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.