Sinner's Creed (Sinner's Creed #1)(4)
I find her apartment building easily. It seems less than middle class, something maybe college kids would live in or single moms. I’ve imagined Saylor in something a little nicer than some shitty apartment. Something like a cottage on the lake, where she could watch the sunset every evening.
Sunset.
There’s that f*cking word again. Invading my thoughts and making me want to stick someone in the neck with my knife. I park across the street and pull out a smoke, inhaling deeply in hopes that the nicotine will calm my annoyance with my mind. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know what the hell I’m thinking. I’m confused, I’m out of my element, and I’m twisted the f*ck up.
Saylor isn’t home. I’ve been here over an hour, stalking her apartment like some kind of freak, and she has yet to show. I hate myself for missing her. I wish I could stay longer, but I have a job to do. My club comes first. And it always will.
—
I’m going too fast down the small road that leads me to the highway. I’m going so fast that I almost miss the tear-streaked face surrounded by a mass of blond hair that belongs to the body of the goddess who is walking down the sidewalk. I make an illegal U-turn in the middle of the street and race back toward her, stopping my bike several yards in front of where she is walking. When I get off and remove my helmet, I stand next to my bike, willing my legs to not walk up to her and take her in my arms and comfort her.
Comfort. Another word I’m not used to having in my head.
She walks closer, stopping a few feet from where I’m standing. Her eyes are sad, and I feel my heart speed up and my mind go into overdrive with all the forms of torture I can perform on the one who made her so sad.
“You’re late,” she says, and then I see it. It’s not a sunset or a rainbow or a clear blue sky. It’s something so much better. Even though her smile is sad and is only the one used when it’s appropriate to be polite, it’s the most beautiful f*cking thing I have ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot.
I don’t know what I’m late for. Was she expecting me? I want to ask, but I can barely make it through the introductions. I don’t know how in the hell I’ll ever have a conversation with this girl. Just her presence seems to overwhelm me.
“I’m Dirk.” My tone is harsh—the result of my pissed-off state, which just accelerated because she deserves a tone that is soft and kind and pleasant to her ears.
“I’m Saylor.”
“I know,” I tell her, and the look on her face says she might have already known that I did my research.
“I know I don’t know you, but I feel like I do.” I know exactly what she means, but I don’t tell her that. I just stare at her, willing her to speak again, so I can add that voice to my dreams. “I remember you.” Her admission doesn’t surprise me. But now I’m curious about how much she remembers and how much she knows.
As if she can see straight through me, she tells me exactly what I’m wanting to hear. “You helped me change my tire. I was scared of you that night. Just one look at your vest and I immediately stereotyped you.” She motions toward my cut with her hand. As if I couldn’t remember what it said, I look down at it. The 1% patch over my heart glares back at me, reminding me of who I am. I wonder if Saylor has done her research on me like I did on her. If she has, then this won’t go much further than it already has.
“Say my name,” I demand, wanting to hear how it sounds on her lips before she realizes what a bad idea this is and runs off. My eyes move to her mouth. I want to memorize the way it looks when her full, pink lips poke out to pronounce my name.
“Dirk.” And it’s perfect. I want to tell her to say it again, but she does so without my command. It’s like she can read my thoughts, and I immediately try to clear my head of anything that might offend her. “Is there room for two on that thing?” She’s standing with her arms crossed over her chest and when she nods her head toward my bike, the never-ending strands of wild, curly hair move, and the wind catches the scent and carries it straight to my nostrils at the same moment I inhale.
Motherf*cker.
Her hair smells fresh like citrus. Like oranges and lemons and shit. Not like hairspray and all those f*cking hair care products, but natural and clean. I feel the saliva building in my mouth.
“There’s room,” I say shortly. I don’t like to talk. I want to listen and I want her to tell me everything. And I want to smell her. I want to smell her hair and her neck and kiss the parts of her body other men didn’t care about or appreciate. Like the crease at her elbow, or behind her knee. I watch her walk toward me until she is standing so close that I nearly take a step back out of habit.
“Dirk,” she says, my name coming out of her mouth on a whisper, and I inhale her breath and let it coat the back of my throat. “I just need to get out of here.” Her eyes are pleading. They search mine, and I watch as they move back and forth in her head, looking for something from me. They are incredible. She is so close that I can see the thin brown circles that outline her bright green eyes. Green seems too simple of a word to describe them. Emerald isn’t much better, but the word suits not only the color, but the delicacy of them.
She notices my uneasiness. She can see the question in my eyes, the one that asks, Why the hell do you want to get on the back of a bike with a guy like me? Most women would do it because bad boys are appealing to them. It would be a thrill to throw all their inhibitions to the wind. But Saylor needs me for another reason.