Sinner's Revenge (Sinner's Creed MC #2)(15)

“She don’t have my balls, *.”

“So why couldn’t you bust a nut?” Smart-ass. But he’s right.

Diem had me by the balls. And that’s exactly where she wanted me. But after next week, that shit was gonna change. I’d let her play her games long enough. Now she was gonna play mine.





6


I ALWAYS DO my best to avoid worst case scenarios. But when you add the blistering heat of El Paso, Texas, a tired, pissed-off Rookie, two Mexicans who refuse to speak English, and an eighteen-wheeler trailer missing half of our shit, worst case scenario is exactly what you get.

“Where’s the rest of the shipment?” I ask, speaking slower this time in hopes they understand. My patience is running thin, but somehow, I’m keeping my shit together. I can’t say the same for Rookie.

The two drivers standing in front of us, just off the deserted, dusty back road we’d met them at over an hour ago, once again start speaking at a rate I can’t follow. Every now and then, I catch a word I understand, but I’m still clueless as to what the f*ck they’re trying to say. These aren’t our normal drivers. They’re new, but have clearance from our contact across the border. We were told we could trust them. I’m not so sure anymore.

“Shady,” Rookie warns. I hold my hand up to silence him. He rolls his neck, and flexes his hands—never a good sign.

“Ricardo! English!” Even my raised tone isn’t enough to persuade him. I catch a glimmer of humor in his eyes, and the moment I hear Rookie mutter, “f*ck it,” I know he saw it too.

Pulling a gun from his back, he points it between Ricardo’s eyes. I pull mine too. Not to be outdone, I fire—grazing the flesh on his partner Eddie’s right arm. He screams like a girl, but closes his mouth when I cock my head to the side in warning.

“I’m not as good of a shot as Shady.” The calmness in Rookie’s voice is more frightening than his anger. “If I pull this trigger, I’m gonna f*ck something up. Permanently. Now, where is our shit?”

“It’s coming. Tomorrow. I swear on mi m-madre,” Ricardo stutters, swallowing loudly. His eyes cross as he looks at Rookie’s gun positioned between them.

“Why tomorrow?”

“Problem at the border.”

“Why the f*ck didn’t you just say that?” Gone is the calmness in Rookie’s voice. Now, he’s pissed.

Ricardo gives him a sheepish grin and shrugs. “Just f*ckin’ around, mano.”

“I’m not your f*ckin’ brother,” Rookie sneers, lowering his gun.

I shoot him an amused look. “I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.”

“And I thought you did.”

“I do,” I say, sticking my gun back in my pants. “Fluently.”

“Do you even know what fluent means?”

“Of course, papi.” He glares at me a moment before shaking his head in disgust and walking away. I turn to Ricardo, and my smile falters when I see the shit-eating grin on his face. “What?”

“You called him daddy.”

Of course I did.


*

The job in Texas kicked my ass. By the time I make it back to Hillsborough, I’m exhausted. But I find the energy to check the house and make sure it’s still in one piece. I also look in the closets and under the bed. It would be just like Diem to find a way past my security system, to hide somewhere and then kill me in my sleep.

I haven’t heard from her since that one night. She never called back, and hell would freeze over before I called her. Tonight I would be getting my truck back. Once I had it, I would start planning my revenge. Diem had more than earned my wrath. Now she was about to get it.


*

It’s almost three in the afternoon when I roll my sorry ass out of bed. After a quick workout, I shower, then pull up the GPS on my truck that’s linked through my computer. I write down the coordinates, then program them into the navigation on the rental car I’d picked up at the airport.

The address leads me to a small house at the end of a dirt road. A black BMW sits next to a truck that looks like mine. But, it couldn’t be mine. Because this one was completely totaled. Chunks of grass and dirt hang from the busted grill. The front tire is completely missing, and the others are damaged beyond repair.

Long scratches run the length of the truck, deep enough for the metal to be shining through. What isn’t scratched is dented or dirty. It’s not even black anymore. It’s gray. The windshield is busted, the headlights are busted, the driver’s side door is caved in, and I can’t help but hope her face looks the exact same way.

Without hesitation, I walk to the front door. Not bothering to knock, I turn the knob. It opens easily into a large den. My eyes scan the room. There is a leather sectional that takes up the majority of the space, a coffee table, a flat-screen, and a mural of a woman wearing a red dress. But my focus is on the woman who has a gun trained on me.

“I don’t know if you’re brave or just stupid.” Diem lowers the gun back into the side of the couch where she is laying. I should feel good about what I see, but I don’t. I wanted her to look as bad as my truck did. But she doesn’t. She looks worse.

I survey my surroundings a little more and notice how messy the place is. Empty water bottles, old pizza, bloody gauzes, bandages and about twenty NyQuil bottles litter the coffee table and floor. I step closer, shoving my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching out to her. But I still don’t know if it’s to hurt her or help her.