Sinner's Creed (Sinner's Creed #1)(53)
Being a one-percenter is about more than numbers. Quality over quantity and all that shit. We hung around for five years, prospected for one, and some probated for two. It took a lot to earn the trust that was given and the respect that was needed. I’d give my life for a brother I’ve never met because I know he’s had to prove himself. And he’d give his life for me—no questions asked.
Our patch united us because we all sacrificed something to get it. Our pride, our freedom, and our lives. Even though one-percenters were their own government, we all had to answer to someone. And that someone was Dorian, the infamous don for the Underground Mafia. We actually worked for Dorian, as did Death Mob. While we handled the majority of the transfer and did all the illegal dirty work, it was Dorian who handled the distribution—which was considered to be the most important and riskiest part of the illegal operations. Therefore, they got the biggest cut and they called the shots.
Sinner’s Creed and the Underground had been in business together for a long time. History had proven our loyalty to them, but at the end of the day it was all about business. And engaging in a war with Death Mob was bad business. Dorian had the power to pull the strings on all of us. If Sinner’s Creed lost their position with the Underground, then the club would fold.
“We can’t do shit about how they run things. All we can do is keep an eye on them and let them know where we stand. I’m here for the paperwork; you’re here for the dirty work.” Shady sticks out his lower lip. “You get to have all the fun.”
“You sound like a fag.” He laughs at my response. Nothing against men who like men, but I can’t stand a man that acts all prissy-fied. Shady couldn’t be more gay in this moment if he wore a dress and lipstick. Considering he is still laughing, I know he did it on purpose. Glad he can prove my theory. The best way to go from * to Nomad in less than five minutes was to be in an enclosed space with Shady. I guess that’s why I love him. Fuck.
14
THE CLUBHOUSE IN Houston doubles as a honky-tonk that is open to the public on Friday and Saturday nights. Today, it’s only filled with patches, and they all belong to Sinner’s Creed. A black Harley Street Glide is parked at the door and I know it’s there for me. A Prospect that goes by the name of Rookie is wiping the saddlebags when I walk up.
I’ve met Rookie a few times, and I know by the determination on his face and the fearless look in his eyes that he is gonna be a good brother. I’m pretty intimidating, and if a man can look at me and not show fear, he has my respect. If I don’t scare him, nothing will.
It’s hard to prospect without the help of narcotics. It makes for a long year of minimal sleep and food, and a f*ck of a lot of tongue biting. By the calmness in his demeanor, the exhaustion in his face, and the deep circles under his eyes, I can tell that Rookie is proving himself to this club and he’s doing it without drugs. That earns him more than respect from me.
“Rookie.” I give him my salute and he nods in return, knowing better than to offer his hand.
“Dirk.” He doesn’t bow before me or throw himself at my feet, but to him I’m worthy of it. Because I’m the man to impress. “Can I get you a beer?”
“Yeah. Bring two.” He disappears inside and I prop up against the building and light a smoke. My phone buzzes in my pocket and I know it’s Saylor.
Delay. They say they are working on the engine. My luck. Because I’m a nervous wreck and I miss you, I’m getting drunk.
I smirk at the screen before realizing that Saylor is getting drunk and I’m not there to warn off any men who think they can f*ck with what’s mine.
Anybody f*cking with you?
She answers almost immediately.
No, Mr. Overprotective. No one is f*cking with me. I miss you.
Because she makes me soft, and Shady is nowhere in sight, I ignore her comment and end the conversation.
Text me when you land.
I shove the phone back in my pocket, but it vibrates again.
“Fuck,” I mutter, pulling it back out and thinking that maybe giving Saylor a phone wasn’t such a good idea. Especially since she’s drinking.
You are the biggest, baddest, meanest motherf*cker I know. Go get ’em baby.
I’m smiling at the screen. And I don’t know why. Even from a distance, she can see right through me. I look up to find Rookie staring at me like I’m crazy. My smile dies and I snatch the beer from his hand.
“Don’t ask,” I mutter, shoving the phone in my pocket. Rookie drops his eyes to his boots, but his hat can’t cover his smirk. By the sissy bar on the back of my bike and the passenger floorboards that have been installed, I’m pretty sure the news of Saylor has reached Houston. “You got a girlfriend?” I ask, and his confused look tells me that he is wondering why in the f*ck I’m striking up a conversation.
“I do,” he says, and for some reason, it makes me like him more.
“What’s her name?” I ask, motioning for him to drink with me. He tilts the bottle to me in thanks and takes a long pull before answering.
“Carrie. She’s great.” He smiles and it’s not at me. It’s at the thought of her.
“What she do?” He gives me a nervous look and I know what he is thinking. “It ain’t like that, Rookie. I’m just making conversation.” The truth is there are a lot of *s in this life. Some that would use women to see how big of a weakness they are for a Prospect. Seeking out girlfriends, lovers, or even wives, then taking pictures of them together and showing it to a Prospect to see what reaction they get isn’t unheard of. It’s actually pretty common. It never bothered me until now.