I’m sitting in a bar, less than a mile from where she is probably sleeping, attempting to drown myself in a bottle of whiskey that I can’t bring myself to touch. I’ve been sitting here looking at this f*cking glass for almost an hour, and all I can see in the amber liquid is her face. This must be what depression feels like.

I put the glass to my lips, but before I can take a sip, I’m greeted by a woman who is anything but Saylor. A month ago, I would be banging her in the bathroom in a matter of minutes, but now all I can think about is how her perfume doesn’t smell like citrus. How her eyes are not that breathtaking shade of green. How she doesn’t have a heart-stopping smile and how her hair is perfectly straight and there isn’t a light socket in sight.

She is rubbing on me, wrapping her arms around my neck and shoving her big fake tits in my chest. She is telling me that she will suck my cock and how she knows I’m big, but that’s okay because she doesn’t have a gag reflex. She is grinding her hips in a way that lets me know she is good at what she does.

But she isn’t my kind of good. My kind of good is awkward, inexperienced, and perfectly imperfect. My good is in a T-shirt and panties that cover a set of tits that are small and natural, and the sweetest * I have ever tasted. And my good is alone. And I am here. And she is guilty of nothing but being the best thing that has ever happened to me. And I’m a f*cking fool if I sit here one second longer.

I slide the woman the whiskey, lift her from my lap, and head back to the one thing that can save me from this drowning pool of depression. My life vest. My rescue. My Saylor.

—

Saylor is in the bed farthest from the door when I come in. She is on her side, facing away from me, and she is asleep. I sleep in the bed closest to the door, and tonight, she will sleep with me. I kick off my boots, and gather her in my arms. Hers instinctively go to my neck and I don’t know if it’s her or her subconscious that wants me, but some part of her wants me and that’s all that matters. Saylor is not asleep, though.

“I’m sorry, Dirk. I’m so sorry.” I could correct her and chew her ass for saying it, but there is no need. Right now, she really feels that way. And I haven’t given her any reason to feel different.

“I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m so stupid!” She is disappointed, sad, hurt, angry, and regretful. And each one of these emotions is directed at herself. I would feel much better if they were directed at me.

Now, Dirk. Now is the time to say something. I’m opening my mouth to speak. I might even be preparing to make those shhhing sounds that you use to calm women and babies, but Saylor is sniffing me and she doesn’t like what she smells.

“You’ve been with someone.” Her tone is not accusatory. She is saying it like this is her punishment, and she is willing to accept it. “I can’t believe I’ve done this. I’ve ruined us. I’ve ruined you. I’ve ruined everything.”

She sounds so defeated that I can literally feel my heart breaking. I pull her closer to me and she doesn’t pull away. She holds tighter, touching every part of my cut as if to mask the woman’s scent with her own.