Sinclair

Chapter Six: Days Gone By

FOUR DAYS HAVE GONE BY without any word from Sinclair. He has not sent a single member of The Iron Order to come and fetch me nor has he shown up himself. Obviously, I'm grateful for this. I think to myself, he must have heard something in my voice that's keeping him away. Whatever he heard in my voice that is keeping him at bay, I try to be grateful for it. Despite all that, though, some part of me is slightly irked. Some superficial part of me is wondering how he could do all that—professing his love for me so candidly after a year apart—and then just give up the moment I tell him no. Perhaps his confession wasn't as honest as I'd originally thought. Maybe I didn't know Sinclair as well as I'd assumed and what I thought I heard was far from the actual truth.

Either way, I took this as a sign that I was right: love was something that could never last. Sure, you might feel it today or tomorrow or even a year from now, but in the end, feelings wither and die.

And even though I was the one who pushed Sinclair away, I can't deny that the prospect of his feelings for me vanishing stings.

Shit, maybe I cared more about him than I thought.

I do, however, keep up with Carla and Sonny. A couple of days ago—when I was in a Food Lion a little further in town—I found myself in the ice cream section, browsing through various Ben and Jerry's flavors and wondering which one I wanted when Sonny showed up out of nowhere. To make a long story short, we bought a couple of pints, took it back to my place and we ended up catching up for hours. He told me about his marriage to Rixon—a ginger-haired high-end lawyer who was on Sinclair's payroll. He told me about how he was the happiest now than he had ever been. When he asked me about Sinclair, I quickly dodged his questions. He gave me a look but stopped asking.

Like with Carla, it felt good to chat with Sonny again. Just like it had been when I walked into that bar, there were just things I never realized I missed until they were sitting right in front of me, staring me in the face.

It's around one in the afternoon now and I'm sitting on the couch in my living room, typing out one of the reviews for the latest book I've finished reading. Once I finish, I post it on my website and let the buyer know that the review has been posted.

As my stomach growls insanely loud, I realize I haven't eaten for a couple of hours and I'm currently running on empty.

I make my way to the fridge only to find that my stomach isn't the only thing running on empty. All that is here is a bottle of ketchup, some mustard, a half-full container of spoiled milk and a Dole fruit cup.

I sigh and close the refrigerator, going to grab my keys from the little coffee table in the center of the room. If there's one thing I absolutely hate, it's grocery shopping. I always end up putting it off for as long as humanly possible and then, before I even know it, my refrigerator is barren and I have absolutely no choice if I want to eat.

And it's right as I swing my door open all harshly—annoyed at the fact that there will be lines and walking and actual human interaction—that I come face to face with the very person I assumed I was rid of.

Sinclair's hand is raised as if he was about to knock before I swung the door open. He looks mildly surprised, clearly, he hadn't expected for me to swing the door open the way I had.

I internally cursed myself for just swinging the door open without checking to make sure no one was lurking around first. I had clearly been too cocky when I believed my words had reached him. I should have known. This was Sinclair we were talking about. A man who was used to getting what he wanted when he wanted and didn't stop until he had it. I should have known my words from four days ago had fallen on deaf ears.

And even though I had told him to leave me alone, even though I had told him nothing good could ever come of him and I in a relationship, I can't deny that little part of me that was so glad he was here. I couldn't ignore that tiny part of inner Freyja that was glad that Sinclair hadn't forgotten about me, that he hadn't gone out and found himself some other girl to take up his time like I had suggested he do.

I was far too glad and I knew that was a terrible thing.

"What do you want, Sinclair?" I ask, trying to make my voice as disapproving as possible. Maybe if he sees my disapproval, he'll get the hint and leave.

No such luck.

"I came to see you, obviously," he responds, giving me a mock worried look. "You okay, little goddess? You're doing that thing where you ask questions with obvious answers."

I'll admit that little dig at me made me want to smile a little, but I suppressed it and continued on.

"Why are you here?"

"You're doing it again, darlin'," he drawled in a very believable Southern accent.

Yes, it was true. I knew exactly why he was here. Back when we would see each other, he'd come over to my place every day at around this time. When we were able, we'd go straight to my bedroom. Most times, we had a difficult time making it so far away and we'd end up on the floor or on my couch or pressed up against my wall.

But, there was absolutely no reason why he should be here for that. I told him that nothing was going to happen between us. I told him to leave it be.

But still, against my will, my mind is traveling back to those times. It's going back to the memories of him pressed up against me, of his lips holding mine and of his hands—big, warm and calloused from many fist fights—caressing me gently, as if I were as fragile as a baby bird in his hands.

And it's harder than it usually is to force myself not to think about that, not to think about him. How can I not think about him when he's right in front of me?

Sinclair is giving me this look that says he knows exactly what I've been thinking about and that he's thinking about it, too. He starts to take a step forward and I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

"I need food!"

He stopped his slow walk toward me and raised his eyebrows, silently asking me what in the hell I was going on about. It was then that I realized Sinclair had his lip ring in. It was something he only wore because he knew I liked the way it felt when he went down and...

Seeing where I was looking, he gives me this super wicked smirk and raises his eyebrows again but this time the question in them is different. This time, his eyes are saying that all I have to do is open this door and let him inside and everything that we had before, we can have again.

It's such a tempting offer, too.

But no, I can't allow myself to do that to him. I know love is not what I want and it's clearly what Sinclair wants. He's not coming here for a quick screw and then he'll just leave. He's coming here because he wants to screw me until I love him. He wants to enter me so deeply that he f*****g pierces my soul.

And I can't have that.

I step outside and shut my door firmly behind me, hoping I'm telepathically communicating with him that—no matter how much that lip ring excites me—there will be none of what he came here for.

Sinclair just watches me in amusement.

"I'm going grocery shopping. So, if you'll excuse me..."

I tried to inch my way around him so I could get to my car. I knew that if I could just make it to my car, I would be safe. Once that door was closed, I could peel out of this driveway and be far enough away from Sinclair that I could think normally again.

But, per usual, what I want is not at all what I get. Sinclair steps into my path, his hand lightly gripping my waist to keep me in place. He's far too close and his eyes, like thick rainclouds rolling across a dark sky, are staring down at me seriously. A sliver of hair falls forward from behind its spot behind his ear and a few strands tickle my forehead as he looks down at me.

His scent begins to wash over me now—a deep, woodsy male musk that leaves me weak in the knees. Before, when we were in Carla's, all I could really smell was the alcohol and the thick scent of lingering cigarette smoke. Not to mention, I was pretty tipsy from drinking two glasses of Bourbon. Now, though, I can smell him and only him. There is the faintest hint of cigarette smoke on him and that makes me frown. He's probably smoking again. It was a terrible habit that I couldn't stand. We had come to an agreement back then that he would stop smoking and instead, use me as a stress relief. Again, the two of us were like a couple of nymphomaniacs. We were always going at it.

"You're smoking again," I said accusingly, wrinkling my nose to show my displeasure.

"You were gone and I had no other ways to alleviate my stress," he murmured, placing his other hand on my waist so that both of his hands are gripping me.

"You know that's bad for you." I'm trying extremely hard to think of anything other than how close he is.

"If you want me to stop, you know what I want in return." And he gives the same wicked smile, his lip ring flashing seductively in the sunlight. For a split second, I'm completely hypnotized by it. My mind just travels back to his head buried between my thighs and it's all that I can suddenly think about. I go from being slightly hot and bothered to completely far gone in three-point-five seconds.

His eyes darkened as if he could hear my thoughts. Maybe he could just see the look on my face and could tell where my mind was. He moves one of his hands from my waist and brings it up so that he's cupping my chin and he moves his thumb teasingly across my bottom lip.

"I like that expression, little goddess," he whispers, his face getting too close. "Freyja."

It's when he says my name that I snap out of whatever trance I was in, I pull away from him as if he was on fire and I bolt toward my car. I have it unlocked and the door open almost simultaneously, and then I'm sliding inside. With shaking hands, I struggle to put my keys in the ignition.

As I reverse my car out of the driveway, I make eye contact with Sinclair. The last thing I see before I turn the car around to leave him in my driveway, is him giving me a slow, satisfied smirk.