“Come on, brother. I’ll buy you a drink.”
* * *
Rookie and I are at the bar having a drink with Mick, who coincidently happened to be here too. I’m introduced to his friend, Joel, who I know now is his lover. Fine by me. I should introduce them to Saylor’s friends Donnawayne and Jeffery. Everyone is having a good time. The guys are drinking, the girls are dancing, the night is perfect.
But then I hear them.
The unmistakable sound of Harley-Davidson motorcycles. It could be a bunch of guys just out on the town. But my gut tells me it’s not. By the way Rookie is looking at me, his is saying the same thing. My whole world changes in the blink of an eye when six Death Mob members walk in, scanning the crowd. I grow tense, knowing that Rookie had killed two of their guys out in the open just a few days ago. They look at us but don’t concentrate too long, and I let out a sigh of relief. It’s time to go.
But the band decides to cover The Pretty Reckless’s “Heaven Knows” and it just so happens to be Diem’s favorite fucking song. So I’m forced to stay a little bit longer.
Death Mob is loud and obnoxious, speaking crudely to a group of women near the bar and shouting their demands to the bartenders. I don’t like it. The hate I have for them grows as I watch them disgrace all MCs with their behavior. Sure I’d done my fair share of hell-raising, but only in places that belonged to Sinner’s Creed. This is not their usual spot, but they’re letting everyone know that this is their territory. Concord is their town. And they can act however the fuck they want.
Don’t get involved.
Don’t get involved.
I’m chanting to myself. I’m trying to find anything to watch other than the scene in front of me. I look at Diem as she moves her ass on the dance floor, her eyes trained on me. I’m counting the beats of the song, and it seems never ending. Then my eyes fall back to Mick and his friend as they sit minding their own business and share a moment. And I’m not the only one who notices.
One of Death Mob’s members says something to his brothers, and soon all their eyes are on Mick and Joel. I turn to Rookie to see the vein that appears on his forehead as his anger rises. It tells me that he can’t distance himself from what’s happening much longer. He hates Death Mob as much as I do. It’s hard when you’re within spitting distance of men worthy of a slow death and you can’t do anything about it.
When one of them puts their hands roughly on Mick’s shoulder, I’m on my feet. As I walk over, I know I’m making a mistake. I’ll raise the suspicions of everyone here and draw the attention of Death Mob chapters from near and far. But I don’t care. When I see Rookie stand and walk behind me, I know he don’t give a shit either.
Mick sees me approaching and the relief is evident on his face. He looks like he’s fighting to contain a smile too. He thinks his new friend Zeke is coming to his rescue. But he’s wrong. Tonight, I’m not his friend, and I’m not Zeke.
Tonight, I’m a one-percenter.
I’m Sinner’s Creed.
I’m fucking Shady.
15
DIEM
BAD BOYS. THERE’S something about them. It’s almost like they possess some magical power that controls your mind . . . and your heart.
I’ve always been drawn to them. I like the way their appearance screams confidence. I like the way they make me feel safe. I like that even though everything inside me tells me to stay away, I can’t. The goose bumps, the butterflies, the thrill and the fear always win against original, ordinary, and safe.
I guess it’s the rebel in me. The bitch that claws at my skin, forcing me to adhere to something I know is no good for me. The lady dressed in red that cheers for the evil that’s buried deep within me. The Diem that longs to let the man take control. Whichever one it is telling me that Zeke is who I want is throwing one hell of a celebration right now. Because what I’m witnessing in this moment, is the fucking epitome of a bad boy.
I’ve been watching him and Joe for the last five minutes. His transformation isn’t instant, but changes by the second. One minute he’s calm and collected, and then his eyes narrow on something. I can almost hear the rush of blood in his veins as it flows faster and faster toward his quickening pulse.
The steady rhythm of his heart has intensified to a hard punch that vibrates his shirt with every beat. His nostrils flare with every new idea of pain he wants to deliver. The knuckles on his once-relaxed hands are now bone white, stretching his skin to the point of breaking. He taps his foot as if he’s counting, trying to calm himself. But the rage is too intense, and when he finally has enough, he stands.