Sinner's Revenge(56)

“I know who she is. I know what kind of person she is. And I know that she loves chocolate and flowers. I think that’s enough,” I say, unable to keep the grit out of my tone.

“It is enough,” Rookie snaps, suddenly appearing in my line of sight. There is no mistaking the warning in his tone. I’m not pissed at Carrie. I’m pissed at myself for not knowing these things. But I damn sure didn’t make it sound like that.

“It’s fine.” Carrie pushes at Rookie’s leg, trying to remove him from between us. When it doesn’t work, she peers around him. “As long as you know that, that’s all that matters. You’ll figure the other stuff out along the way.” She gives me a smile that could melt an iceberg, and it makes me feel like shit.

I stand, figuring my time here is up considering Rookie is still looking at me like he wants to kill me. “Take care of that woman,” I say, pointing down at Carrie. “She’s too damn good for you.”

In my truck, I’m calling Diem before I hit the highway.

“Hello,” she says breathless, her voice echoing through the sound system.

“What are you doing?” I ask, my blood turning cold and my voice deadpan. Now I know what she felt like when she called while I was getting head.

“I’m running. What do you want?” I nearly wreck with relief, and when I let out a breath, she laughs. “Damn, I should have played that better.”

“Not a good time for that,” I growl, trying to calm myself down.

“What’s wrong?” She’s serious now, genuinely concerned. I’d play on that, but I’m too worked up.

“I need your favorite color. Carrie wants to know,” I half lie. I want to know too.

“Red. Bright red.” I listen to the sound of her feet on the pavement . . . a steady, fast-paced jog.

“What makes you laugh?” I ask, my voice lower. Damn, I wish I was with her. Running right beside her and watching her tits bounce up and down.

“I’m not much of a laugher,” she pants, then only the sound of her breathing fills the truck. She’s stopped running and is trying to catch her breath. “You,” she starts, still struggling. “You make me laugh. That’s why I do shit to piss you off. It makes me happy.”

I make her happy.

Sure, it’s in a fucked-up kind of way, but still . . .

I make her happy.

“Why all the questions, Zeke?”

I think about that a minute before finally telling her the truth. “I just want to know . . . I want to know everything about you.”

Time seems to stand still while I wait for her to answer. Forever seems to pass before she finally does. “If I tell you something, will you stop asking questions?”

“Yes,” I agree without hesitation.

I hear the sound of her feet moving once again. Slower this time. “I’m still figuring myself out. But when I’m with you, I feel like I’m finding me. All my favorite things are determined by who makes me happy. So ask me that. Ask me who makes me happy.”

“I already did,” I say, starting to wonder if I heard her wrong the first time. But when she answers, my chest fills with pride and I know what I heard was right.

“Then you already know everything about me.”

The phone disconnects before I have time to tell her that if what she says is true, then she already knows everything about me too.





18


“DO YOU HAVE an answer yet?” I look out across the patio at all the leaders of Sinner’s Creed, who are anxiously awaiting my decision about their offer. They want me to become a Nomad. They want me to pick up where Dirk left off. Houston and San Antonio were a trial run, now they want me to go nationwide. They’d offered to give me six months to think about it. I didn’t need that long. I’m ready.

“Yes. I’d be honored.” Shaking hands with all of them, I stand and let them cut my bottom rocker off. The Texas patch is folded and put away, and one that reads “Nomad” is handed to me in return.

Pulling the small sewing kit from my inside pocket, I remove my cut and take a seat. The lighting out here is shitty. It would benefit me better to go inside. But there’s something about the struggle that makes me feel like I’m more worthy.

Eight years ago, I sewed on my Prospect rocker, sitting in a field, in the middle of the night. The only lighting I had came from matches that I’d light and hold between my teeth until it burned my lips. It took four hundred and seventy-three stitches, six hours, and twelve needles, but I finally finished.

A year after that, I sewed my top rocker, bottom rocker, side rocker, full back piece, one-percenter patch, and number thirteen on while a whore named Gabby held a flashlight. That one took all night, and as soon as the sun rose, I was ordered inside back to the darkness again.