Sinner's Revenge (Sinner's Creed MC #2)(34)

Slowly but surely, we cross the hundred yards back through the woods and throw the bodies in the boats. Fifteen minutes later, we’re throwing them into the back of the covered trailer attached to the truck Tank is driving. We strip the men of everything but their underwear, before locking the door and driving to the location that is becoming a Death Mob cemetery.

I don’t let myself relax until we’re miles away from any threat to our plan. Now the fun begins. Unlocking the door, we find the men in all different states. Some are pissed. Some are confused. Some have their hands up in surrender. But they all wear a look of fear when their eyes focus on the ten men surrounding the trailer with automatics pointed at them. Just to make them even more uncomfortable, I drag out their impending doom.

“You know what I love about you boys?” Of course they don’t answer, but I give them time just in case. “Y’all are so predictable. I mean a shot after church? Really? What the f*ck are y’all toasting to?”

I look around at my brothers, who are itching with the desire to kill. I am too, but the sadist inside me wants a little more. I don’t just want their blood, I want their f*cking souls.

“Who are you?” one of the men asks. He’s so brave, I consider letting him live.

“Me?” I ask, feigning shock. “And here I was thinking I was some kind of celebrity.” I move suddenly, propping my leg up on the bumper of the trailer and the man flinches. Well, that sealed his fate. He wasn’t as brave as I thought he was. Now I guess he’ll die too.

“Who I am is not important,” I start, feeling my desire to kill overpower my desire to play games. I’d let them live long enough. “So I’ll cut the shit. Sinner’s Creed is using you to send a message,” I say, adrenaline rushing through me. My trigger finger twitches in anticipation. “And Dirk sends his condolences.”

Standing next to my brothers, I point my gun between the eyes of the first man I see. It only takes one shot for the others to follow suit. I watch as one by one they fall. All I can see is death. All I can hear are the sounds of gunshots ringing loudly in my ears. All I can smell is the scent of spilled blood. And it is f*cking divine.


*

Because I was the one who pulled San Antonio’s bottom rockers, I have to be the one to give them back. I fly down on Friday, and by Sunday I’m back in my house, which feels empty. The smell is too manly. The silence is annoying. And I realize what’s missing is Diem.

I can’t get her out of my head.

The scent of her *.

The shape of her ass.

The taste of her flesh.

I hate that she is under my skin. I’d rather have her clawing at it. Fuck, I want her. Again and again until I can’t move and she doesn’t want to leave. I consider calling her, but I refuse. I’m not that desperate.

To keep from going crazy, I drive to the bar, where Mick greets me with a beer and a shot. The place is crawling with people, busy even for a Friday night. I scan the room, hoping to find her. Wanting her to show up and order a shot and put it on my tab. But she doesn’t show.

Four drinks in, my pride has taken a nosedive and I text her.


Hey pretty girl.

Almost immediately, my phone buzzes with a response.


Bout time.

I smile.


You miss me or something?

Or something . . .

Come have a drink with me.


Can’t.

I feel a frown forming and knock back a shot, hoping to find my balls at the bottom of the glass. I wasn’t expecting that response. Something along the lines of on my way or of course with one of those little f*cking emojis I can never understand. Not just can’t.

My phone buzzes again and I nearly drop the bastard trying to read the message. I’m such a *.


You’re such a *. Look at you . . . frowning and shit.



I can sense her staring at me, and reluctantly, I drag my eyes up to find her smirking at me from across the room—phone in hand. I flip her the finger and she strolls over, stopping conversations and making every head turn as she walks. Pride swells in my chest and I shove it back down. I shouldn’t feel it because she doesn’t belong to me.

She’s dressed to kill in tight white pants, a low-cut red top that shows off her tits, and tall red high heels to match. Her short black hair is perfectly messy. Her lips are a deep red, her olive skin seems to glow, and those dark eyes are big and bright, shining with pure f*cking evil. She’s mouthwatering. But of course, I appear unaffected. To add to my fa?ade, I drag my eyes down her body and smirk. She stops and does a once-over, making sure her pants aren’t unzipped and there isn’t toilet paper on her shoe.

I laugh and she smacks me with the red wallet she’d been carrying under her arm. “I haven’t missed you at all,” she says, snapping her fingers at Mick, who happily obliges her with a shot. She throws it back and motions for him to keep them coming.

“I haven’t missed you either,” I lie, wanting to kiss that lipstick right off her juicy lips. I want to f*ck her in those heels. And tonight I will.

“Says the boy who pouts when I say I can’t drink with him tonight.”

“But, you’re here. So what does that say about you? Oh, I know.” I grab her drink, smiling at her. “It says you want me.”

“You’re right.”