Sinner's Creed (Sinner's Creed #1)(42)

“I was seven years old when a man, who I was told was my father, dropped me off here. My grandfather didn’t want me anymore than my ol’ man did, but he didn’t have a choice. I guess he could have dropped me off somewhere too, but he didn’t. I reckon that’s why I put up with his shit for so long. He must have cared about me to keep me around.”

Thoughts of a life without Black were just as unpleasant as the memories of life with him. “Even though my life here was shit, it was life, and that was better than the alternative. Or so I thought.” I tense at my words, wishing I had kept them to myself. I look at Saylor, searching her eyes for the pity I hope is there so I can shut up, but her eyes are void of emotion, and her kind smile urges me to continue. Well, f*ck.

I grab a cigarette and have half of it smoked before I continue. “I never had a chance to be a kid. My grandfather, Black, had me doing club shit before I was old enough to know what I was doing. When I finally figured it out, I was so good at it that I didn’t want to stop. It helped me keep my mind occupied, out of Black’s way and in his good graces.”

“What did you have to do?” I shouldn’t tell her. But I do.

“When a shipment of drugs came, I prepared it for individual distribution.” I stare at the Formica dining table and matching chair where I spent endless hours cutting, weighing, and bagging cocaine.

Mindlessly, my hand went to my ear, rubbing the permanent grooves caused from the mask I wore for so long. Sometimes days at a time. “I handled the money, making sure Black got a bigger cut, and figuring out a way to hide it. That’s how I got so good with numbers.”

“Fifty-fifty is a deal made between fools. Sixty-forty is a silent deal for the man who no longer wants to be a fool.”

“By the time I was twelve, I knew as much about the business as Black. At fourteen I was dealing. And at sixteen I had more respect than any man around these parts. Other than Black.”

I look at Saylor’s face. It’s impassive. I wonder what she is thinking, but I don’t ask. I light another smoke, letting my eyes land on everything and letting everything trigger a memory.

Kitchen floor: where I witnessed Black murder a man by strangulation. Refrigerator: the first time Black hit me. Couch: the orgy Black had with two women and three brothers. Living room window: the hours I spent looking out of it, waiting for Black to return. Front door: the hours I spent listening for it to open, waiting for Black to leave. The hallway: the last time Black hit me and the first time I hit him.

I swallow hard, remembering that feeling of power I got when I realized I finally had control of my own life. I want to relive it like I have done many times, but I want to tell it more.

“I was fifteen.” I stare down the hall, my eyes focusing on the closet door at the end of it. I feel Saylor’s eyes on me. At some point, she had climbed on the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining room. I clear my throat and start again.

“I was fifteen when I transitioned from a boy to a man. I’d been gone all day, delivering shit to clients that had midmonth orders. It was July and unusually hot. I was so f*cking tired. I’d sold out, which wasn’t unusual for me. But this time, Black didn’t have any for himself and was pissed when I showed up with a pocket full of cash and not a single bag of coke. I never argued with him. I just let him cuss me until that wasn’t enough, then I let him hit me until he was satisfied that I understood why he was right and why I was wrong. He started in, calling me every motherf*cker in the book while he sat on his ass in the living room. When he didn’t get a response, he stood up and yelled louder. I walked down the hall away from him. Just like the coward he was, he pushed me from behind. I lost my balance and fell against the hall door.”

I reach my hand up, fingering the scar in my brow. My eyes fall on the hinge at the bottom of the door, and I stare at it just like I did years ago. “I hurt him that night. I hurt him so bad that I spent the next three days nursing him back to health because I couldn’t bring myself to let him die. We never spoke of it and he never put his hands on me again. I just wish I had that strength when I was seven.” I’m staring at the hinge, replaying the scene again. Saylor’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

“Where is he now?” I turn to see Saylor still on the counter, her hands fisted in her lap. Her expression is a mixture of anger and pride. But still, there is no pity. I think about her question before I answer. I could tell her simply, or I could tell her the whole truth. She didn’t tell me she was proud of me for standing up to him, and she doesn’t have to. It’s written on her face. I did everything in my power to put that look on Black’s face and I never saw it. Yet this woman that I’ve spent less than two weeks with wears it. That in itself deserves the whole truth.

“I killed him.”





11


I WATCH SAYLOR closely, waiting for her reaction, and I don’t expect any less than what she tells me.

“Good.” She gives me a nod of approval, burning her eyes into mine like she wants me to feel the hate she has for this man that she doesn’t know. I could tell her how. I could tell her why, but I won’t. She doesn’t need the details. I’m sure she thinks it’s because of what he did to me, but it’s not. When I became a Nomad, I took a job. One that I did without question no matter the target.