by Kim Jones
I slam my fist on the table, squeezing my eyes shut in pure aggravation. Why the hell do I care? It isn’t natural for me. I have brothers all over the world, but I don’t want to know their favorite color or what the fuck makes them laugh. I respect them, but it pretty much ends there.
I have to stay the hell outta Jackson, Mississippi. It seems like every time I come here, I see her. And every time I see her, I dream of her. And every time I dream of her, I dream we are together, and she is smiling. I’ve never even seen her smile, but I dreamed it was something beautiful. Like a sunset or a rainbow or a clear blue sky the day after a storm.
I clench my fist until my knuckles are white and bring them to my head, letting out a growl of frustration. Words like sunset, rainbow, and beautiful aren’t even in my vocabulary. My thoughts have me feeling weak. I need to kill. I need to hit someone. I need to control the crazy shit that’s happening in my head. Fucking sunshine and rainbows . . . What a pussy.
“Bad time?” I move my hands from my face and find Shady staring at me with a piece of paper in one hand and the other one held up in surrender. Good. By his reaction, I know I haven’t lost my touch. I like that men fear me, even if he is my own brother.
“You got my shit?” I growl, ignoring his question. This is one of the reasons I ride Nomad—alone. Stupid shit like unnecessary conversation.
“Yeah, man. I got it.” I snatch the paper from his hand. It’s not that I don’t like Shady, or that I don’t respect him. I’m just not much of a people person.
Everyone I come in contact with has strict orders from Nationals to give me anything I ask for and not to fuck with me. The results will be nasty and guaranteed. The warning from Nationals is the only one they get. Most of them respect it and leave me alone, but there were always those that pushed the limits just because they thought they could. The unlucky bastards that didn’t heed the warning now have scars of repercussion.
I study the paper, pausing long enough to dismiss Shady with a look, and read the address until it is memorized. That’s all I need for now. The rest I can read later. I shove the paper in my pocket on my way out, passing the guys in the clubhouse without even a look. I give them my two-fingered, half-ass signature salute and I’m gone.
2
SINNER’S CREED MOTORCYCLE Club’s Jackson chapter clubhouse is located in the old part of downtown Jackson. The place where even the cops don’t bother coming. We run the whole block, and if you somehow end up on this street you are either lost, a business associate, or looking for trouble. Saylor’s apartment is only a few miles from here, somewhere between uptown Jackson, where the rich fuckers live, and old downtown, where the projects are, and the Sinner’s Creed clubhouse.
I find her apartment building easily. It seems less than middle class, something maybe college kids would live in or single moms. I’ve imagined Saylor in something a little nicer than some shitty apartment. Something like a cottage on the lake, where she could watch the sunset every evening.
Sunset.
There’s that fucking word again. Invading my thoughts and making me want to stick someone in the neck with my knife. I park across the street and pull out a smoke, inhaling deeply in hopes that the nicotine will calm my annoyance with my mind. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know what the hell I’m thinking. I’m confused, I’m out of my element, and I’m twisted the fuck up.
Saylor isn’t home. I’ve been here over an hour, stalking her apartment like some kind of freak, and she has yet to show. I hate myself for missing her. I wish I could stay longer, but I have a job to do. My club comes first. And it always will.
—
I’m going too fast down the small road that leads me to the highway. I’m going so fast that I almost miss the tear-streaked face surrounded by a mass of blond hair that belongs to the body of the goddess who is walking down the sidewalk. I make an illegal U-turn in the middle of the street and race back toward her, stopping my bike several yards in front of where she is walking. When I get off and remove my helmet, I stand next to my bike, willing my legs to not walk up to her and take her in my arms and comfort her.
Comfort. Another word I’m not used to having in my head.
She walks closer, stopping a few feet from where I’m standing. Her eyes are sad, and I feel my heart speed up and my mind go into overdrive with all the forms of torture I can perform on the one who made her so sad.
“You’re late,” she says, and then I see it. It’s not a sunset or a rainbow or a clear blue sky. It’s something so much better. Even though her smile is sad and is only the one used when it’s appropriate to be polite, it’s the most beautiful fucking thing I have ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot.
I don’t know what I’m late for. Was she expecting me? I want to ask, but I can barely make it through the introductions. I don’t know how in the hell I’ll ever have a conversation with this girl. Just her presence seems to overwhelm me.
“I’m Dirk.” My tone is harsh—the result of my pissed-off state, which just accelerated because she deserves a tone that is soft and kind and pleasant to her ears.
“I’m Saylor.”
“I know,” I tell her, and the look on her face says she might have already known that I did my research.
“I know I don’t know you, but I feel like I do.” I know exactly what she means, but I don’t tell her that. I just stare at her, willing her to speak again, so I can add that voice to my dreams. “I remember you.” Her admission doesn’t surprise me. But now I’m curious about how much she remembers and how much she knows.
As if she can see straight through me, she tells me exactly what I’m wanting to hear. “You helped me change my tire. I was scared of you that night. Just one look at your vest and I immediately stereotyped you.” She motions toward my cut with her hand. As if I couldn’t remember what it said, I look down at it. The 1% patch over my heart glares back at me, reminding me of who I am. I wonder if Saylor has done her research on me like I did on her. If she has, then this won’t go much further than it already has.
“Say my name,” I demand, wanting to hear how it sounds on her lips before she realizes what a bad idea this is and runs off. My eyes move to her mouth. I want to memorize the way it looks when her full, pink lips poke out to pronounce my name.
“Dirk.” And it’s perfect. I want to tell her to say it again, but she does so without my command. It’s like she can read my thoughts, and I immediately try to clear my head of anything that might offend her. “Is there room for two on that thing?” She’s standing with her arms crossed over her chest and when she nods her head toward my bike, the never-ending strands of wild, curly hair move, and the wind catches the scent and carries it straight to my nostrils at the same moment I inhale.
Motherfucker.
Her hair smells fresh like citrus. Like oranges and lemons and shit. Not like hairspray and all those fucking hair care products, but natural and clean. I feel the saliva building in my mouth.
“There’s room,” I say shortly. I don’t like to talk. I want to listen and I want her to tell me everything. And I want to smell her. I want to smell her hair and her neck and kiss the parts of her body other men didn’t care about or appreciate. Like the crease at her elbow, or behind her knee. I watch her walk toward me until she is standing so close that I nearly take a step back out of habit.
“Dirk,” she says, my name coming out of her mouth on a whisper, and I inhale her breath and let it coat the back of my throat. “I just need to get out of here.” Her eyes are pleading. They search mine, and I watch as they move back and forth in her head, looking for something from me. They are incredible. She is so close that I can see the thin brown circles that outline her bright green eyes. Green seems too simple of a word to describe them. Emerald isn’t much better, but the word suits not only the color, but the delicacy of them.
She notices my uneasiness. She can see the question in my eyes, the one that asks, Why the hell do you want to get on the back of a bike
with a guy like me? Most women would do it because bad boys are appealing to them. It would be a thrill to throw all their inhibitions to the wind. But Saylor needs me for another reason.
“I’m not scared of you, Dirk. Even if there was something left in this life that could scare me, it wouldn’t be you. You’ve always been my savior. You may not know it, but you always show up just when I need you most. You’re like my angel. And right now, I need you.”
“I’m no angel.” The word seems to lose some of its meaning by just being spoken out loud by me. It would have an entirely different definition if it actually applied to me.
“Please.” She’s begging me for understanding. She’s asking me for help. And I don’t know why I’m still standing here trying to talk myself out of it. Isn’t this more than I could have expected? More than a man like me deserves?
I hand her my helmet, which fits after all her hair is shoved inside it. To hell with the reasons. She told me she needed me, and right now, there is nothing else I’d rather do than give her whatever it is she needs.
The only seat I have is on the fender. My bike is not equipped for a passenger, but I make it work by wrapping her legs around my waist. The feel of her body is warm against mine, sending my senses into overdrive. Her scent, the feel of her wrapped around me . . . I’ve never experienced anything like it. And soon, I’m speeding off into the wind, letting it bear the weight of both our problems and letting the road lead us somewhere other than here.
—
There is a dock in Vicksburg that gives a great view of the Mississippi River. At night it is lit up with the lights of tugboats, and the only sound is the hum of the engines. It’s peaceful and often where I stay when I have business in town. The club uses this dock to transport shit, and I use it as an escape.
Many nights I’ve sat here, and Saylor’s latest mental image is what I’ve envisioned. It would be different having her here. Better. I hope. When I stop the bike, I can feel her shaking. I close my eyes and grip the handlebars, pissed at myself for letting her get cold. I’m a fucking idiot.
I step off and remove her helmet to find that it isn’t the weather causing her to shake. If the eighty-degree temperature isn’t enough to convince me, the sobs racking through her body and the tears falling out of her eyes are.
I’m not a sentimental guy. I’ve never consoled a woman or held one while she cried. That’s not my job. My job is to take what I need, give her something equal in return, and leave.
But this is Saylor. The girl who has consumed my mind for over five years. I’ve spoken less than ten words to her, and she’s still the most important fucking woman in my life. I’ve never been able to find the logic, and even now, I’m dumbfounded as to why she is the one.
I stand here, watching her cry. Not sure of what to do. Her legs hang lifeless off the sides of my bike, a result of them being numb after the hour ride. Her arms dangle at her sides, and she doesn’t bother wiping her face or pushing her hair out of the steady stream of tears.
I’m not good with words. I’m not good with crying. I don’t know what she wants or what she needs, because her eyes have become just as lifeless as her legs, and there is no way she can speak through her sobs. I’ve watched movies and I’ve heard songs that tell you how to hold a woman. I’m sure I could do it, but I have this ache in my fucking chest that won’t let me do anything but stand here.
Minutes pass and her tears are still flowing, but her sobs have died. When she speaks, the relief is so great that I feel my knees starting to buckle and I have to change my stance.
“Dirk,” she says, and the ache in my chest vanishes. I wonder if it’s heartburn. I’ve never felt it before. “Can I stay with you tonight?” Her eyes are on mine, and even in the darkness I can see how red and puffy they are. I can see the need and the desperation there too.
“Yes.” It’s simple. She asks, I give. She wants this and I want to give her whatever she wants.
I have a room at the warehouse. It’s small and simple, but has a shower, a toilet, and a twin-sized bed. That’s all I need. I have a room like this in every town we have a chapter. Most are in clubhouses, but sometimes I get lucky and can find a place to crash off-site, away from the constant drama that comes with being in a motorcycle club.
I help her off the bike, noticing how her body seems to tremble slightly. It might be the fear, or the adrenaline of doing something dangerous, but whatever it is has no effect on the determination on her face. She places her hand in mine, walking beside me as I lead her to the building.
I open the door to the room and it is black. There are no windows and only a single light bulb that hangs from the ceiling. I pull the string and the light comes on, revealing the room, and I gauge Saylor’s reaction because I want to make sure it’s good enough. If it’s not, I can get a place at a nearby casino. She walks around the small space and she is still holding my hand. The room is so compact that my arm stretches everywhere she walks and I don’t have to move my legs.
I’m pissed again. She has been holding my hand and I’ve been so deep in my own fucking thoughts that I haven’t had a chance to memorize what her small, warm hand in mine feels like. I relax my face in an attempt to not be so intimidating, but I doubt it works.
“It’s perfect. Can I use the bathroom?” The sound of her voice is soothing and calm. It prides me knowing that I’m the only one in the world who can hear it right now.
“Yes,” I say and release her hand. She smiles at me and it’s polite, but so fucking rewarding. There is only a curtain that separates the space between me and her, and when she steps behind it, the loss of her presence has me feeling lonely. This is something else I will process on my ride or in my sleep. Right now, I just want the moment. I don’t want my mind clouded with thoughts of what is wrong with me. I just want to hear her voice and see her face and feel her touch.
When she steps from behind the curtain, I just stand there and appraise her. Her hair is a beautiful mess. Her shorts are short enough to reveal almost all of her thighs and legs, and her white T-shirt is so tight, I can see the outline of her bra beneath it.
“Do you live here?” she asks, and her question should annoy me, but it doesn’t, and I find myself answering her.
“When I’m in town, this is where I sleep.” I don’t know why she chose me to share it with, but I finally get that smile that I’ve dreamed of. It’s not polite or expected. It’s genuine and fucking breathtaking. It stretches across her face, and I can see the top row of her teeth that are just as perfect as her smile. It makes me want to smile, and I haven’t smiled in a long time.
My face softens, but I hold on to my smile because I’m undeserving of taking any glory from her. Her smile lights up the whole world and mine is nothing in comparison. This is her moment, and I would kill any smiling motherfucker who walked in this room and tried to take it away.
“You scared my friends last night.” She takes a seat on the bed, looking up at me through her long, mascara-covered lashes. “Well, if you want to call them my friends. They’re more like acquaintances. I thought that guy deserved what he got. I’d just met him that night. He had no right to try to claim me as his. I can’t even remember his name.” She doesn’t know me, but she knows what I’m capable of. Yet she never hesitated to come here with me. Hell, she practically begged for it.
I want to know her reasons. I want to know why she is putting such trust in a man that looks like me, acts like me, and has a reputation like mine. If just the sight of my patches scared her, then she was aware of the bad rep bikers had. It didn’t matter if the stereotype proved to be true or not. As an outsider, she knew the risks. She knew the difference between us and our two worlds.
I was the predator and she was the prey. I was the shark and she was the bait. I was the demon-possessed monster and she was the innocent, naïve angel. I could almost envision the sight of her white feathered wings trapped by the large, sharp jaws of my mouth. Shit like this didn’t happen. Nobo
dy could be as perfect as she seemed to be and still want something to do with an imperfection like myself.
I watch her stand, crossing her arms over her chest while she walks around the small room, having nothing to look at but cinder block wall, white-tiled ceilings, and concrete floors. But she seems intrigued by them.
“Sometimes I dream of you, Dirk.” I feel something shift inside me. “Sometimes I swear I can even feel you lying next to me at night.” She runs her hand over the wall, looking up at the ceiling and avoiding my stare. I’d dreamed of her too. I’ve never had the feeling be strong enough that I could actually feel her, but I’ve imagined for years what it would be like to have her laying next to me. On the darkest nights, when sleep refused to take me, my mind would always drift to her. Those dreams I controlled, but even in my imagination, I never felt worthy enough to touch her.
“Do you remember the second time I saw you?”
“Yes.” How could I forget? I remembered every time I saw her.
“I was beginning to think that maybe I’d imagined you. That the man in my dreams was a myth—something my subconscious created to help me forget what happened that night before I saw you.” I want to know what happened, but I can tell that she’s not going to tell me. Her eyes darken at just the memory, and my blood pumps faster at the thought of someone hurting her.
“It was like you knew that I was beginning to forget you, so you showed up to prove to me that you were real. Then . . .” She pauses, fidgeting with her shirt. It seems like forever passes before she speaks again. “You came to my job. They were firing me that night. They’d just told me to finish out my song requests and leave. I was crushed. My music career was over, just like that.” She snaps her fingers and smiles. There is no look of defeat or failure on her face, only happiness. “You reminded me that I have a bigger purpose in this world, other than singing. So, believe what you want. But to me, you’re an angel.”