“Will do.” I leave, knowing I can’t stay any longer. I need to put distance between us and the softening effect Saylor has on me. I need to get focused. I have a job.
Oklahoma City has a problem and I’m the solution. My orders today were to pull the president’s patch and give it to the sergeant at arms, and eighty-six the current vice president. Eighty-sixing someone can involve a few different things, but the outcome is the same. He will never ride for an MC again. But this one deserves a visit to the hospital as his parting gift. And that’s exactly what the fuck he is gonna get.
“Headstrong” by Trapt is blaring in my ears when my tires hit the pavement, and the song is so fitting I put it on repeat. This is who I am. This is what I do. I’m not the lust-struck, hand-holding, tear-wiping * I’ve been the past several days. Today, I’m Dirk—Sinner’s Creed Nomad National.
—
It’s late when I roll into the Sinner’s Creed Oklahoma City chapter’s clubhouse. They are all here waiting for me. They were informed I was coming and I know they are scared. Every fucking one of them.
This is a 1 percent MC. These are men who are trained to hurt, trained to endure hurt, and trained to kill. But only a few can compete with the best. And I’m the best. I’m the best at hurting, enduring, and killing. I’m the man they fear because I have nothing to lose, and they know that.
I have no home, no family, and nothing but this patch that keeps me alive and makes this life worth something. I’m the man they fear because I’m the one who puts them in their place when they fuck up. It’s in my blood to be a member of Sinner’s Creed. I’m third generation, and I’m old school.
I don’t take shit, I don’t give shit, and I don’t give a fuck about the politics. I respect every man that wears the same patch as I do, but I only like a few of them. By like I mean I can be around them for an extended amount of time and not want to rip their fucking heads off.
I tried being a brother in a chapter. It wasn’t for me. Nationals knew I belonged, they knew I was a soldier, and they knew I couldn’t handle the brotherhood aspect of the club. I was valuable. Too valuable and too informed for them to let go. That’s how I became the youngest Nomad in the history of the Sinner’s Creed MC. I started when I was twenty-one, I was given my Nomad rocker at twenty-three, and I’ve been busting heads all over the U.S. and bordering countries ever since. Tonight would be no different. Almost a decade of experience was under my belt, and my skills showed it.
I push through the door of the clubhouse and make my way to the back, where church is being held. I stand by the door and respectfully wait for their invitation. Even I don’t bust into someone’s territory without asking. I never disrespected my brothers and I would break the knees of any man who did.
I am waiting for less than five minutes before I’m summoned into church. I usually hoped things would go smoothly. Tonight, I want shit to get out of control. I need to blow off some steam.
“Nationals have made a decision. I’m here to enforce their decision.” I walk to the president first and pull my knife out of my cut. There is no fear in his eyes, only sorrow. He hates to lose the presidency and I hate to take it from him, but he had his chance and he failed. Pussy fell at his feet because of the P patch he wore, and it was his undoing. If you can’t run your house, you can’t run your club. He should have kept his dick in his pants and his ol’ lady wouldn’t be taking everything he fucking owned. I think of Saylor and how if she was my wife, I would never have any desire to touch another female. I don’t have the desire now and I haven’t even marked her as my property.
Fury. Rage. Hate. That’s what I’m feeling this moment, and it’s directed toward the motherfucker whose officer position I am fixing to take. Just the thought of some son of a bitch treating Saylor like this asshole treated his wife has me seeing red.
I cut the patch off his cut, close my knife, and deliver a right hook that breaks his jaw. I hear chairs slide across the floor and I know the others are fixing to challenge me.
The first is the sergeant at arms, who is soon to be the president. He yells something but all I can hear is the roaring in my ears. He hits me—hard, but I feel nothing. I don’t want to hurt this man, my brother; he is just doing his job. So I hit him just above his eye, in his brow. Blood gushes from his head, and while he is wiping to get it out of his eye so he can see me better, I speak.
“SA, I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.” He acknowledges my words and although he is still pissed, he doesn’t make any threatening moves toward me. Everyone is on their feet, even the VP, who is fixing to be in a world of pain. I go to him, and he knows what’s coming. It would be stupid of him to fight back, but he will because he is a man.