by Kim Jones
I don’t speak to her again. There is no point. I’ve made up my mind. She will cease to exist from my life. I’ll call Nationals once I’m in Texas and inform them that I won’t be returning to Mississippi.
Saylor will fade from my thoughts eventually. It might take years. It might be when they put my cold, dead body in the ground, but she will one day be nothing. Not even a memory.
—
I pull up at her apartment and wait for her to get off the bike. I don’t even want to look at her. She can keep the fucking helmet. I would cut my hand off before it went anywhere near her. I could do this. I could force myself to hate her. It would be easy. It had been so far. Keeping my mind trained on forgetting her was working. Just as long as she doesn’t—
“Dirk?” Fucking words. I hated them. Why the hell couldn’t everybody be mute? But I’m sure even if we were, Saylor’s incoherent mumbles would be the most peaceful sound on earth. “I want you to take me with you.” You have got to be kidding me. She did not just ask to go with me. I have to leave. I have to get away from her. Right. Now.
“Good-bye, Saylor.” Good-byes are forever. At least for me they are. I never say good-bye to a brother. I always give them a salute. It’s a show of respect that says I will see them at a later time. Even in death, I’m sure the majority of my brothers will see the same hell I will. Saylor will never see me again. Not even in the afterlife—if there is one. She will be somewhere much nicer. I’m sure of it.
“Dirk, please.” Her pleading voice is powerful enough for me to turn my head and look at her. Those eyes. They are begging me. I want to ask her why she wants to go anywhere with a guy like me. I want to ask her what the fuck has stopped her from having a relationship with a normal, tie-wearing, stand-up guy who can take care of her. But I don’t ask questions. Her answers wouldn’t make a difference anyway.
I stare at her a little longer. This must be what crucifixion is like. No. It couldn’t be. There is nothing as bad as this. It’s fucking brutal. And it’s not her fault. She is just the sacrificial lamb that is being dangled in the face of the lion. She has been a pawn in life’s game and I have taken advantage of her.
I grab my helmet from her hands and place it on my head, torturing myself with her scent. I flip the visor up and look into her eyes. I’m glad that this is the last image I’ll have of her.
The prayer I see in her eyes will haunt me. I tell her words that I have vowed to never say, because this time, they’re the fucking truth. “I’m sorry.”
—
Nationals are a group of highly respected men in the club that call the shots. They are the problem solvers, they handle the business, and they order the hits. With a club as big as Sinner’s Creed, we have to have leaders to avoid problems between chapters. All chapters govern themselves and handle their own revenue. Nationals appoint the president, the president appoints his officers, and I’m the one who enforces them. My bottom rocker reads National, but it isn’t my rank. I reign over chapter members, but I’m not exempt from Nationals’ orders. Although I have influence, where they’re concerned.
Nationals are located in the small town of Jackpot, Nevada. The summers are smoldering, the winters are freezing, but the location is perfect for an MC like Sinner’s Creed. The town consists of a casino, a restaurant, a couple of gas stations, and a post office. The population is small, but there is always a steady flow of traffic from the casino that draws people in from Idaho and Utah.
Gamblers pay little or no attention to what goes on around them, so we don’t have the interest of anyone but the people that live here. Since this is where Sinner’s Creed was born, the town has gotten used to the thought of us being here, and accepts us as one of them. We’ve never brought havoc to this town, and we never will.
Texas, on the other hand, is one of the most sought-after states. We own Texas, but we’ve had to fight for it many times. If you have business with Mexico, then Texas is the place you want to set up shop. So, we did. We have fourteen chapters there, but even that isn’t enough to keep the wolves from knocking. And that is why my trip to Jackpot is so important.
I’ve been away from Saylor for two weeks and I still can’t shake her from my system. I’m angrier, more anxious, high-strung, and violent than I’ve ever been. I’ve stopped at several clubhouses on my way to Jackpot and each time I left one, I left bad blood in my wake. The little shit that use to bother me, but not enough for me to act, has me breaking bones and severing ties with people who are a part of my world. And I’m drawing the attention of Nationals, which is never a good thing.
There are only a few things that can break me down, and getting a call from Shady notifying me that Nationals don’t want to meet is one of those things. It’s their way of telling me to calm the fuck down before I do something I might regret. If I have words with a patch holder or a club affiliate, that’s one thing. If I have words with Nationals, that’s another. Disrespect was unforgivable, and by refusing to see me, they were doing me a favor.
I’d known Shady for years. I was already a Nomad by the time he patched in, and for some reason, I could carry on a conversation with him when I couldn’t with anyone else. He was always so fucking happy, but if shit got real, he was the one that could be trusted. He was the complete opposite of me, but somehow we got along. Because of my importance in the club and his ability to get information, we spent a lot of time together.
Shady could get intel on anyone. He was a beast with a computer. If we needed leverage, Shady arranged it. If we needed nonexistent knowledge, Shady found it. And if we needed a number, an address, or a name, Shady had it. I performed the job, and he supplied me with the information. We were a team. But today, my teammate was pissing me off.
“What the fuck you mean she’s leavin’?” I bark into the phone. I’m in Utah, crashing at a clubhouse, three days from Jackson and he calls to hit me with this.
“I mean she just booked a one-way flight to Del Rio. And, Miss Saylor has also arranged to be picked up and transported across the border. She is going to Meh-he-co.” He was enjoying this, but I didn’t have time to be pissed at him. Saylor was leaving. Mexico wasn’t a place for a girl like her. I don’t know why she wants to go, all I know is that she can’t.
“When does she leave?” This time, I’m not growling. I’m not barking or spitting or roaring. I’m whispering. It’s all I can manage. His news has hit me so hard in the chest that I can’t even catch my breath. Am I hyperventilating? No fucking way. I smoked too much. I knock the cherry from my cigarette and put it in my pocket. I had to quit.
“Because I knew you’d freak out and because my birthday is coming up and I want a decent fucking present and a hug because I have mommy issues, I made sure the only available booking was for Friday. That gives you four days, in case you can’t do the math.” I should thank him. Hell, I want to. But that would only fuel his fire, and that fucking inferno doesn’t need to get any bigger. He is already enjoying this too much.
“Watch her,” I tell him, finding my voice and my bike.
—
It took three full days of hard riding, but I finally find myself standing outside Saylor’s apartment door. I hope she is pissed. I hope she is so mad at me that she starts beating the shit outta me. I will gladly drop to my knees and let her pummel my face to her heart’s content, then stitch up her hands before I leave. That is what I deserve. She needed me. She begged for me and I left her. I couldn’t have taken her to Jackpot, but I could have figured something out.
I haven’t slept in two days, but I’m not tired. My body is pumping with adrenaline at just the thought of seeing her. It’s like I’m possessed. Like I have been put under a spell. I kept the images of Saylor outta my head when I left her, but on my way back, she was all I saw. It’s noon here and Shady assures me she is home. I pound on the door and I hear her voice a few seconds later.
“Who is it?” She sounds hoarse, like she has been screaming. The thought of her screaming from pain ha
s my blood boiling. The thought of her screaming from pleasure that someone else gave her has me wanting to kick the fucking door down and kill whoever is inside.
“Open the door,” I spit through clenched teeth. I wait on the questions to begin: Why? What do you want? But, instead I hear the slide of the dead bolt before she opens the door wide. On the outside, I am stone-faced. I know I’m wearing that intimidating, murderous look I wear so well, but on the inside, I can’t fucking breathe.
Her hair is piled on top of her head and sticking in every direction. She wears black, square-framed glasses, a blue, sleeveless T-shirt that is just long enough to cover her navel, and the sexiest little pink satin panties I have ever fucking seen. “You came back.” She looks at me like I’m a ghost. Like the last person in the world she expected to see was me. “Sometimes all you need is a mustard seed of faith.” She is talking to herself but her words hit home to me. I should tell her faith is a dangerous thing. I should tell her that it will make her weak. But I won’t.
When she smiles at me, thoughts of my past disappear and I just want to touch her. “I can’t believe you’re here,” she says, and even though her voice is dry and raspy, it’s so soothing that I close my eyes.
I hear movement behind me and push inside and slam the door. I don’t want anyone seeing this goddess but me. My eyes are not worthy of her, but the neighbor’s sure as hell ain’t. I can’t help it. If I was a saint and was sentenced to hell for this one crime, then I would gladly do my time, but I can’t go another minute without having her in my arms. I can sit here and process how stupid I am, or how this adds a new level of fucked-up to my life, but I don’t.
I drop my bag to the floor, grab her around her waist, and lift her to me. She wraps her legs around my hips, her arms around my neck, and welcomes me into her embrace. She smells better than I remember. She looks better than I remember and I lick the shell of her ear and she fucking tastes better than I remember.
I know I smell. I haven’t had a shower in days, but I don’t care. I just need to hold her, touch her, and be near her. I’m not pissed and my mind is not racing with thoughts to kill. I’m content and it’s never fucking happened before and I don’t give a shit what my mind is telling me; that dead heart in my chest is telling me I like it.
As I hold her tight to me, I can feel my adrenaline draining and fatigue taking over my body. I can feel everything shutting down. I need sleep and I need her. I walk through the small, neat apartment and find a bedroom that I know is hers. It has to be. There is a picture above the bed of a sunset.
I try to lay her down, but she doesn’t let go of me. Fuck yes. She wants me. She missed me. She isn’t pissed at me and she doesn’t hate me. She wants to stay in my arms and I’d sleep in a straitjacket if it meant that tight grip she has on my neck stays there.
I kick my boots off, unlock her legs from around my waist, and fall back on the bed with her on top of me. My feet are on the floor. I’m dressed in leather. There is no pillow under my head, but the weight of her body on mine is more than enough to make up for the discomfort.
“Please don’t leave me like that again, Dirk,” she whispers into my neck. I’m taken back to the last time I held Saylor this close in my arms. She was sated, sleepy, talkative, and vulnerable. She’d told me about her promise to her mother. Her words were fresh in my mind and still had the same effect on my cock.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, tightening my hold on her. I will have to leave her again. I have a job. It’s my life. But that’s not what she meant. She wants me to give whatever this is a chance. I’m tired of waking up without her. So I tell her words I should have said the first time she asked me not to leave.
“I won’t,” I promise, and just like Saylor, I keep my fucking promises.
4
I WAKE UP what could be minutes or hours later and find that Saylor is still on my chest. She has scooted down my body and her grip has loosened around my neck. Her face is now in the center of my chest and her breathing tells me she is in a deep sleep. I cradle the back of her neck with one hand, grip her waist with the other, and stand. I lay her back down, and when I let go her eyes flutter open behind her glasses.
“Don’t leave,” she says to me, her voice barely a whisper.
“I’m not.” I remove her glasses, and her eyes close again. It’s two o’clock, which tells me we have been asleep for less than two hours. But I need a shower. There is dried blood on my cut, my hands need to be bandaged from the punching session with a wall I had after receiving Shady’s call, and I need to shave.
I walk outside, surveying the apartment as I unstrap the waterproof bag that contains almost everything I own. I retrieve my other bag from the hall and find the bathroom connected to Saylor’s bedroom. She is laying with her eyes open when I pass her.
“I thought you left,” she says, and the fact that she didn’t trust me when I said I wouldn’t hurts.
“I didn’t.”
I shower¸ shave, and make my way back to the bedroom in nothing but my boxers. I want to lay with her. I want to hold her and kiss her and whisper to her like she’d asked me to a couple weeks ago. But she isn’t here. She is gone. The bed is empty and I recognize the feeling welling in my chest. Panic. And then she walks in with a tray of food.
“Let’s eat. Picnic-style in the bed.” I’m starving, but even if I wasn’t, I would eat whatever she gave me because it would make her happy. I want to make her happy.
She sits cross-legged on the bed and I look down at the tray she is holding. Pasta with Alfredo sauce, garlic bread, and tea. My mouth is watering and it’s not for the food. It’s for the lips that press against the fabric of her panties. I want to eat her, devour her. I could survive off of her release. I reluctantly pull my eyes away from her pussy and find her staring at me. She knows I was looking. She knows that I want her, and she is turned on by it. I sit on the bed, my back against the headboard so that I am facing her.
“You shaved. It looks good,” she says, her cheeks reddening. She’s not embarrassed for admitting it, only by how much it pleases her. “I’m not a real good cook.”
I doubt that, but I just take the plate from her hands without comment. I’m sure it will be delicious, even if it is not. Just because her hands prepared it. I take a bite and she waits in anticipation for my reaction.
“It’s good,” I tell her and she relaxes—happy that it pleases me.
“Have you ever been to Mexico?”
“Yes,” I answer simply, wondering where the hell this is going. Is she going to ask me to go with her? Is she going to tell me she’s leaving? Small talk annoys me. When I’m with a woman, there is loud music because I don’t like small talk. We fuck, I enjoy it, she enjoys it, and we go on about our business with nothing more than a good-bye. But with Saylor, it’s different. I like to hear her talk.
“I’ve never been,” she says, and I watch her mouth as she takes another bite before continuing. “I want to go to one of those outside bars and drink tequila in the rain. I want to dance under a strand of Christmas lights like in the movie Mr. and Mrs. Smith.” I’ve never seen the movie, so I don’t know the scene she is talking about, but I know a place that sounds a lot like it. “I want to wear a white dress with a flower in my hair.” I picture it, and it’s so beautiful that I’m talking before I can stop myself.
“I’ll take you.” I can’t believe I just said that. But I did, and I meant it. I don’t want her to go without me. I want to take her to Mexico. I want to watch her dance in the rain, in a white dress, with a flower in her hair while she is drunk off tequila. I watch her smile, and it is shy, and unbelieving.
I’ve lost my appetite. I don’t make empty promises, but someone did. That’s why she is so doubtful. I need to reassure her, but my words will fall on deaf ears. I will have to prove it with my actions.
—
Sleeping with Saylor feels good. I like the feeling of her body perfectly molded to mine so much, that even after I
’ve completely rested, I lay here with her wrapped around me. I pull my eyes from the rise and fall of her chest and focus on the ceiling. I can’t look at her and think clearly, and right now, I’m thinking hard.
I’m thinking that I have to leave very soon and that I want her to go with me. But I don’t know how the club will respond to that. They will not like her being around. They don’t trust women. They will be afraid she will say something and get us all in a world of shit. I know that my job makes me a target. I don’t give a fuck if anyone comes for me, but she is a liability. I could keep her safe, but I would have to trust her.
My phone rings, pulling me from my thoughts. Nationals. I move from the bed, trying not to disturb her. “We need you in Amsterdam by tomorrow for a benefit. An old friend had a wreck and they don’t think he is gonna make it. We need all the help we can get, brother.”
“I’ll be there.” The call is disconnected and a sick feeling comes over me. To become a Nomad, I had to take a physical and written test. They wanted to know my body could endure long rides and extreme conditions.
The written part tested whether I would be able to decode messages like this one. Amsterdam was code for Alabama. A benefit was code for a funeral and a wreck told me that I needed to make my target’s death a painful one. When I got to Alabama, I would decode a set of numbers disguised as a birthday and they would tell me the coordinates of where I needed to go. There, I would pick up the package that would contain all the information I needed on my target.
This kind of job was usually pretty easy for me, but now I had to make a choice. Either I left Saylor behind, or I made her an accomplice. I didn’t want to do either, but I had to choose. The easy thing to do would be to just leave and not tell her. But I couldn’t do that. Not to her. Not again. And there was no use in thinking any more about it. My mind was made up.
I look over at Saylor, who is now awake, smiling up at me sleepily. “I have to leave, Saylor.” I watch her smile fade and her eyes drop to her fidgeting hands. My words have just crushed her. I don’t like seeing her sad, but I like that my absence can be so upsetting. She wants to be with me. “I want you to come with me.” Her head snaps up in shock. I wait for the questions of where and for how long to start. I search her face for the look of regret before she tells me she can’t be away that long when I tell her I don’t know when we’re coming back.