Sinclair

Chapter Seven: Facepalm

I ENDED UP DOING my shopping at the Piggly Wiggly that's located in the middle of town. It's one o'clock on a Saturday, so of course, the place is completely packed. There is a crowd of shopping carts and bodies and people saying hello to those who they've run into. That's the thing about Willow's Creek, everybody knows everybody.

I walk into the grocery store, grab a small shopping cart and proceed to wheel it into the main area of the store, deciding I'll head for the junk food first because after my run in with Sinclair I need to shove something unhealthy into my mouth.

If Sinclair were here and heard me say that, he would have made a very inappropriate joke.

Trying to push all thoughts of him, his potty mouth and his stupid, sexy lip piercing out of my mind, I decide that I'm going to focus on shopping. I absolutely will not think about him and what could have happened if I would have just let myself go.

Fortunately for me, though, a distraction comes my way as soon as I notice that almost every pair of eyes in the store are trained on me. As soon as I looked at them, though, they looked away, averting their gazes as they whispered about me.

I almost want to facepalm myself as I remember why they're most likely whispering about me. I was seen with Sinnerman's right-hand man. We were seen in public whispering like comrades. Not to mention, my neighbors had undoubtedly seen the three motorcycles parked in my yard and me climbing onto the back of Bruiser's motorcycle and riding off to God knows where. I cringed as I imagined the rumors that would follow when my nosey neighbors blabbed about what they had witnessed today. Sinclair Buchanan himself in my yard, holding me close, trying to kiss me.

I was definitely going to get a call from Mom later.

The fact that so many people are staring at me is making me anxious. My social anxiety is literally threatening to spill over the imaginary line that keeps me sane and if it spills over all Hell will break loose inside of this Piggly Wiggly. Everyone is watching me. The old ladies, the Mom's trying to get a bit of shopping done before school ends, the workers—some of who even pause restocking the shelves to look over at me wide-eyed. Everyone has their eyes on me and it's literally the most uncomfortable thing in the world.

In the end, I just grab a couple of things for tonight's dinner and then I throw a shitton of ice cream into my car, deciding right then and there that I would need it. I also make a note to force someone else to do my shopping for me. My brother is in his third year of high school and has just gotten his license. While he would complain, I doubt he would mind if I paid him for it. I tell myself that when I get that I'll text him when I get back home and I'll ask him for his help, then.

At the check out line, the cashier—a gangly, teenage boy that reminds me of this kid I went to school with way back—rings up my things, all the while avoiding eye contact with me. Everyone knows The Iron Order is not a group to be screwed around with. It's not hard to piece two and two together and realize that if Bruiser came out to talk to me directly—especially considering the fact that the members of The Iron Order didn't associate with anyone outside of their circle—then it would have to mean I was someone important to them. Someone important to their boss. And if that was true, then all that it meant was that I was just as dangerous as the rest of them.

Once my groceries have been rung up, I hurry out of the store, eager to escape all the stares I've been receiving and wanting desperately to go back home, curl up on my couch and get started on reading the next book I've been asked to review.

It's on the drive back to my place that I get a call from my Mom. I suppress a sigh because I know what's coming even before I answer.

"Hey, Mom," I greet her, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

"Freyja, what's this I hear about you being involved with a gang?" Mom screeched, her voice high with anxiety.

This time, I let the sigh escape from my mouth before I answer.

"I'm not involved with a gang, Mom."

"Then why did Patty tell me her son's friend's fiancé saw you talking with one of the members of that crowd?" Mom wants to know. Even though I can't see her, I can imagine what expression she must be making on the other end of the phone. Her eyes are probably narrowed with mistrust and her face must be creased with anxiety.

"He just mistook me for someone he knew, that's all," I lied, turning into my neighborhood and squinting as the sun glares harshly on the street that is vacant except for my car and two cars that are trailing behind me.

Mom makes a noise that clearly states she knows that I'm lying to her and she's not about to be having that.

"I'm not involved with The Iron Oder, Mom," I insisted, ignoring the sharp gasp she did when I openly said their name. "It was just a misunderstanding. Nothing more, nothing less."

And the tone that I was giving her—strong, sure, uncompromised—was what really won her over, I think. In the end, she seemed placated and before I could pull up to my house, we had hung up and she made me promise to never worry her like that again.

Pulling up to my house, I felt my heart sink to the ground as I took in the sight before me. Sinclair had yet to leave. He was still in front of my house, leaning casually against his motorcycle. His gaze seems slightly amused as he watches my car pull into the driveway and park right beside his bike.

Determined to ignore him, though, I make my way out of my car and woodenly head to the back of it, popping the trunk. I remove a couple of the bags and am stretching on the tips of my toes to shut it when a tattooed hand beats me to it and slams the trunk down in my stead.

Still committed to ignoring him, I turned and started trying to make my way over to my front door but I'm stopped by Sinclair standing in front of me, blocking my way.

I glare up at his tall, stupidly sexy face with his annoyingly hot smirk.

"Could you move, please?" I ask in a falsely polite tone. "I have ice cream in here."

"Let me carry your bags inside for you," he offers.

I think about that. Sinclair, inside my house, where we're alone and there's no one around to make me second guess stupid decisions—like letting him put those lips and that lip ring to good use. Yeah, that is not at all, a good idea.

"I'm fine on my own," I answer quickly, shaking my head like I can shake off the perverted thoughts that have begun to take over.

"I was asking, Freyja," he says and I know there will be no argument now. He only uses my name when he's really serious. It happened once when we were still sexing each other up, so to speak, there was this guy who hung around me often and clearly he had a crush on me. I remember how much Sinclair really seemed to despise the guy and whenever the guy would come talk to me, Sinclair would suddenly make his presence known and he would stare the guy down so hard, the poor dude would get intimidated and scurry away. That was when he pulled me to the side for the first time and firmly told me that while we were seeing each other, I shouldn't be seeing anyone else and that he wouldn't see anyone else. I remember that it was the first time he had ever really used my name as he typically only used that nickname—"little goddess"—when he referred to me.

Looking back, that day should have been a telltale sign of what was to come. That day should have told me that Sinclair was falling in too deep. Maybe if I had left then—maybe if I had stopped what we were doing before his feelings could really grow and turn into something else—this wouldn't be happening. Maybe he could have returned to his old ways and I could have returned to mine.

It's really no use thinking about "could haves" though because I had already made my choices. And the choices I had made led me to this current moment of Sinclair taking all of my bags, holding them with a lot more ease than I had.

Not really having a choice, I just told myself that letting him in did not, in any way equate to having to have s*x with him. I would let him in, he would set down my bags, and I would toss him out again. That's how this would go down.

I also had the strongest feeling that—not for the first time when it came to Sinclair—I would eat my words. 

(A/N): So, shout out to @otakuwriter101 for making this bomb ass cover right here...

It's a million times better than anything I could do and you may notice that I've decided to use this as the actual cover rather than mine because I liked it so much! If anyone else decides they want to make covers or banners, let me know because you guys are a lot more talented than me in that department.

Anywho, I hope you enjoyed this chapter of Sinclair, dolls! Laters!