by Kim Jones
PRAISE FOR
SINNER’S CREED
“This may look like a classic Motorcycle Club tale, but Jones takes it to another level with a depth and realness that is absolutely refreshing.”
—New York Daily News
“Unlike any MC romance you’ve ever read. Jones delivers an angsty, heart-wrenching and wholly unique story.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Profane and raw.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[Jones] takes the harshness of the MC lifestyle and breathes life into it . . . [Sinner’s Creed] has every element that MC lovers crave and all the heart that romance lovers need.”
—Mommy’s a Book Whore
ALSO BY KIM JONES
Sinner’s Creed
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2016 by Kim Jones.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Jones, Kim, date– author.
Title: Sinner’s revenge / Kim Jones.
Description: Berkley trade paperback edition. | New York : Berkley Books,
2016. | Series: A Sinner’s Creed novel ; 2
Identifiers: LCCN 2015045536 (print) | LCCN 2015049996 (ebook) | ISBN
9781101987728 (softcover) | ISBN 9781101987711 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Motorcyclists—Fiction. | Man-woman relationships—Fiction. |
BISAC: FICTION / Romance / Contemporary. | FICTION / Contemporary Women. |
FICTION / Romance / General. | GSAFD: Love stories. | Romantic suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3610.O6267 S58 2016 (print) | LCC PS3610.O6267 (ebook)
| DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015045536
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley trade paperback edition / July 2016
Cover photo by Claudio Marinesco.
Cover design by George Long.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
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To the true meaning of brotherhood, and those who express it.
“I have only one job in this life—to be my brother’s keeper.”
—BHMS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To God for giving me the gift of life, the courage to take a chance, and an eternal love.
The husband who loves me.
My family who believed in me.
My friends who bought me booze.
HNDW—my inspiration.
Amy Tannenbaum because I feel obligated.
The Berkley team who made this possible.
Everyone I forced to sit on my futon, so I could read to them.
Katy Evans—the woman who just gets me.
The BFF who has been with me since day one.
And every reader who makes my dreams come true every day.
CONTENTS
PRAISE FOR Sinner’s Creed
ALSO BY KIM JONES
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
EPIGRAPH
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
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, lies the body of my brother.
And my best friend.
I’ve tried to imagine I was honoring someone else while 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, whose freshly dug grave lies 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 were 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.
He’d give me that look that made me feel stupid. Then he’d ask, “Do you really think I’d just lay down and die? I went out the way I wanted. They didn’t kill me, Shady. I was already dead.”
And he was.
He is.
Tears fill my eyes, but I force them back. Dirk doesn’t want my tears. He wants my wrath. My tribute will be paid by slaughtering those who did this. It’s more meaningful, and a fuck of a lot bloodier.
Inside, I’m screaming in agony. But no one can hear me. My eyes are filled with sorrow and loss. But no one can see it. My chest aches with a thousand flames from the fiery sea of hell. But no one can feel it. No one but me.
Shady.
The man who was born with nothing, lost everything he’d gained, and has something he doesn’t deserve. Life.
Whatever controls me, whether it is my instincts or my subconscious, leads me to a deep hole surrounded by men and a handful of shovels. These men are said to be my brothers, but the truth is, only one ever really earned that title. And I watch as they lower his body into the ground.
Every patch holder strives to make the club prosper. Many will die trying. Dirk did it by just existing. His life stood for what the patch really means. And his death proved that he was willing to give it all for Sinner’s Creed.
He will be remembered as the greatest Nomad that ever rode.
A man of power.
A leader.
A ruthless enforcer.
A fucking legend.
He’s the most loyal man I ever knew. I never understood respect until I gained his. He’s the greatest loss I’ve ever suffered. And in this moment, I struggle to find the strength to let him go.
I want to crawl into the six-foot hole and breathe life back into his body. I want the man who was too fucking mean to die to rise from this grave. But death was peace for Dirk. And now I have to be at peace too.
I grab a handful of dirt, letting it slowly sift through my fingers and fall reverently on my brother. The granules of sand drop silently, but I swear I can hear every particle as they land on the wooden box.
The other patch holders follow suit, taking turns to bury one of our own. The process is slow and torturous, but I beg for it to go on forever. I know that once the hole is filled, then it’s over. It will be the end. Just like the last page in Saylor’s diary.
This is the end. The end to a beautiful life for me, Saylor Samson.
Now it’s the end of Dirk’s life. The only beauty of it came from his time with Saylor. With her he found happiness. And when he found it, it was like I found it too. But just like Dirk, that happiness is now buried.
After everyone leaves, I kneel at his grave. My fingers dig into the soft dirt as I bow my head. Two tears escape me. It’s all I allow myself. A tear for Dirk, and a tear for me. A part of me did die out on that highway with him. And today, that Shady is laid to rest. As I stand, I leave what’s left of who I was.
I’m no longer the lost little boy who nobody wanted. I’m not a young man searching for his place in the world. I’m not the same guy who ran his fingers over the threads of his new patch again and again.
My anger is fueled by all that’s been lost. Fury blazes in my eyes. Rage consumes me. Revenge is my only thought. Killing is my ultimate goal. Death is the only justice.
Death Mob killed Dirk. Now they’ll pay the price. Their blood will pour like rain from the sky. Their bodies will decompose in shallow graves. The smell of their fear will fill the air. Their days are limited. Their nights will be haunting. One by one, they’ll die. Every death will send a message: I’m coming for them.
All of them.
But I’m not coming alone.
I’m bringing hell with me.
1
DIEM
WHEN I FIRST saw him, I knew he was the one who could make me happy. Even though he tried to conceal it, there was a playfulness about him. He wasn’t trying to flirt with the waitress; it just seemed natural. I could tell the demons he carries haven’t always been there.
I watched the way he narrowed his dark eyes at her, then countered the move with a small smirk. The way his middle finger tapped lightly on the table, drawing attention to his rough and calloused hands. The way he sipped his beer slow, making sure to lick his lips after his pull—teasing the waitress with thoughts of what he could do to her with his mouth.
What he could do to me.
He was no fool. He knew I was watching. When he stood, he made sure to walk around the side of the table that gave me a full view of him. He was shorter than six feet, but not by much. His body was lean, but muscular and toned. The white polo he wore contrasted perfectly with his tanned skin—the sleeves clinging tightly to his sculpted arms and across his broad chest. His jeans sat low on his waist and hung loose on his legs.
The tattoos on his arms formed a beautiful, intricate pattern that started at his wrists and disappeared under his shirt. They seemed to hold some type of meaning, one that couldn’t be deciphered by anyone but him.
Even though he dressed the part, he seemed to be out of place. It was as if he was fighting to fit in, but really didn’t belong. Unbeknownst to him, I felt the same way.
He disappeared inside without a single glance in my direction, but somehow, I felt like he was watching me—fully aware of every thought in my mind. I found myself longing for his return so I could find what it was about him that made me feel like I’ve never felt before.
Was there really such a thing as instant attraction? I’d read about it in books, watched it in movies and dreamt of it, but was it real? Or was I so obsessed with finding something to replace the monotony in my life that my subconscious had conjured up this feeling I had?
My thoughts shatter, my dreamy state lost as a guy at the bar approaches me. The light breeze blowing across the patio allows his scent to waft toward me, and I cringe from the expensive cologne overkill. Even his breath smells like Dolce & Gabbana.
“Can I buy you a drink?” the young, attractive guy asks. He’s midtwenties, tall, muscular, and has the kind of hair that begs a girl to run her fingers through it. But even his silky locks can’t get the image of short black hair hidden beneath a white ball cap out of my thoughts.
“No.” I’m hoping my short answer is enough to persuade him to move the fuck along. Through my peripherals, I can see his stance is cocky, his smirk is confident, and his ego isn’t suffering in the least. He’s so sure of himself that he orders me a fruity cocktail, immediately stereotyping me to be the kind of girl who enjoys that shit. His boldness tells me one thing—he’s looking to get laid.
On my left, another guy approaches. Maybe they’re brothers. Maybe they’re hoping for a little three-way action. Maybe there really are desperate women left in this world who fall for this type of bullshit. The new guy leans on the bar. Looking over the top of my head, he holds a conversation with the asshole on my right. He’s telling him that what I need is a shot, not a cosmopolitan. His actions tell me that he is a certified schmuck. The kind that gets girls drunk and takes advantage of them. He’s pretty sure I’m one of those girls.
“You on vacation, or you from around here?” I don’t acknowledge him. He laughs with the other one, moves in closer and speaks again. “I like your legs.”
I’m counting. I usually start back from ten, but I’m already past the point of pissed off, so I’m in the negatives. I’m trying to ignore them. But my body is buzzing. My strong desire to see them in pain is overpowering my control.
“You must have a boyfriend.” He ducks his head and tries to meet my eyes. When I turn on my stool to face him, prepared to unleash my wrath, my eyes land on him.
He’s standing next to us at the bar, his eyes on me. They’re cold, unfeeling, and distant. I’m still staring, my mouth slightly parted, my breath a little heavier when his eyes leave me and focus on the bartender. With the slightest lift of his index finger, he gives the command for another beer. It’s such a simple gesture. There’s nothing worldly about his demand. But he makes it seem so powerful and lethal—like with just the lift of his finger, he could turn everybody in the bar to dust.
I’ve forgotten the other men, but they haven’t forgotten me, and their eyes follow mine to the man standing there as if this is his world and we’re just living in it.
“Who? This guy?” He claps the man hard on the shoulder, but he doesn’t budge. His eyes drag ever so slowly and deadly to the hand that remains on him.
“Get your fucking hand off me.”
One demand.
Six words.
It’s
all I need to know that he is the one who can protect me. His words are so dangerous and threatening that the air grows colder with their iciness.
The scent of cologne fades slightly as the men stand to attention, ready to fight. Even though they move to stand between us, the force I feel radiating from him is unwavering.
“Or what, Adam Levine?” They laugh, taunting him. He is outnumbered. Outsized. The odds are against him. But he’s unaffected. He’s not intimidated, afraid, or the least bit worried. And something tells me that his confidence isn’t just a front.
When the fingers on his shoulder curl the slightest bit, my eyes widen, making sure to capture every moment of what I know is coming next.
The sound of a fist meeting flesh echoes around me, a second before a limp body falls at my feet. Then the face of the man that was beside him is met with the worn wood on the bar, splattering blood in every direction before sliding to the floor.
It took less than three seconds. Now it’s over. And the silence is everywhere.
His eyes are locked on mine, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. His breathing is controlled but I can see the veins in his neck pulsing with the rush of adrenaline. He’s not smiling. He’s not angry or happy or proud. He’s just as expressionless as I am.
He grabs his beer from the bar, stepping over the motionless bodies that lay unconscious on the floor. He throws some money down and nods to the bartender. Then, he turns to me, his narrowed, dark eyes holding me in place. Once again, his index finger extends slightly, this time in my direction.
“You’re welcome.”
I’m completely undone. Chaos surrounds me, but my focus is solely on him.
This man.
This being.
This force.
And as I watch him leave, I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is the one . . .
The one who is going to break my heart.
2
SHADY
IT’S BEEN SIX months since Dirk’s death. Six months since I buried him. Six months since I left Jackpot and everything else behind. Sinner’s Creed is still my club. Still my life. But right now, my only priority is revenge.