I slam my fist on the table, squeezing my eyes shut in pure aggravation. Why the hell do I care? It isn’t natural for me. I have brothers all over the world, but I don’t want to know their favorite color or what the fuck makes them laugh. I respect them, but it pretty much ends there.
I have to stay the hell outta Jackson, Mississippi. It seems like every time I come here, I see her. And every time I see her, I dream of her. And every time I dream of her, I dream we are together, and she is smiling. I’ve never even seen her smile, but I dreamed it was something beautiful. Like a sunset or a rainbow or a clear blue sky the day after a storm.
I clench my fist until my knuckles are white and bring them to my head, letting out a growl of frustration. Words like sunset, rainbow, and beautiful aren’t even in my vocabulary. My thoughts have me feeling weak. I need to kill. I need to hit someone. I need to control the crazy shit that’s happening in my head. Fucking sunshine and rainbows . . . What a *.
“Bad time?” I move my hands from my face and find Shady staring at me with a piece of paper in one hand and the other one held up in surrender. Good. By his reaction, I know I haven’t lost my touch. I like that men fear me, even if he is my own brother.
“You got my shit?” I growl, ignoring his question. This is one of the reasons I ride Nomad—alone. Stupid shit like unnecessary conversation.
“Yeah, man. I got it.” I snatch the paper from his hand. It’s not that I don’t like Shady, or that I don’t respect him. I’m just not much of a people person.
Everyone I come in contact with has strict orders from Nationals to give me anything I ask for and not to fuck with me. The results will be nasty and guaranteed. The warning from Nationals is the only one they get. Most of them respect it and leave me alone, but there were always those that pushed the limits just because they thought they could. The unlucky bastards that didn’t heed the warning now have scars of repercussion.
I study the paper, pausing long enough to dismiss Shady with a look, and read the address until it is memorized. That’s all I need for now. The rest I can read later. I shove the paper in my pocket on my way out, passing the guys in the clubhouse without even a look. I give them my two-fingered, half-ass signature salute and I’m gone.
2
SINNER’S CREED MOTORCYCLE Club’s Jackson chapter clubhouse is located in the old part of downtown Jackson. The place where even the cops don’t bother coming. We run the whole block, and if you somehow end up on this street you are either lost, a business associate, or looking for trouble. Saylor’s apartment is only a few miles from here, somewhere between uptown Jackson, where the rich fuckers live, and old downtown, where the projects are, and the Sinner’s Creed clubhouse.
I find her apartment building easily. It seems less than middle class, something maybe college kids would live in or single moms. I’ve imagined Saylor in something a little nicer than some shitty apartment. Something like a cottage on the lake, where she could watch the sunset every evening.
Sunset.
There’s that fucking word again. Invading my thoughts and making me want to stick someone in the neck with my knife. I park across the street and pull out a smoke, inhaling deeply in hopes that the nicotine will calm my annoyance with my mind. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know what the hell I’m thinking. I’m confused, I’m out of my element, and I’m twisted the fuck up.
Saylor isn’t home. I’ve been here over an hour, stalking her apartment like some kind of freak, and she has yet to show. I hate myself for missing her. I wish I could stay longer, but I have a job to do. My club comes first. And it always will.
—
I’m going too fast down the small road that leads me to the highway. I’m going so fast that I almost miss the tear-streaked face surrounded by a mass of blond hair that belongs to the body of the goddess who is walking down the sidewalk. I make an illegal U-turn in the middle of the street and race back toward her, stopping my bike several yards in front of where she is walking. When I get off and remove my helmet, I stand next to my bike, willing my legs to not walk up to her and take her in my arms and comfort her.
Comfort. Another word I’m not used to having in my head.
She walks closer, stopping a few feet from where I’m standing. Her eyes are sad, and I feel my heart speed up and my mind go into overdrive with all the forms of torture I can perform on the one who made her so sad.
“You’re late,” she says, and then I see it. It’s not a sunset or a rainbow or a clear blue sky. It’s something so much better. Even though her smile is sad and is only the one used when it’s appropriate to be polite, it’s the most beautiful fucking thing I have ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot.
I don’t know what I’m late for. Was she expecting me? I want to ask, but I can barely make it through the introductions. I don’t know how in the hell I’ll ever have a conversation with this girl. Just her presence seems to overwhelm me.
“I’m Dirk.” My tone is harsh—the result of my pissed-off state, which just accelerated because she deserves a tone that is soft and kind and pleasant to her ears.