Sinner's Creed (Sinner's Creed #1)(54)

“She’s a nurse over at the Texas Children’s Hospital. I love ’er.” There is conviction in his voice, and he is making his point loud and clear. He don’t want her f*cked with. I can see the dare in his eyes and I know he’ll kill for that woman. Kill even me.

“How does she feel about the club?” I know I’m not having this conversation because I’m a changed man. I’m having it because I’m hoping his answers can shed some light on some of my own questions regarding me and Saylor’s relationship.

“This club is what I want. She respects that.” I know Rookie’s background. The club had saved his life when his daddy about beat him half to death. It was a coincidence that we were in the same place at the same time, but Rookie thought it was destiny. Hell, maybe it was. He is twenty-four. By twenty-five he will be a patch holder, and Carrie will spend the rest of her life coming in second place.

“What about what she wants?” I ask, and the question is not for him. It’s for me. I’d never even asked Saylor what she wanted. I’ve just assumed what she wants is me.

“She’s a good woman, Dirk. She has a good heart and she’s smart as hell. But she can’t fix me. And this club can. She loves me hard. So hard that she’s willing to give up part of me, just to have a piece of me. She gets it. And I love her more because of it.” He looks away, the demons of his past coming back to haunt him, and they are fighting with the angel that protects him. Rookie has a Saylor.

“You’ll make a good brother one day, Rookie. But in my eyes, you’re already one. Gimme your card.” His body sags at my words and he’s on the verge of tears. I know the feeling. My signature will get him a patch no matter how long he has left prospecting.

I see the relief in his face and it reminds me of the man I was before I became the man I am. Rookie won’t be forced to do the things that I did. My signature is enough. He won’t have to give his innocence, because I say he’s loyal enough without it. As I sign my name to his card, I feel a weight being lifted off my own shoulders. Today, Carrie is saved from the monster that could have been created. I just wish Saylor was as fortunate.

—

I lead the pack to Juke’s Joint, where members of Death Mob are known to hang out. Bikes line the front of the bar located in a shitty little building just off the interstate. We pull in, blocking their exit, and before I can light a smoke, they crowd around the door, watching us.

We stand our ground, demanding they make the first move. I could stand here all night, and it looks like I’m going to have to. It feels like Death Mob has something to prove. It is a show of respect to greet your superiors, and since Texas is our home state and we gave them permission to be here, we are superior.

While we wait, I take the opportunity to size up the men who could quickly become my potential enemies. They are big, dirty, and stand in a line of twelve. Their stances tell me they are ready for a fight, if that’s what we’re bringing to the table. That wasn’t the plan, but I’m always down for a good ass kicking.

Their size doesn’t intimidate me. Neither does the 1% patch they wear. Hell, I wear the same f*cking one. Where we are grouped, talking and bullshitting like they don’t exist, they stand silent. That is a show of weakness to me. If they don’t have shit to prove, then they shouldn’t act like they do. They look like they’re in a pissing contest over a piece of cheap * rather than a mutual show of respect between two MCs.

When Shady sends Rookie in to get some beers, shit begins to happen. When a man wears Sinner’s Creed colors, other MCs better show him some respect. It doesn’t matter if the word Prospect is on his patch or not. He may not be a patch holder, but he is sponsored by one. And Rookie’s sponsor was Shady. In all my years, I have only seen Shady lose his shit twice, and both times it was over someone disrespecting our patch.

When the men at the bar refuse to let Rookie pass, I know my count for Shady’s loss of control is about to change. I watch Rookie as he stands his ground. I know he is doing everything in his power to persuade the men that this isn’t what they want. He never looks over his shoulder at us for help because he doesn’t have to. He can fight his own battles—another reason he would make a good brother. But he won’t have to fight it alone for long. By the signature neck roll Shady performs when he’s ready to bust some heads, I know things are fixing to get bad.

I am two steps behind him when he makes his move toward the door. The rest of the club stays put when I shoot them a look. We have this. I don’t want a bar brawl right now, and Death Mob would be stupid to start one.

When we reach the porch where they are standing, Shady puts his hand on Rookie’s shoulder, pushing him back a step. When he is nose to nose with the sergeant at arms, he gives him that goofy grin that I f*cking hate. Or love. Or hate. Again, Shady has the ability to put me in a pissy mood without even knowing it. Now I want them to initiate a fight so I can hit something.

Shady’s motives are simple. Instead of going to the president, he goes to the SA. It saves time. If he had confronted the president, he would have had to deal with the SA anyway because that’s an SA’s job: protect the president.

“What the f*ck’s the problem?” Shady asks, his voice sickeningly sweet. I keep my eyes on the VP, warning him to keep his mouth shut.

“This bar is for patch holders only. Y’all can come in, but ya Prospect needs to stay outside. Maybe pick up some cigarette butts or something.” The president takes that moment to thump a cigarette into the gravel. Shady laughs, and I know better, but it almost sounds like he finds the SA’s remark humorous.