5

MARTIN WALTON’S GRAVE looks like it hasn’t been visited in years, and at the bottom of the vase beside it, under the faded, artificial flowers, is a note attached to a prepaid cell.

There is an address on the note and a time. The address leads me to a trailer park, and I hide my bike off the road about a half a mile away. I walk the short distance to the run-down trailer located in the very back. There are no cars, no lights, and no sign that anyone has been here in months. The grass is tall, but there is a trail to the back door that tells me someone has been here recently. My target must be using it as a hideout and it thrills me that he thinks he is safe. Not a chance, motherfucker. I look at my watch and it’s a little after midnight. This time tomorrow, he would be dead.

Travis Cool, or T-Man, had a problem with getting laid. Or maybe he just liked the thrill of fucking a comatose woman. Whatever his reason for using date-rape drugs for his pleasure was wrong. He hadn’t been reported to the authorities as far as we knew, but I’m sure after he sees me, he is gonna wish he had. Prison would be a lot better than what I had in store for him.

He would likely have never been caught if he hadn’t fucked up and messed with someone who had ties with the club. I don’t know who she was or what her connection was, because it didn’t matter. What mattered was that I was sent to do a job to avenge a woman who meant something to one of my brothers. Therefore, she meant something to me.

It happened a few months ago, but planning a hit on someone takes time. We had to make sure there was nothing that could be used to point the murder toward the club. Now that all the loose ends were tied up, it was time for T-Man to meet his maker.

This brought thoughts of Saylor’s earlier confession to my mind. There is no way that she and T-Man shared the same maker. Saylor was pure, beautiful . . . flawless. T-Man was scum, ugly, and unworthy of breathing the same air as Saylor. I would have to find out her religion, and his. Maybe they had two different gods. That would explain it.

My mission tonight is to scope out the place and plan my entry. I crawl under the back of the trailer and begin to cut away the insulation and cheap particleboard flooring. Once inside, I do a sweep of the place, and am gone within five minutes.

I return to my bike in a hurry, ready to get the hell away from here and back to the woman I know is waiting for me. I try not to let what-ifs cloud my head, but it’s pointless. What if she left? What if she decided I wasn’t what she wanted after all? No. She would be there. I know it, or I keep trying to tell myself that.

—

By the time I make it back to the motel, my chest is tight and I’m finding it hard to breathe. I grab my bags and can’t get the key in the lock fast enough. When the lock clicks, I take a deep breath and push open the door; expecting the worst is always best.

There is no denying that Saylor is here. Her scent fills the air and I can make out her silhouette, even in the darkness. She is sleeping. I close the door gently, cussing the fucker for being so loud. She is on her side, her hair unbraided. She has showered and the dampness of her hair has tamed it somewhat so that it lays across the pillow. Fucking beautiful.

I leave her to shower, and instead of cringing when I see all her female shit covering the counter, I welcome it. I like knowing her shit will be sitting next to mine tonight. It is a reminder that she is real.

I take the bed next to Saylor’s because it’s the right thing to do. I never was one to really follow the rules, but I want to try to do right by her. I watch her back, wishing she would turn over so I can see her face, but instead I memorize the curve of her body. Her hips are full compared to her waist, and the slope of her body reminds me of a half-moon. I reluctantly let my eyes close, but her face is still the only thing I see.

“Dirk?” I hear her voice in the darkness and open my eyes to find her propped up on an elbow, searching the room.

“I’m here,” I say and it’s soft, comforting. A tone used for soothing and reassuring—one I don’t use very often. She turns so she is facing me and sits on the side of the bed.

“Can I sleep with you?” she asks, and she sounds so fucking lonely that I want to kill myself for leaving her.

“Yes.” She doesn’t hesitate and I see she is wearing a T-shirt and nothing else. I lift the covers, and she slides in, her back to my front. Her hair is everywhere and covers my face. She lifts her head and tries to smooth it down, but I stop her. “Leave it.” I wrap my arm around her waist and she locks her fingers with mine. Her scent is all around me. Her body is warm and smooth and I feel myself harden against her.

“I tried to wait up for you, but I fell asleep.” She waited for me. This means that she would deprive herself of sleep, just to be with me. There goes my heart again, doing that fucking thing. “Dirk?” I like it when she says my name and I think she knows it. That is why she says it all the time, or that’s what I want to believe. “Yeah?” She is silent and the anticipation is fucking killing me. I will her to talk, and breathe a sigh of relief when she finally sheds mercy on me.

“You make me feel safe.” I know this, but it still feels good to hear her say it.

“You are safe,” I tell her. I would never let anyone touch her, and I mean it so much that I have reassured her when usually I wouldn’t say anything.

“Not just from the world, but from my own thoughts.” I’m a man who knows about thoughts, and I know how bad they can affect you. I feel my grip around her waist tighten. “And that’s what I’m scared of most,” she adds on a whisper. What haunting thoughts could Saylor possess? If her mind wasn’t a part of her, I would steal it and trade my soul for one that brought her happy thoughts. I kiss her hair and she sighs. I think it makes her feel special. “Good night, Dirk.”

“Good night, baby,” I tell her, because I’m pretty fucking sure that makes her feel special too.

—

I feel Saylor crawl out from under my arm just as the sun is making its way through the crack in the curtains. The bottom of her ass is visible to me and either she isn’t wearing panties, or she is wearing a thong. I will take her either way.

I watch as she searches the counter for something and I find her face in the mirror. Her brows are drawn together and I don’t know if it’s out of pain or because she can’t see.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. My chest is tight and my stomach knots with worry.

“Just looking for some headache meds,” she answers, and I watch her squint at her own words as if it pains her to talk. My chest tightens further and so does that knot in my stomach. It’s just a headache, but if she hurts, I hurt. It’s that fucking simple.

She finds what she is looking for and I hear her tearing the plastic off a cup before filling it with water. She takes the meds and stands at the sink, her head down and her arms locked, holding herself up. She is sick and I don’t want to lay here and do nothing.

I’m out of bed and standing behind her, looking at the two of us in the mirror. She doesn’t look up, and I can’t see her face because her hair is hiding it. My concerned face is very similar to my pissed-off one, and I make a note to work on that.

“Sometimes,” she starts, then takes a deep breath. Her voice is low and I hold my breath because I don’t want to make any noise to add to her discomfort. I hear a horn honk in the distance, and I’d kill that motherfucker if I thought I could get to him in time.

“I get really bad headaches. It’s my eyes.” I’ve heard of this. She wasn’t wearing glasses yesterday, but judging from the contact solution and case on the counter, I’m pretty sure she was wearing those. “I’m fine.” Her voice is stronger, reassuring, but when she looks up, her face is pale and her lips are white. She is sweating and this is not a headache, it’s a migraine. I’m sure if I asked, she would say she was nauseous. But I won’t. Nothing makes you more nauseous than when someone asks if you are.

I take her by her hand, my other going around her waist, and lead her back to the bed. Once she is under the covers, I go back to the sink to get a cold rag. By the time I make it back, she is turned on her stomach and the covers are off. I swallow hard at what I see.

It’s not a thong she is wearing, and she’s not naked. It’s boy-shorts. The kind that a girl’s ass cheeks hang out of. They are black and have lace around the edges. Fuck. I force my eyes from her ass and move her hair until her neck is bare. I place the cold rag on it and she mumbles something I think is a thank-you. I sit on the other bed and stare at her, unsure of what to do.

“Dirk.” I’m not even sure it’s my name she says, but I’m on my feet, leaning over her. “Hold me.” There is no mistaking those words and I do as she says. I lay on my side and put my hand on her back. I stroke her because it seems like something I would like her to do to me. I’m not disappointed. Saylor is soon asleep and so am I.

Before I open my eyes, I can feel her looking at me. She is humming. I don’t know the song, but I’m sure she hums it better than any Grammy winner could sing it. I open my eyes and she stops humming, so I close them again. I can hear the laughter in her voice as she starts humming again. For the split second my eyes were on her, she looked fine. Better than fine. There was no trace of this morning’s migraine on her face. Maybe it was just a headache. I’ve never known a migraine to disappear within a few hours.

“Are we going to ride today?” She quits humming to speak to me and her voice is just as pleasing as her hums.

“I have to leave,” I tell her and wonder if I will ever be able to share what I do, or what I will tell her when she finally asks. She knows I’m not leaving for good. The fact that we have crossed that bridge and she now trusts me, tells me that we are making progress. I look at the time and see I have two hours before I have to leave. I’m hungry, so I’m sure she is too. “Get dressed,” I tell her and roll away from her and toward a cold shower.

Most men claim they can’t live without pussy. I have been trained to live without food, water, and light. Pussy was the last fucking thing on my mind. But I now see why men say it. I’ve never had a woman like Saylor in my life. Hell, I’ve never had any woman in my life, but I see the impact she has on my self-control. I can feel it slipping, and soon, I’m gonna fucking lose it.

I’m washing my hair when I feel her behind me. I try to ignore her, but she puts her hands on me and they are full of soap, just like the last time we showered together. The cold water doesn’t affect her in the least. I like how she washes me. I can’t remember it ever being done before. And I really like that she expects nothing in return.

I’m clean enough and I step out without facing her. I have too much shit to do today to have visions of her naked under a cold stream of water in my head. It will be hard enough as it is.

I’m dressed before she is out, and now I’m rethinking taking her somewhere for lunch. I know it’s shitty of me to keep her cooped up in here alone, but being around her softens me. I need to get into kill mode and she will fuck up my vibe.

“I’ll be back,” I yell through the door and leave before she has a chance to answer. This time I grab chicken sandwiches instead of burgers. I know it’s not an equal exchange. I know it won’t make up for it. But just the fact that I tried makes me feel better.

Saylor seems to sense when I’m going to fuck up because when I get back, she isn’t dressed, ready for me to take her out. She is wearing another T-shirt and some shorts, sitting at the table waiting for me. She didn’t wash her hair and I’m glad she chose to leave it like it was.

“I got chicken,” I say as a form of greeting. She smiles and I’m forgiven, not that she was pissed in the first place. We eat in silence and I wait for her to break it. She lets me suffer until we are almost through, then she finally speaks.

“I like that you don’t talk a lot. Have I told you that?” She looks at me and her face is confused. She is thinking hard, but there is no need for it. I know every line she has ever said to me, and that’s not one of them.

“No.”

“Well, I do,” she says and continues eating. I want her to talk more. I only have forty-five more minutes before I leave, and I want to hear her talk the whole time. It’s not good, I know that. I am contradicting myself. I didn’t take her to eat because I needed space from her. Now I want anything but space, and I don’t care that it will likely fuck up my game tonight. “Does my talking bother you?”

“No.” Hell no. Fuck no. No.

“Riding is therapy for you, isn’t it?” she asks me, and by the way she is looking at me, she wants an answer.

“Yes.” I’ve forgotten my food. I’ve forgotten T-Man. I’m just sitting here waiting on her to finish whatever it is she wants to say. If there even is anything else she wants to add.

The next thirty-nine minutes are pure fucking turmoil. I have to leave and she hasn’t said another word. We just sit in silence. She writes in her diary. I watch her write in her diary. When it’s time for me to leave, I’m so anxious to hear her voice that I can’t wait to tell her I’m leaving because I know she will say something.

“I’ll be back later. Have your stuff packed and ready. But don’t wait up. I don’t know when I will be back. It might be late. But it shouldn’t be too late.” I’m rambling. I’ve never rambled in my entire fucking existence. What is it about her that makes me do crazy shit that’s just not me? I’m pissed when I grab my bag and stomp toward the door. I’m dangling by a thin rope off the side of a mountain. I don’t even want to hear her talk because I’m sure she will say something that will push me over the edge.

“Dirk?” She says my name like she wants to ask me something. She wants me to look at her. I don’t want to, but I can’t fucking help it. I turn to her and she is serious. There is no smile, just wide, honest, green eyes that suck me in with the force of a category-five hurricane. “You’re my therapy.” And just like that, I’m falling.

—

I’m in the woods waiting for T-Man to arrive at the place he thinks is a safe house. Strapped to my side is my Stroman miniature dirk that will take his life. It is only about three inches long, but the blade is sharp and effective when used in the right area.

I can’t let thoughts of Saylor take over right now, because she makes me weak. Instead, I let the lyrics to Metallica’s “Seek and Destroy” pound into my head. An hour later, I’m ready to kill. I have only one thought on my brain. Blood. Red blood that will seep out of T-Man, through the cheap particleboard of the trailer and onto the ground.

When I see him pulling in, I feel that familiar sense of power coursing through my veins. Tonight, I’m the reaper in black. I’m hell and I’m knocking on his front door. And he doesn’t even fucking know it. When he is inside and alone, I wait. I wait for him to get comfortable. I see him look out of the window a few times, but he gives up all too soon.

I crawl out of the darkness and under the trailer to the back room where I cut a hole in the floor last night. I remove the carpet and now I’m in his house. He is on the phone, so I wait for him to end the call. He is promising dinner to someone on the other line. He laughs. He is happy. He sounds fucking ecstatic, but it won’t last long. I know the conversation is winding down, so I advance. When he says good-bye, I’m standing behind him.

When your mind is made up to kill someone, never hesitate. Do your fucking job. But it needs to be painful. That was my order. I kneel behind him and slice his tibial tendon. When he falls to his knees, I wrap my arm around his throat and place my knife behind his ear. His screaming stops and his hands come to my arm. He is thrashing, breathing heavy. He is panicking, and I think of all the women who panicked after waking up bruised and battered and not knowing what happened.

He is telling me he has money. He will pay me. I don’t need his fucking money and because he insinuated that I do, I stab my knife into the cartilage of his shoulder. He screams louder. He should know why this is happening, but I want him to hear it from me.

“You fucked up. You drugged the wrong woman. You fucked with something that belongs to Sinner’s Creed, and now you will die at the hands of a brother.”

He is begging now, swearing that he doesn’t know what I am talking about. He just wants to live. He is sorry. I’ve heard it all. There is nothing he could say that would ever make me change my mind. But, before I kill him, I have to know.

“What religion are you?” I ask, and my question catches him off guard.

“I-I’m an atheist.” I knew it. And then, I cut his throat.

I hang around long enough for T-Man to choke to death on his own blood, then I leave the same way I came in. There will be no tracks, no fingerprints, and no evidence. A smooth kill, just how I like it.

—

I walk the mile to my bike with thoughts of Saylor praying in my head. I’m glad she and T-Man didn’t share the same god. I would never be able to process how that shit worked.

I’m ready to get back to Saylor. I’m so ready, I’m practically running. When I get there, I will want to sleep with her, but I can’t. We have to leave. We need to get as far away from here as possible. I’m sure the body won’t be found for a couple of days. No one knew about T-Man’s “safe house” but him. I plan to be long gone by then.

When I get to my bike, I remove my gloves and hoodie and stuff them in a plastic bag before putting them in my luggage. I grab a fresh shirt and my riding gloves and throw my helmet on. By my calculations, I should see Saylor in fourteen minutes.

It only takes me twelve, but there are people outside in the parking lot so I keep riding. I stop at a store down the street and fuel up. I go inside, get what I need, and park my bike behind the building. I walk back to the motel and wait for the men to go inside. I don’t want any witnesses. Even though no one saw my bike within a mile of T-Man’s house, I don’t want to take any chances.

An hour passes before they leave and I should already be a hundred miles from here. I decide to leave the bike, and Saylor and I will just walk back to it.

I find her in the room, sound asleep. I hate to wake her, but we have to leave. She is in the bed we slept in together and she is hugging a pillow. My pillow. Her face is buried in it. She missed me.

I find her stuff packed in her bag and sitting at the foot of the bed. Her clothes are laid out and she is wearing nothing but her shirt and panties. If she has to wear clothes, I like these best. I sit down beside her and gently shake her shoulder.

“Hey,” I say, barely above a whisper. I watch her eyes open and then close as she buries her face further in the pillow. It’s cute.

Cute.

I don’t like that word and I vow to never use it again.

“Saylor,” I say a little louder this time, and I watch her take a deep breath. She is agitated.

“I’m up,” she says and her tone is one I haven’t heard. And that word I vow to never use keeps popping in my head. Her hair is already braided and I watch in amusement as she grumbles the entire time she puts her clothes on. “Two thirty in the morning. I swear. I’ve been asleep for five minutes. Just long enough to start a dream. Then I have to get up.” I almost want to smile. Almost.

“What was your dream?” I ask, and my question surprises me. I know why I asked. I want her to tell me it was about me.

“Doesn’t matter,” she mumbles, and I like this side of her. It’s different. It would annoy most men, but I like it. She is perfect enough that it’s okay for her to be a little bitchy every now and then.

I’m in a good mood. I get like this every time justice is served. I’m still riding high on the horse of power and I don’t see getting off of it anytime soon. She betters my already good mood, and I feel like laughing. But I don’t, of course.

“It’s always the good part.” She is standing in front of me and she is no longer aggravated. She is curious. She is hoping that by explaining it to me, she will be able to find the answer for herself. “Right when you know it can’t get any better, so it doesn’t. It ends. Poof. Gone. Just like that,” she says with a snap of her fingers. “I don’t get it. Even if you didn’t wake me up, something else would have. I’m destined to never complete a good dream. It’s just not in the cards.”

I don’t want to leave. I want to sit here and let her lecture me on dreams and how they come to an abrupt stop just before the good shit happens. But we have to go.

“You ready?” I ask, knowing that she is. Her backpack is in her hands, her clothes are on, and she is standing, waiting on me.

“Yeah. I’m ready.” I stand up and I am only a couple of inches from her. I dig in my pocket and hold out a pack of Skittles. My reward is a huge smile and a hug. I wrap my arms around her awkwardly, wondering why this is so easy when we are in bed and so weird when we are not.

“You, Dirk. Man of my dreams. Man who wakes me up before the good part in my dream. Man who brings me Skittles, are even more perfect than I thought.”

I was in her dreams. She said so. She thinks I’m perfect. She said that too. I’m trading in my power horse for a kitten because now I feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside. And I’m gonna name that kitten Saylor. And I hate fucking kittens. And I hate this warm and fuzzy shit. And we need to leave before I get pissed because someone gave Saylor the wrong definition of perfect.

I take her hand and she walks beside me in silence back to the bike. I heard a quote once that said beauty was in the eyes of the beholder or some shit. Maybe perfection was the same way. Everything Saylor thinks is perfect is anything but. But, if she believes it, then maybe it’s true. Who am I to judge her opinions?

When I’m a good hundred miles away, full of Skittles and low on energy, I pull over on the side of the interstate and make the call to Nationals on the prepaid that was left for me. When the call is connected, there is no greeting, only silence.

“I guess the benefit will go toward a funeral.” I hang up without a response and smash the phone into the pavement with the heel of my boot. When it’s completely crushed, I kick the bigger pieces into the grass and head to the next town.

I stop just south of Birmingham and fuel up. The gas station offers breakfast and I send Saylor inside to get us something. She returns with a bag of shit and I survey it while I smoke.

“I got two biscuits, three packs of Skittles, two OJs, a Mountain Dew, a Coke, a few granola bars, some M&M’s, a pack of peanuts, and a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.” I just stare at her. Was I depriving her of food? Was she that fucking hungry to buy out a damn convenience store at five in the morning?

“A road trip ain’t a road trip without junk food, and I get tired of sitting in a motel without anything to snack on. There is only so much sink water I can drink before I go crazy.” I fed her. I start to tell her that, but she stops me when she pokes her lip out in an exaggerated pout. “I’m sorry, did you want something?” This is funny to her, and her comment is kinda funny to me. Kinda.

“I’m taking the Cheetos,” I say, and my comment makes her laugh. It’s a beautiful sound. And all I can think about is how perfect she is and how fucking lucky I am.