Sinclair

Chapter Three: Bourbon and Tattoos

THE THREE BIKES SPED down the semi-vacant road. There was no sound except for the air as it whooshed by and the sound of the motorcycle engines as they move toward the familiar destination that had once been like a second home to me.

Carla's became visible almost immediately. It was the only thing this far out. It looked every bit like a run-down bar with a bunch of rowdy hooligans inside, but I still felt something tug at my heartstrings as I looked at this place. I've missed it more than I realized.

As we pulled into the parking lot, I realized I was becoming a bundle of nerves. There were so many things I was unsure of. How will many of the people I once thought of as family react to seeing me? How will Carla react to seeing me? Whatever reason I may have had for leaving them, I still did that. I left them.

Noticing the apparent distress on my face, Bruiser gave me a tiny smile and shook his head slightly.

"Don't worry. None of the guys are here yet. They come to hang out later than this, you know. Even if they were here, though, I think they'd be glad to see you. Hasn't been the same since you left."

I didn't say anything as we walked inside of Carla's. Honestly, what could I say? Oh yeah, sorry for leaving you guys. It's just that when I saw Sinclair falling in love with me it terrified me beyond belief, so I dipped. I didn't mean to hurt anyone, though.

Yeah, that was the kind of apology that could end all wars among mankind. Please, note my sarcasm.

Inside the bar, everything was just the same as it had been. It smelled faintly of cigarettes and alcohol but, since the bar's not in full swing, there was soft jazz music coming through the speakers. The pool table, which was located in the center of the room, is completely untouched and the balls have all been placed in the center, lined up in a triangular formation. The rickety tables and the cozy, worn booths were all the same as they were when I was here last.

I can't help the small smile that formed on my face as I take a look at this place. It's exactly like being away from home for a long time and then suddenly being able to come back. It's like you don't even really know you miss it until you're back, staring at the sight of a place that you loved more than you could have ever imagined.

Carla herself—who had been wiping the bar top studiously—looked up when we walked in. Her gaze immediately goes to her husband and she smiles slightly before her gaze rests on me. The look in her eyes is unfathomable, but I think I see a little sadness around the edges of her expression. It's something that really opens a hole in my heart. Seeing Carla look sad and knowing I'm the reason behind that sadness is the worst kind of guilt I've ever experienced.

"We come bearing gifts," Bruiser says in a sing-song voice, breaking the silence that was stretching between us. "Is Boss here?"

"No, he left about twenty minutes ago," Carla answered, moving for the first time since I walked in. She finished wiping down the bar top as she spoke and then placed the rag behind the bar top. "Some unexpected business with you-know-who."

"s**t," Bruiser exclaims.

The two bikers behind him stiffen, too. I put two and two together and decide that—based on what I've heard from gossiping townspeople—this must have something to do with that new motorcycle gang that's come into town challenging The Iron Order.

"Rocco, Kidd," Bruiser says to the big bikers standing behind him. "Let's go see if Boss needs any help." He walks over to Carla and gives her a quick peck on the lips. I hear him murmur, "Keep her company until we get back, alright."

He pulls away from her and looks at me. "I guess Boss'll see you when we get back," he says before he disappears through the door with the other two bikers on his heels.

A few seconds later, I can hear the sound of their bikes revving and the sound of their engines grow quieter and quieter as they get further and further away. When there's no sound of their bikes left, Carla and I just stand together in that bar, staring at each other warily.

After maybe a minute, Carla turns and reaches for a bottle of Bourbon. It's the good stuff, the kind Sinclair always bought her after something happened that wrecked her bar—like him getting into a fistfight or bullet holes through the windows. Needless to say, Carla had an entire shelf of good Bourbon.

Holding the Bourbon in one hand and two glasses in the other, she makes her way back to the counter and sets the glasses down. She pours a little in both the glasses, closes the bottle and sets it down before she downs it in one gulp.

"Be honest with me, Freyja," she says seriously, looking straight at me with unrelenting seriousness. "Why the f**k did you leave?" And then she pushes the other glass toward me as an offering before pouring more Bourbon into her own glass.

I blew out a sigh and came to sit at the bar. I picked up the glass and, like Carla had done previously, I downed it in one gulp. It burned down my throat but it was manageable. I had downed stronger alcohol when I frequented this place.

"Sinclair."

That's all that I say and that seems to be all that she really needs.

"s**t," she says, taking a sip of her drink and watching me with her careful dark eyes. "So, you figured out he was head over heels for you, eh?"

Carla is the only one who knows of my disdain for falling in love and having someone love me. I told her one night when the guys were out "taking care of business." We had gotten s**t-faced drunk and I confided in her that I never wanted to fall in love. I told her that was the reason I felt I could stay with Sinclair. Because a guy like him could never fall in love with a girl like me.

I ate those words a couple of months later.

"You knew?" I murmur dejectedly, giving her a look that she knows well.

She opens the Bourbon once again and pours me a glass. The rich brown liquid as it pours into the glass is the only sound between us for a moment. I watch Carla's hand—which is decorated with a badass skeleton hand tattoo—holds the bottle with a natural ease that comes with the job of owning a bar.

After my glass is poured, she set down the bottle, places her hands on the bar top and leans forward slightly, her eyes far away as she thinks of how to answer my question.

"I think the real question, Freyja, is who didn't know," she finally responds, her dark—nearly black—eyes snapping down to meet mine. "It was pretty obvious you stopped becoming just a good time for him. He stopped seeing the other women who used to frequent around him. He didn't even so much as flirt with other women. He only had eyes for you."

I down my second glass in another fell swoop, slamming it on the counter after I'm done. I'm starting to slightly feel the effects of the bourbon on my body. My body is starting to feel slightly lightweight and a little tingly. Luckily for me, I can handle my liquor or those two glasses of bourbon would have knocked me off my ass.

Despite how light my body is starting to feel, my mind is heavy and burdened with thoughts. I put my hand over my eyes and rub roughly. I had honestly never meant for Sinclair to fall in love with me. It was something that I had never accounted for. That night when we met and he introduced himself to me, I knew exactly which Sinclair he was. He was the only Sinclair in town and when people spoke of him, they used hushed fearful tones. Women went on and on about how hot he was and that it was just too bad he was a criminal and wouldn't commit, wouldn't fall in love.

That was one of the reasons why I chose him that night. Although, if I'm being brutally honest, it was just me choosing him; he chose me, too.

And while I had never accounted on him falling for me, I had also never accounted for the part of me that loved the idea of him loving me. I would be a complete liar if I said that I felt absolutely nothing for Sinclair. If that were the case, I would have just stayed and toyed with his feelings.

No, it was true and undeniable that I felt...something for him. And that was why I had to run. Because feeling something for men like Sinclair was dangerous. He was the type of man who you couldn't help but worry about because his work was too dangerous. Who when he'd be gutted in an alley somewhere or when he'd be shot in some foreign country? Who knew when the police would finally have evidence on him and finally take him away to prison to rot for the rest of his life?

"You're overthinking things, aren't you?"

I dropped my hands from my face and looked at Carla who was watching me with serious amusement, holding the glass to her lips although she never drank from it.

"I think I'm thinking things through enough," I huffed. "How do you do it, Carla?"

She raised a brow, silently asking me what I meant.

"How do you stay with Bruiser when you don't know what day will be his last?"

Carla spun twisted the glass around in her hand for a bit before she half-sighed, half-laughed.

"That's a stupid question, Freyja," she answered softly. "No matter if someone had the safest job in the world, you would never know when their last day would be. Take your mom for instance. She a professor at the college the next town over. One of the safest f*****g jobs in the world, right? But, you don't know when her last day'll be. Even still, does that stop you from loving her with everything you've got?"

That was the thing about Carla. On the outside, she's all tongue pierced and tattooed, sharp-tongued and foul-mouthed, but on the inside, Carla's incredibly deep. When people see her, they automatically assume the worst about her but it's moments like this one that really shows how vastly fathomless she can be.

"I'm glad you're back, though," Carla speaks up, lightening her tone a little. "I'm the only woman in this place, you know? When you left, I was left to deal with those idiots all by my lonesome."

Even though she calls them idiots, her tone is soft and fond. It makes me smile.

"If anyone can keep all those guys in line, it's you," I tell her with a laugh.

Carla laughs with me and for a while, we laugh together. Despite my anti-social tendencies, Carla, Bruiser, Sinclair, the people of The Iron Order, they're my family. The only difference is that we do not all share the same blood. After so long not talking or laughing, it feels good to do both.

"But honestly," Carla continues on after our laughter dies down. "Don't leave me alone again, pendejo! If you want to run from Sinclair, I guess no one can stop you but at least let me know you're alright once in a while so I won't have to worry about you."

I feel my former lighthearted mood fall slightly at the sound of Sinclair's name. Honestly, I can't help but find it so annoying how my mood completely revolves around him. Even when we were "together" just the sound of his name could affect me completely.

"I won't just disappear on you again," I promise.

Carla nods, seemingly accepting that.

"So, what are you going to do about Sinclair? He didn't call you here for no reason, you know. He wants you guys to get back together."

I sigh, shaking my head violently.

"I can't do that, Carla. I can't." I take a deep breath to steady myself. "And I plan on telling him just that."

"Something tells me that won't go over well," Carla mumbles under her breath.

After that, I change the subject and ask her how she's been. She tells a lot of stories about new guys who have joined The Iron Order and how—because they didn't show her the respect she deserved at first—she had to teach them a few manners. Surprise, surprise, now all of the guys were perfect angels and were almost more terrified of angering her than they were of angering Sinclair.

That makes me laugh way too hard and Carla laughs with me.

She tells me a lot of things that I've missed from many of the people who I once called family. Sonny finally proposed to his longtime boyfriend. That rumor about Chase Mitchell joining The Iron Order isn't merely a rumor. Apparently, he offers many advantages since his father is also aiding Sinclair to keep his son out of jail. As if The Iron Order didn't already have access to fifty of the best lawyers in the world already.

We talk for a long time. So long that the once high sun begins to fall slowly behind the horizon and starts painting the sky a deep shade of gold and purple and deep—almost black—blues.

And that's when they return.

I can hear their motorcycles as they pull into the parking lot of Carla's. I can see their headlights streaming through the windows, covering me in bright light. As I stare out of the wide window that offers the view of the parking lot, I get the oddest sensation that he can see me. It sends both tingles and waves of wariness through my body.

I can hear the gruff laughter from the men as the headlights suddenly shut off and they start to make their way toward the bar.

Carla looks over at the clock and tsks under her breath.

Bruiser is the first person who enters and he calls out a delighted, "Baby!" as he grins at Carla.

"Don't baby me, dumbass!" Carla grumbles, her Spanish accent coming out full force the way it always does when she's angry. "The least you could have done was call me."

"Worried about me, baby?" he asks, laughing wildly as all the other men file in.

"You keep laughing and you'll be staying at your brother's place for the rest of the week," she threatens him.

Crossing around the bar, he pulls her into his arms and holds her close. I look away as he murmurs something softly to her, probably reassuring her that he was fine. I know that sometimes, the life he chooses to lead gets to Carla. Probably more so now that there's a rival motorcycle gang in town.

I see a couple of the guys look at me in surprise but for the most part, they greet me and welcome me back with open arms. It seems they're unaware of the fact Sinclair had sent Bruiser after me.

When the last set of leather combat boots walks in, it grows quiet. I don't turn toward the door because I know who it is and I'm not ready to face him yet. After all this time I had to prepare, I thought that I could just look him straight in the eye, say it's never going to happen and keep it moving.

But, I don't think my body will cooperate.

Already, my heart is beating five miles a minute in my chest and the nerves that had been coiling tightly in my stomach are unfurled and wild as they grab hold of my throat, disabling my ability to speak.

I can feel the eyes on me and then the eyes on him.

Everyone knows.

There is the sound of heavy footsteps. His footsteps. And suddenly, he comes to a stop right behind me. Even with my back to him, I can smell his cologne. A smell that I used to be doused in day and night because I spent so much time in his arms. I can feel the heat of him warming my back and for a moment, I want to lean back and rest against him like I used to...

No! Bad Freyja! I chant to myself.

But, it seems like Sinclair has no intention of making things easier for me as he leans in, presses his lips to my ear and whispers, "I've been waiting to see you, little goddess."