3

SOMETHING IS TOUCHING me. I feel a hand stroking my two-day beard, a leg entwined with mine, and a soft, warm chest pressed up against my own. I open my eyes to find the light on and Saylor looking at me while her fingers stroke my face. She is more gorgeous in the morning than she is at night.

“I’ve been laying here waiting for you to open your eyes so I could stare at them.” Her voice is strong, like she has been up for hours, and I wonder how long she has been watching me. I don’t ask her, I just let her stroke my face, and try to ignore how good it feels to have her touching me.

“Your eyes are beautiful,” she whispers, and I make a point not to blink so I don’t fuck up her joy. “Hazel. It’s such a mysterious color. I think if I studied them long enough, I could find every color of the rainbow in them.” I doubted what she said, but if she thought she could, then I would let her test her theory all day.

“Are you leaving soon?” Her question reminds me of what I was dreading before I finally fell asleep last night. I know I have to leave and part of me can’t fucking wait to get on my bike so I can process all this shit, but the other part wants to stay right here forever.

“Yes.” I watch the sadness form in her eyes and that ache in my chest is back, and I have the feeling that it has nothing to do with heartburn.

“Where are you going?” I couldn’t answer that. I should tell her it’s none of her business, but I won’t.

“West.” My short answer appeases her and she doesn’t push further. I’m glad she doesn’t ask, but I wonder if her lack of interest is because she doesn’t care to know or if she is scared to push me.

“I don’t want you to leave.” I don’t want to leave. I want to stay here. With her. But I can’t. This is my life as a Nomad and as much as I like her, I could never mentally handle being in one place for too long. Riding is my therapy and without it I would go to the deepest, darkest depths of hell where everyone is my enemy and life has no meaning.

I can’t lay here with her any longer. I have to leave. I have to ride. I can’t get soft. Nobody can do my job and have these feelings. I don’t want to think of her when I do the shit I do. She is too precious to be surrounded with the violence and world of shit I face every day.

“I have to go,” I say, moving over her and grabbing my bag. Once behind the curtain, I let the anger I feel rising consume me. I was stupid. So fucking stupid. I let her too close. I needed her to piss me off so I could hate her. She was a mistake. I never should have touched her, or tasted her, or let her say my fucking name.

I step in the shower and start scrubbing her scent from my body. I don’t want to smell her. I don’t need a reminder. I know she will still be here when I get out, but I’ll force myself to avoid her. If I can just get away from her I will never come back to Jackson again. I will get Nationals to assign someone else for this part of the country.

I punch the cinder blocks in front of me, letting the pain in my hand numb the pain in my chest at the thought of forgetting her. I’ll stop before I break any bones, but I want the blood on my knuckles to be a reminder that the hands that touched her were the hands of a killer not worthy of her.

“Dirk?” Fuck. So much for avoiding her. She just got her first taste of the fucked-up monster that I am. And it will be her last.

I hang my head in defeat and keep my fist pressed into the concrete, twisting it so the gravel digs deep into my opened wound. I need to hurt. I deserve it, but I don’t feel anything. I tense when her soft hand touches my back, but she doesn’t let it stop her from running her hands over me. There is soap in them, and I can feel her washing me with the gentleness that a mother uses to bathe a newborn baby.

She is too good for me. I should pull away, but I can’t. I want her to touch me. Something inside me screams need, but this time it’s me who requires it. Demands it. Must have it to breathe.

I feel her trying to turn my body toward her, and motherfuck me if I don’t turn to face her. That wild hair sticks in every direction around her head and shoulders and halfway down her back. It makes her body look tiny in comparison. It’s the first time I’ve seen her naked. And I’m not disappointed. Her tits are perfect—small, perky, round, and a few shades lighter than her stomach. Her nipples are a dark pink, hard and begging to be in my mouth. Her stomach is flat, but not toned to perfection. Natural and curvy, just like her tits. Only the top part of her pussy is bared to me and it’s pale in comparison to her thighs.

“Hey,” she says, her voice apologetic. I look at her face that is flushed red with embarrassment. At what, I don’t know. She avoids my stare and fidgets before muttering, “I’m sorry.” I feel a growl crawl up my throat and I want to roar.

“You are not fucking sorry,” I snarl. My breathing is heavy and deep and it takes everything inside me not to rip the whole room to shreds. This time I see the fear in her eyes. Good. I never want to hear her say those words again. But, just like everything else about her, those words are now embedded in my head.

We are trained in the MC never to say we are sorry. We apologize. Sorry emphasizes how bad or stupid something is. She is not stupid. Or bad. Or embarrassing.

I should tell her I’m poisonous. I should say that I’ll ruin her if she stays around me. But I don’t. Because this is over. “Get dressed.” Those are the only words she needs to hear.

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 has 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.