“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.