Sinclair

Chapter Five: Black Velvet

EVERYTHING THAT HAD ONCE been in my past—this bar, my old friends, Sinclair—were all exactly as they had been the day I left, so it really shouldn't have been as surprising as it was to find out this office had not changed an inch. It wasn't really an office by conventional standards. It was a small room with a one-armed black chaise lounge chair pushed in the far corner. The chair had a good view. You could see the fading sun—which was now exceptionally lower than before, the sky was nearly black now—glimmering across the tall treetops. It truly was a beautiful place. Especially since Carla's was the only bar or shop around for miles. In the middle of the room was a small desk and a comfortable chair. To be completely honest, Sinclair never used that desk and I suspected he just put it there to fill up the room. The only time he had ever used it was when he and I...

Forcing myself out of the pervy direction my thoughts had taken, I try to focus on something else. Anything else. That's how I hear him softly shut the door behind us.

I whirl around so fast, it a wonder I don't get whiplash, and I say, "Why are you closing the door?" in this high, erratic sounding voice.

He raises a brow, looking amused by the undoubtedly fearful look on my face.

"There's been a couple of renovations to the place since you were last here. Carla added a room a little ways down so that she could stay here if Bruiser happens to have to go out one night. She hates going home without him."

"That doesn't explain why you closed the door," I snapped.

He holds up in hands in surrender.

"I was getting to that part," he promises, flashing me a mischievously dimpled smile. "A lot of the guys like to take turns going in there to rest before they go out for nightly patrols, you know? Listen."

I do as he says and, sure enough, I can hear the sound of heavy footsteps thumping down the hall past the office and off to where the new room must be. Right as the footsteps disappear, I hear Carla start up the music she uses when the bar is officially open. Crazy b***h by Buckcherry has taken place of the soft jazz, and now I can hear feminine voice along with the male ones. A lot of women with a taste for dangerous, leather-clad men frequent this place.

"We wanted privacy, remember?"

"You wanted privacy," I correct him.

He just grins at me and tilts his head toward the chaise lounge chair.

"You can have a seat. You just standing there like that makes this whole thing kind of uncomfortable, little goddess."

I suppose he's right. Just standing here in the middle of the room where we used to have wild animalistic s*x is probably slightly awkward. But what feels even more awkward is sitting on the couch where we once had wild, animalistic s*x. I don't know if I can trust him when he's sitting so close to me in such a confined space.

What's more, I don't know if I can trust myself.

Seemingly sensing my thoughts, Sinclair gives me his signature smirk and says, "Don't worry, I won't misbehave if you don't." And the look he gives me makes it very clear that he wants, with every fiber of his being, for me to misbehave.

I shoot him a look—making sure to make it as displeased as possible—and walk slowly over to the chaise lounge chair. I actually have to take a deep breath—although I try to do so as discreetly as possible—before I sit down.

The couch is just as plush as I remember, the black velvet feeling incredibly pleasing against my fingers as I touch it lightly with my fingertips.

After I've sat down, Sinclair comes and plops down right beside me. My fingers—which had been creating shapeless patterns on the couch—pause as my entire body completely freezes up. I probably look a lot like a robot that has completely shut down at this point.

"Relax, Freyja, I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to," Sinclair says, giving me a deadpan look.

This thaws me out a little but only because my name on his lips goes straight to my nether regions and I have to clamp my thighs shut to keep Niagara Falls from gushing between my legs. I have a feeling Sinclair's oddly perfect self-control would vanish, then. And Lord knows I did not want that.

Actually, I did want that but the Lord knows I did not need that.

"I've said what I had to say. I don't know why you brought me up here," I tell him after getting my hormones in check. "I don't know what you want from me—"

"Cut the s**t, Freyja," Sinclair interrupts me, his voice firm. "You know exactly what I want from you. When you left, I knew it was because you were afraid so I let you go. What did I tell you? You get a year. That year is up, little goddess. I intend to make you mine again." His voice drops a few octaves when he says that last part.

I don't look at him even though I can feel his gaze burning a hole in the side of my face. I keep my gaze strictly forward, watching as the sun begins to completely slip behind the horizon and the once bright landscape is covered in darkness. I look at this scene as if it's the most fascinating thing I've ever seen in my life because if I look at Sinclair, I don't know what I'll do. Sitting on this couch next to him after a year of being deprived of his touch is driving me insane. At this moment, I want him so bad that it's almost physically painful. And knowing that he wants me back just makes it that much more difficult.

But, I know that I can't let myself give in. That would just be toying with his feelings and that's not the kind of person I want to be. I don't want to use someone's feelings for me for my own personal gain.

Especially not Sinclair's.

I know that I'm never going to fall in love with anyone. I've completely given up on the prospect of ever doing that. So, if Sinclair really does still feel the way he did before I left—which, after looking into his stormy eyes after he had come through that door, I can confirm he did—then nothing can happen between us. I can't let it.

For both his sake and mine.

"Sinclair, there are so many girls out there who would love it if you chased them. Why are you chasing me?"

"Well, mostly because I don't like girls, I like women. But, also," l—his eyes are scorching as they meld themselves to the side of my face— "I guess there's just something about you, little goddess. You want me to leave you alone and I've tried, believe me. But each time, I end up right back where I started. At your mercy." He laughed somewhat bitterly. "Maybe you really are some kind of goddess. I find it hard to believe any ordinary woman could affect me this way."

I don't know how to respond to Sinclair's confession. Most women would be jumping for joy, no doubt. Everyone knows that most women want men like Sinclair to fall in love with them. Not only is he gorgeous, but he's got the bad boy angle going for him, too. He's got a vibe that says, "I really don't care about anyone's feelings but mine" and a tone that whispers, "I'm reckless." Women love men like that. It's like we can't help but be attracted to a man who has an air of danger and walks like a mystery.

To be quite honest, that was probably what attracted me to Sinclair in the first place. The way that he carried himself all seductive and carefree.

Women want bad boys because women want to fix them. I'm not sure why, but it's like it's written in the female DNA. If he's a bad boy that makes every instinct in your body scream at you to stay away, then you must stay and fix him. Television shows and books made millions of dollars a year portraying this very scene out to an audience of women who just ate it up.

But—and maybe it was just because it was happening to me, I don't know—I didn't find it enjoyable. In fact, I am the complete opposite of thrilled. I feel like I want this soft, velvet couch to swallow me whole and smother me to death.

It's Sinclair being so damn sincere that makes this so difficult. Why couldn't he just lie or feed me some shitty line like most guys do? It would make it so easy for me to stay firm and stick to my guns, so to speak.

Him speaking so honestly, in a tone that sounded like he was just as confused and terrified at the fact that he had fallen in love with me as I was, made it so much more difficult to stick to the decision I swore I wouldn't be swayed from.

"Here's the thing, Sinclair," I finally muttered, curling my hand into a fist as I decided was going to reward his honesty with some honesty of my own. "The whole love thing, the whole falling in love with someone and having them love me back, it's not something I can do, alright? Can you please just let this go? Try to find a girl who actually deserves you, okay?"

Sinclair didn't respond for a long time. We sat there, in the dark and in silence. The only light provided was the light from the hall that streamed through the cracks of the door. I made sure not to look his way, even though I couldn't feel him looking at me. I was scared that if I looked at him and he looked back, I might lose every ounce of willpower that was keeping my choice—the right choice—on my brain.

"I know that you have your reservations when it comes to this kind of thing," he eventually says, his voice reverberating in the dark silence between us. "I understand it because—until I met you—I was the exact f*****g way. But here's the thing, little goddess, no matter how much you tell me no and no matter how much you swear you don't want me, I can't stop myself from coming after you. Even if you left this room and flew to Tibet to live among monks, I'd fly there and drag you back. I'd go to Hell and back for you. I'm going to make you feel the way I do."

The panic that cartwheels through my veins and flutters in my chest when he says that last line is painful. It's literally physically painful. Because that's my fear. That's the reason why I keep telling him no, why I tell him to leave me be and to find someone else. I know that there is a very strong possibility I could fall for Sinclair. I could fall and fall so deeply, I would be lost there forever.

But I don't want that.

I don't need that.

I stand up abruptly.

"I've said what I needed to, Sinclair," I snap, my voice sharp with panic and anger and sadness. "Just leave me alone."

And I hurry out of the room before he can stop me.