Sinner's Creed (Sinner's Creed #1)(98)

Still, I feel nothing.

Then, there is silence.

My eyes focus on the lights that shine down the two-lane road in front of me. Heavy footsteps surround me and a dark figure blocks the beam of light from my view. I somehow find the strength to meet the eyes of the man who stands before me. Cyrus.

He says something, but I can’t hear him. Before the darkness completely consumes me, my last vision is of the shiny, metal barrel of his gun.

Then, nothing.

—

I don’t know how long it’s been, but I begin to feel. I wait for the smoldering heat to be so intense that my body ignites in flames. I wait for the sound of painful cries and torture to fill my ears. I keep my eyes closed because I know that if I can feel and I can hear, then I can see. And I have an eternity to look at the misery before me.

But something isn’t right. I feel warmth, but not an agonizing, flesh-burning heat. What I hear is loud, but not cries of repent or suffering screams. I crack open one eye, and a shining, blue sky looks back at me. I open the other and stare up into an endless sea of blue sky and puffy white clouds.

My hands move beside me, and the softest granules of sand sift through my fingers. I sit straight up, and miles of ocean water stretch as far as I can see. I can feel, hear, and see so much, but I only have one thought.

I’m dead. And someone f*cked up.

There is no fire. There is no darkness. There is no Black. There is only me, the ocean, and the sky. The peacefulness is almost overwhelming, but it settles inside of me, infiltrating every part of my body.

Instead of panic, I feel comfort. Suddenly, I don’t know my name. I don’t know who I am or how I got here. I’m just here. Everything that seemed wrong and foreign only minutes ago seems right, and I know I belong here.

I inhale deeply, letting the scent of salt water and fresh air invade my lungs. There is a hint of citrus in the air. I know I should recognize it, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

I pull my boots off and sink my toes into the sand at my feet. It feels like satin. I walk to the water, letting the tide cover the tops of my feet, and it feels warm and cool at the same time. The perfect temperature.

Then I feel something. Something magnetic pulling at me, causing me to turn my eyes back toward the tall palms that line the beach.

And I see her. She is a vision in white. Her hair is blond, curly, unruly, and sticks out over her head like she stuck her finger in a light socket. She is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Her smile is wide, two full, pink lips framing a set of perfect white teeth. Her dress flows at her bare feet that she places one in front of the other, bringing her to me. She stops inches from my face, closes her mesmerizing emerald eyes, and holds her arms out to her sides. The light breeze from the ocean swirls her hair around her head and I have the overwhelming urge to close my eyes too. Her scent fills me as memories come flooding back.

I’m a child, crying in the back room of a house. There is a man there, Black.

I’m a man, confused and torn on the inside. There is a knife in my hand and an unrecognizable man laying dead at my feet.

I’m wearing a vest. Thick, black leather covered in patches. I’m a Nomad for Sinner’s Creed.

Images of death, feelings of pain, memories of darkness, they overtake me and remind me of who I am.

Then there is her. She is scared. She is distracted. She is singing, dancing, crying, laughing, sick, hurt . . . Then there is me. I am angry. I am powerful. I am a monster. I am feeling, loving, caring, smiling, laughing, praying . . . I open my eyes and she is still in front of me. This angel. She looks shy, maybe even a little nervous. Then, she speaks.

“You’re late.”

“I’m Dirk.”

“I’m Saylor.”

“I know.”





EPILOGUE


PINK FLOYD’S “WISH You Were Here” is blasting on my stereo. I hear the low rumble of motorcycles, riding at a slow pace. Beneath my feet, the concrete shakes with the vibrations of pipes. Hundreds of bikes ride behind me in two straight lines. And in front of me, in a glass custom-built trailer, lays the body of my brother.

And my best friend.

I’ve tried to imagine I was honoring someone else by leading the pack in a final ride. My mind flashes with images of Dirk riding beside me. I can almost feel the hate radiating off him—his mind spinning in a hundred different ways on how to bring hell to those who just earned revenge by the hands of Sinner’s Creed’s finest. His presence is so powerful that I turn and look to my left, expecting to see him wearing that pissed-off look he perfected. But I see nothing.

The reality hits me again, and it hurts just as bad now as it did when I first found out.

One phone call.

Two words.

“Dirk’s dead.”

He’s gone.

Forever.

And all I have left are material things to remind me that he was real. His house. His money. What’s left of his bike. And Saylor’s diary—the most painful reminder of all.

He was her king.

She was his queen.

I hold the greatest love story of all time inside my cut—close to my heart. The story lives on, but their love will be buried today. Laid to rest with my brother, who’s freshly dug grave lays next to the woman who saved him.

I wish this tragedy had ended differently. It should have been me they found dead on that highway. It should be Dirk riding behind my casket today. I pulled the trigger that night. But Dirk took the fall. If he was here, he’d tell me to quit feeling sorry for myself. He’d tell me he only had two reasons to live—Saylor and Sinner’s Creed. One was already gone. The other he died for.