Sinner's Creed (Sinner's Creed #1)

by Kim Jones

  Sinner’s Creed and the Underground had been in business together for a long time. History had proven our loyalty to them, but at the end of the day it was all about business. And engaging in a war with Death Mob was bad business. Dorian had the power to pull the strings on all of us. If Sinner’s Creed lost their position with the Underground, then the club would fold.

  “We can’t do shit about how they run things. All we can do is keep an eye on them and let them know where we stand. I’m here for the paperwork; you’re here for the dirty work.” Shady sticks out his lower lip. “You get to have all the fun.”

  “You sound like a fag.” He laughs at my response. Nothing against men who like men, but I can’t stand a man that acts all prissy-fied. Shady couldn’t be more gay in this moment if he wore a dress and lipstick. Considering he is still laughing, I know he did it on purpose. Glad he can prove my theory. The best way to go from pussy to Nomad in less than five minutes was to be in an enclosed space with Shady. I guess that’s why I love him. Fuck.

  14

  THE CLUBHOUSE IN Houston doubles as a honky-tonk that is open to the public on Friday and Saturday nights. Today, it’s only filled with patches, and they all belong to Sinner’s Creed. A black Harley Street Glide is parked at the door and I know it’s there for me. A Prospect that goes by the name of Rookie is wiping the saddlebags when I walk up.

  I’ve met Rookie a few times, and I know by the determination on his face and the fearless look in his eyes that he is gonna be a good brother. I’m pretty intimidating, and if a man can look at me and not show fear, he has my respect. If I don’t scare him, nothing will.

  It’s hard to prospect without the help of narcotics. It makes for a long year of minimal sleep and food, and a fuck of a lot of tongue biting. By the calmness in his demeanor, the exhaustion in his face, and the deep circles under his eyes, I can tell that Rookie is proving himself to this club and he’s doing it without drugs. That earns him more than respect from me.

  “Rookie.” I give him my salute and he nods in return, knowing better than to offer his hand.

  “Dirk.” He doesn’t bow before me or throw himself at my feet, but to him I’m worthy of it. Because I’m the man to impress. “Can I get you a beer?”

  “Yeah. Bring two.” He disappears inside and I prop up against the building and light a smoke. My phone buzzes in my pocket and I know it’s Saylor.

  Delay. They say they are working on the engine. My luck. Because I’m a nervous wreck and I miss you, I’m getting drunk.

  I smirk at the screen before realizing that Saylor is getting drunk and I’m not there to warn off any men who think they can fuck with what’s mine.

  Anybody fucking with you?

  She answers almost immediately.

  No, Mr. Overprotective. No one is fucking with me. I miss you.

  Because she makes me soft, and Shady is nowhere in sight, I ignore her comment and end the conversation.

  Text me when you land.

  I shove the phone back in my pocket, but it vibrates again.

  “Fuck,” I mutter, pulling it back out and thinking that maybe giving Saylor a phone wasn’t such a good idea. Especially since she’s drinking.

  You are the biggest, baddest, meanest motherfucker I know. Go get ’em baby.

  I’m smiling at the screen. And I don’t know why. Even from a distance, she can see right through me. I look up to find Rookie staring at me like I’m crazy. My smile dies and I snatch the beer from his hand.

  “Don’t ask,” I mutter, shoving the phone in my pocket. Rookie drops his eyes to his boots, but his hat can’t cover his smirk. By the sissy bar on the back of my bike and the passenger floorboards that have been installed, I’m pretty sure the news of Saylor has reached Houston. “You got a girlfriend?” I ask, and his confused look tells me that he is wondering why in the fuck I’m striking up a conversation.

  “I do,” he says, and for some reason, it makes me like him more.

  “What’s her name?” I ask, motioning for him to drink with me. He tilts the bottle to me in thanks and takes a long pull before answering.

  “Carrie. She’s great.” He smiles and it’s not at me. It’s at the thought of her.

  “What she do?” He gives me a nervous look and I know what he is thinking. “It ain’t like that, Rookie. I’m just making conversation.” The truth is there are a lot of assholes in this life. Some that would use women to see how big of a weakness they are for a Prospect. Seeking out girlfriends, lovers, or even wives, then taking pictures of them together and showing it to a Prospect to see what reaction they get isn’t unheard of. It’s actually pretty common. It never bothered me until now.

  “She’s a nurse over at the Texas Children’s Hospital. I love ’er.” There is conviction in his voice, and he is making his point loud and clear. He don’t want her fucked with. I can see the dare in his eyes and I know he’ll kill for that woman. Kill even me.

  “How does she feel about the club?” I know I’m not having this conversation because I’m a changed man. I’m having it because I’m hoping his answers can shed some light on some of my own questions regarding me and Saylor’s relationship.

  “This club is what I want. She respects that.” I know Rookie’s background. The club had saved his life when his daddy about beat him half to death. It was a coincidence that we were in the same place at the same time, but Rookie thought it was destiny. Hell, maybe it was. He is twenty-four. By twenty-five he will be a patch holder, and Carrie will spend the rest of her life coming in second place.

  “What about what she wants?” I ask, and the question is not for him. It’s for me. I’d never even asked Saylor what she wanted. I’ve just assumed what she wants is me.

  “She’s a good woman, Dirk. She has a good heart and she’s smart as hell. But she can’t fix me. And this club can. She loves me hard. So hard that she’s willing to give up part of me, just to have a piece of me. She gets it. And I love her more because of it.” He looks away, the demons of his past coming back to haunt him, and they are fighting with the angel that protects him. Rookie has a Saylor.

  “You’ll make a good brother one day, Rookie. But in my eyes, you’re already one. Gimme your card.” His body sags at my words and he’s on the verge of tears. I know the feeling. My signature will get him a patch no matter how long he has left prospecting.

  I see the relief in his face and it reminds me of the man I was before I became the man I am. Rookie won’t be forced to do the things that I did. My signature is enough. He won’t have to give his innocence, because I say he’s loyal enough without it. As I sign my name to his card, I feel a weight being lifted off my own shoulders. Today, Carrie is saved from the monster that could have been created. I just wish Saylor was as fortunate.

  —

  I lead the pack to Juke’s Joint, where members of Death Mob are known to hang out. Bikes line the front of the bar located in a shitty little building just off the interstate. We pull in, blocking their exit, and before I can light a smoke, they crowd around the door, watching us.

  We stand our ground, demanding they make the first move. I could stand here all night, and it looks like I’m going to have to. It feels like Death Mob has something to prove. It is a show of respect to greet your superiors, and since Texas is our home state and we gave them permission to be here, we are superior.

  While we wait, I take the opportunity to size up the men who could quickly become my potential enemies. They are big, dirty, and stand in a line of twelve. Their stances tell me they are ready for a fight, if that’s what we’re bringing to the table. That wasn’t the plan, but I’m always down for a good ass kicking.

  Their size doesn’t intimidate me. Neither does the 1% patch they wear. Hell, I wear the same fucking one. Where we are grouped, talking and bullshitting like they don’t exist, they stand silent. That is a show of weakness to me. If they don’t have shit to prove, then they shouldn’t act like they do. They look like they’re in a pissing co
ntest over a piece of cheap pussy rather than a mutual show of respect between two MCs.

  When Shady sends Rookie in to get some beers, shit begins to happen. When a man wears Sinner’s Creed colors, other MCs better show him some respect. It doesn’t matter if the word Prospect is on his patch or not. He may not be a patch holder, but he is sponsored by one. And Rookie’s sponsor was Shady. In all my years, I have only seen Shady lose his shit twice, and both times it was over someone disrespecting our patch.

  When the men at the bar refuse to let Rookie pass, I know my count for Shady’s loss of control is about to change. I watch Rookie as he stands his ground. I know he is doing everything in his power to persuade the men that this isn’t what they want. He never looks over his shoulder at us for help because he doesn’t have to. He can fight his own battles—another reason he would make a good brother. But he won’t have to fight it alone for long. By the signature neck roll Shady performs when he’s ready to bust some heads, I know things are fixing to get bad.

  I am two steps behind him when he makes his move toward the door. The rest of the club stays put when I shoot them a look. We have this. I don’t want a bar brawl right now, and Death Mob would be stupid to start one.

  When we reach the porch where they are standing, Shady puts his hand on Rookie’s shoulder, pushing him back a step. When he is nose to nose with the sergeant at arms, he gives him that goofy grin that I fucking hate. Or love. Or hate. Again, Shady has the ability to put me in a pissy mood without even knowing it. Now I want them to initiate a fight so I can hit something.

  Shady’s motives are simple. Instead of going to the president, he goes to the SA. It saves time. If he had confronted the president, he would have had to deal with the SA anyway because that’s an SA’s job: protect the president.

  “What the fuck’s the problem?” Shady asks, his voice sickeningly sweet. I keep my eyes on the VP, warning him to keep his mouth shut.

  “This bar is for patch holders only. Y’all can come in, but ya Prospect needs to stay outside. Maybe pick up some cigarette butts or something.” The president takes that moment to thump a cigarette into the gravel. Shady laughs, and I know better, but it almost sounds like he finds the SA’s remark humorous.

  “Yeah, we gotta keep them Prospects on their toes,” Shady mumbles, and then I watch his expression change out of the corner of my eye. His lips curl into a snarl and his eyebrows draw together. This hundred-and-ninety-pound man just transformed into kill mode. He glares into the eyes of the SA and I can see the fear forming in the eyes of the VP I’m staring at.

  “The thing is, that’s my Prospect. Those colors he wears belong to Sinner’s Creed. He goes where I tell him to go. This is my fucking town, my fucking bar, and my fucking parking lot your leader is throwing shit in.”

  My eyes go to the president, who is fighting an internal battle. Does he look like a pussy or does he die? He just needs to look like a pussy.

  Shady spits over his shoulder and sniffs several times. This is his way of trying to calm down and still look intimidating. “Now, two things are gonna happen next. One, you’re gonna move the fuck outta the way so my guy can get us some beers. Two, one of you is gonna pick up that fucking cigarette butt. And both of those things are gonna happen in the next thirty seconds.”

  I challenge the VP with my eyes, knowing he is about to break if someone else don’t. I see movement to my right and watch a man walking toward us out of my peripheral. He is several yards away, and he is taking his time getting here.

  “Or?” the SA asks. What a fucking idiot. Shady’s smile is back, and when he looks at me, he is fucking beaming—not a hint of worry or hostility in his face.

  “Or my man Dirk here is gonna demonstrate how he got his name.” The SA looks at me, but I ignore him. Shady is full of shit and I make a mental note to slap the fuck outta him when this is over. I had my name long before I even knew it was a knife. Payback would be hell.

  “The infamous Dirk,” the man approaching says, and I’m sure it’s a distraction, so I don’t look away. “I don’t think we have a problem here. Let the young man through.”

  The VP steps back and I finally get the chance to see who this peacekeeper is and what rank he has to override the president. An older man with a long white beard and a limp stops a few feet from me.

  “Son,” he says, addressing a young patch holder next to him. Whoever this motherfucker is must be somebody, because the look on the guy’s face shows that he is honored to be addressed by him. “Do me a favor and grab that cigarette. Your president accidentally dropped it.”

  He looks at me, expecting a nod of acceptance from his explanation of the president’s behavior. He won’t get one. The patch holder disappears from my view, and the old man smiles at my unchanging expression. When he steps forward and sticks his hand out for me to shake, I take it. Because this man is owed my respect. Whoever he is. “Cyrus, Death Mob Nomad, southeast region.”

  “Dirk, Sinner’s Creed,” I respond, his introduction answering all my questions. He was an old-timer with the power to overrule just about anyone because of his position and seniority in the club.

  “These young cats these days. President ain’t but about thirty. Sometimes that patch can make you forget what’s more important.” He is talking about respect, but I don’t give him the verbal confirmation he wants. “We appreciate y’all lettin’ us set up camp here. I can assure you what just happened won’t happen again.”

  “It would be for the best,” I tell him, not as a threat, just as a fact.

  “There ain’t no problem here, Dirk, but we need a mutual understanding.” His seriousness is evident, but his face still holds a smile.

  “We don’t tolerate disrespect. If you say it won’t happen again, then I’ll take your word. The only understanding we need is that we reign superior here. We’ve earned the respect of this town, and just because Death Mob wears a one percent patch, don’t mean they are exempt from showing it.”

  “Agreed. Nice to officially meet you, Dirk. I hope next time is on better terms.” He waits for my response. He needs to hear me say there aren’t any problems, because if I don’t, they will assume this isn’t over.

  “It’s all good,” I tell him, and when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket, I know for sure it is. I watch Cyrus until he disappears inside, then check my message. It’s from Saylor.

  I’ve landed. I’m taking a cab home. I hope everything is good with you.

  Glad you’re home. It’s all good. It really is. But I miss her. I’m calculating the hours it would take me to get to her, fuck her, then be back here before noon. It’s not possible.

  I miss you. A lot. How will I sleep tonight? Shit. How will I sleep tonight? The thought of having another woman sleep with me crosses my mind, but disappears almost immediately.

  In your bed. Alone. Just the last word has me thinking of what I would do if I caught her with someone else. I’d kill him. Simple.

  I love you. As I’m rereading the message, Shady decides to show up, and I shut the phone and glare at him.

  “Something wrong?” he asks, and I think he thinks the look I wear is for someone other than him.

  “How’s shit inside?” I dig my cigarettes out, avoiding his question.

  “Introductions were made. No apologies, but I expected that. What did Cyrus say to you?” Shady hands me a beer and takes my pack of smokes, getting one out for himself without asking. Not that it matters, what’s mine is his. Except for Saylor, of course.

  “What happened today won’t happen again. We won’t have any problems. If we do, we’ll go to him first. Sinner’s don’t need the heat right now.” Shady agrees and we take a seat on the steps, letting the noise from inside replace our conversation. Until Shady talks.

  “So, you gave Rookie a signature. Kid must be doing something right.” I don’t answer him; I just stare out into the lot at the bikes. “You never gave me a signature. What the fuck’s up with that?” He is only joking, b
ut I can hear the hurt in his voice. I don’t know why, probably because of this whole love revelation that I’ve had, but I feel like I owe him an explanation.

  “I didn’t have as much pull then as I do now. I’d only been a Nomad for a couple of years when you came along.” I look at him when I say this. The nod of his head tells me he understands, but the question in his eyes tells me he wants a conversation and he used that line as an opening. I should have known. He got his name because of his ability to do shady shit to get what he wanted. Which is what he is doing to me.

  “We’re brothers, Dirk. But it goes beyond the patch. You know I’m here if you ever need anything.” I almost want to laugh at the sincerity in his voice. What I manage is a smile. I turn my bottle up, take a pull from my cigarette, and thump the butt in the gravel. When I look at him, he is looking at the glow of the red cherry from my cigarette. I know what he’s thinking. A war almost broke out over something as simple as a cigarette, and here I was throwing one down. It made my smile widen. I put my hand on his shoulder and give it a squeeze. When he looks at me, I’m smiling and he looks like he wants to punch me.

  “I didn’t get my name from a knife, and I don’t like people thinking that I did.” He shakes his head in aggravation, taking his eyes off of me and back to the still-burning cherry. He wants to say something but knows that this is an argument he can’t win. I squeeze his shoulder again and he looks back at me.

  “Our brotherhood does go beyond the patch. And I appreciate your offer. Same goes for you.” He smiles and you would think I’ve just made his whole fucking day. Dumb-ass.