Sinclair

Chapter Two: Little Goddess

ONCE I'VE STUMBLED MY WAY into my house, I threw my bag down onto the couch and then I sat on the couch myself, wrapping a fleece blanket—that had been draped over my sofa—around my body and looking up at the ceiling.

So, the thing is, I was once an honorary member of The Iron Order. Yes, it's true. Most of the people in town don't know about it, though. I knew that if word ever reached my mom that I'd joined a biker gang, she would've blown a gasket.

I met the Sinnerman—Sinclair—three years ago. I had just turned eighteen at the time. I grew to a point where I knew that I would never be in a relationship, that I could never be in love. But there were some things that I wanted and on this particular night, I told myself I was going to go get them. I wanted to have my first kiss and I wanted to be rid of my virginity. And what place did guys who weren't commitment material frequent? That's right. Carla's.

So, I grabbed my fake ID and snuck my way into the bar. And that was where I met Sinclair. He had been across the room, chalking a pool cue as he waited for one of the bikers—who I later found out went by Sonny--to take his shot. I remember my eyes being glued to him, I remember being unable to look away.

Because why would you want to look away.

He was the sexiest thing I had ever laid eyes on in my life. His hair was brown with dazzling streaks of blonde. It was a little long, falling just behind his ears. I couldn't see what color his eyes were at first. There was way too much distance and it was much too dark. But I could see the chiseled lines of his face as he watched Sonny's next move. I had been so entranced by him, I hadn't noticed he was looking at me until he shot me a wink.

At first, I had been embarrassed and I forced myself to nurse the drink I had ordered from the bartender who was taking over for Carla who worked there almost every day after this particular night.

In what seemed like a couple of seconds, he was leaning against the bar top, giving me a seductive, confident smile.

"I'm Sinclair," he'd said quietly, leaning into me a little so that I could hear him over the AC/DC that was blasting through the speakers. "And you are."

"Freyja," I answered back a little shyly.

"Freyja," he murmured, testing it on his lips. "Like the Norse goddess?"

I laughed, unable to help myself.

"My mom is a fan of mythology. Her favorite happens to be Norse. I'm Freyja and my brother is named Odin. Every pet we've ever had has been given the honor of being named after someone pertaining to Norse myths, too."

He laughed with me and for a moment, I was really amazed by his eyes. They were like a cloudy day. Such a beautiful pale gray. It was a lot like the sun being trapped behind thick grey clouds. If you really stared at it long enough, you got hypnotized.

"Do you mind if I sit with you, little goddess?" He had asked.

I'd told him no and that was how it began. I remember we talked for hours that night. His gaze resting on my lips, his hand "accidentally" brushing against my thigh or my arm. Each time he would brush against me, he'd look up at me through his ridiculously long eyelashes and give me this smirk that made my insides melt.

The entire time, I found myself lost in his eyes. Not to mention, I couldn't stop staring at his tattoos. He had a f**k-ton of them. The long-sleeved shirt he wore—which was rolled up to his forearms—revealed the sleeve of tattoos on his left arm. Not to mention the tattoos that spiraled dangerously on his neck. Every now and then, I would catch a small glimpse at more tattoos hidden beneath his shirt. I remember it made me want so badly to see what other tattoos he possibly had.

I wasn't really all too surprised when he asked me to come back to his place. In fact, I was practically skipping with joy. In that moment, I remember thinking that I wanted nothing more than to go back to his place and see the tattoos hidden beneath his clothes.

We had gone back to his apartment—which was located in the nicer part of town. Again, I remember not being surprised. Because there was only one Sinclair who would hang around Carla's. I knew exactly who I was getting into bed with. I knew that I was playing with fire. But for some reason, I was feeling rebellious and I wanted to burn.

Once we were inside his apartment, we had wasted no time in getting our clothes off. Underneath his shirt, he had a tattoo of something written in French across one of his defined pecks. There was another tattoo on his upper back, a date—which I later found out was in memoriam to his brother who had passed away—and one on his lower back, another date—which I later found out was for when he finally made it out of the slums and made it as someone who had a business of his own. No matter how unconventional that business may have been.

It wasn't until we were on his bed and he had carefully slipped a finger inside of me that he pulled back, looking down at me in surprise.

"You're a virgin." There was no question in his voice. He knew.

"Is it that obvious?" I panted, feeling slightly disappointed.

"You're very tight," he observed, causing me to blush at how blatantly he said it.

"Does it bother you?" I asked, swallowing hard and wondering how I was supposed to live it down if he told me to leave. "That I'm a virgin."

He thought for a minute, gazing down at me intensely. His eyes trailed down my neck, over my exposed breasts, down my stomach and finally to where his finger rested. He moved them slightly.

"It doesn't," he finally murmured, although I was having trouble focusing on anything except his fingers. "But, you must understand something." With his free hand, he gripped my chin with gentle firmness, forcing me to look at him. "I don't do love, little goddess."

"That's funny," I replied, managing a breathy laugh. "I was going to tell you the same thing."

He had grinned and then proceeded to take the one thing away from me that I couldn't wait to be rid of. He had been gentle that first time. He had been sure to make it about me and not solely about him trying to get off. Even now, as much as I didn't want to see him, I was glad that I had lost my virginity to Sinclair. Not many men would have been as patient or as kind as he had been.

Our encounter should have ended with that night.

But it didn't. The next morning, he had given me his phone number, telling me to call him if I was ever in the mood for more of what we had done the night before. Feeling sore and incredibly satisfied, I had let him drive me home. Well, at least a few blocks down from my actual home and we had bid each other farewell.

I never expected that I would actually find myself calling him again. But I did. Almost three weeks had passed when I found myself suddenly craving him. My mind would wander back to him in the middle of the online courses that I was taking at the time. It had started to get so bad, I found myself dreaming about him.

So, finally, I gave in and called him.

He seemed as eager as I was to meet up. We met up at Carla's again. This was the day I first met Bruiser who commented that I was almost as beautiful as his wife and tilted his head over in the direction of the beautiful Latina. She rolled her eyes and him and shot me a friendly grin.

I recall how I wondered how anyone could find these people terrifying. What did they truly fear, I wondered. The fact that they were a motorcycle gang? The fact that they all looked intimidating? Because really, they all seemed like nice people.

That was the second night, Sinclair and I had s*x.

Before I knew it, I was seeing him almost every day and I was a frequent patron of Carla's. That's how it started. Suddenly, I was a part of their world. I don't quite remember when I started helping them fabricate alibis, all that I do remember was that I was good at it. I think it was the writer in me that really helped me excel at that particular job. My ability to create realistic scenarios and my attention to the finest of details really came in handy. Not only that, but Bruiser had been right when he said all the guys liked to hear my stories.

I can still remember walking into that old bar, smelling like cigarettes and cheap liquor, and hearing the gruff voices of men asking me to tell them another story. I used to tease all of them, saying that they sounded far more like little boys than grown men. But now that I think back to it, I realize that I really do miss those days.

Whatever people said about The Iron Order, one thing was true: every single person there was like family. And when they accepted you, you were family, too. No exceptions.

But then, things between Sinclair and I...

I sighed, laying in fetal position and turning on the TV. I flipped through the channels absentmindedly while I thought to myself.

The reason I had left in the first place was because I started feeling like Sinclair was getting too invested in me.

When was it that I started to notice that his gaze would linger on me from across the room? When did I start to notice the possessive way he referred to me? When did I start realizing that I liked it too much?

Oh, that's right. It was last year. Right before the new year had rolled around. I remember now how Sinclair had told me we would go to Times Square to watch the ball drop. I had been excited because it had always been my dream to see the ball drop in Times Square. I had watched it for so many years on my TV screen, and I remember thinking that it was surreal that we were actually going to see it.

It was right as the countdown had begun, with people chanting excitedly in preparation for the New Year, that I remember turning to look over at him, grinning from ear to ear. When I looked over at him, he was already looking at me but that wasn't what caused my breath to hitch. It was the look in his eyes. It was far more than the, "I want to take you home with me" stare I was used to. It was softer, his grey eyes shone brilliantly under the glare of lights as everyone screamed out the last number, alerting me that the new year had arrived. I remember how he pulled me in close and kissed me gently but passionately.

At that moment, I realized two things. One, that he was falling for me and two, that I had known he was falling for me for a couple months now. I had known ever since he had taken me to Paris. I had felt it. But I told myself that if I ignored it, perhaps his feelings would cease. It was selfish and irresponsible of me, but I wanted to stay with him as long as I could.

But after that night in New York, I knew that I could no longer stay with The Iron Order. I could no longer stay with Sinclair. So quickly that it probably seemed like an overnight decision for everyone else, I left. I moved into another house, I changed my phone number. I avoided The Iron Order and Sinclair as much as one could in a small town where everyone ran into everyone.

Of course, I was aware Sinclair knew where my new house was. A couple of days after I moved in here—about a week after I'd left him—I received a note written in his handwriting. It simply said,

I'll give you a year. After that, I'll make you mine again, little goddess.

I had torn it up and thrown it away. I was sure that after a year whatever Sinclair thought he felt for me would pass. But after Bruiser had shown up and wrecked my breakfast, I wasn't so sure anymore.

I picked myself off of the couch and trudged over to my freezer, grabbing a carton of one of my favorite ice cream flavors by Ben and Jerry's and picking up a spoon before I slumped down on the couch again.

I flipped to the next channel and saw The Time Traveler's Wife was playing. It was the scene where he's telling her he's going to die and is holding her close to him, murmuring his goodbyes.

I shoved a spoonful of ice cream into my mouth as I watched them. Despite my intense fear when it came to love, I liked watching it in movies and reading about it. Every emotion that comes with heartbreak—the good, the bad, the ugly—it seemed so much more beautiful when I was seeing it through someone else's eyes.

But the moment I felt like I was falling for someone else or the moment I felt like someone else was falling for me, that's the moment that I would run as fast as I could, telling myself to never look back.

Just like with Sinclair.

As soon as I thought his name, my appetite waned and I roughly set the ice cream carton on the tiny coffee table that sits between me and my TV.

Should I move again?

No, there would be no point. He'd just find me again. It's just like Bruiser said in the diner, there's nowhere I could go that Sinclair couldn't find me. He's got contacts all over. Not to mention, Willow's Creek is the only place where I'm sure I'm safe. I don't want to imagine what would happen if I ended up going to some other town and one of the rival motorcycle gangs there happened to find out Sinclair had shown even the slightest interest in me...

I shuddered.

And that was another reason I left Sinclair. That's the reason I would have left him even if I actually wanted to fall in love. What kind of life could I have with a mobster? What kind of happiness could I find with a man who was in charge of one of the most powerful motorcycle gangs in the United States?

I'll give you an answer to that question: none. I could in no way allow myself to fall for a man who did the kind of work Sinclair did. When it was just us having fun, I had put it out of my mind. But now that Bruiser was so certain that Sinclair loved me, I was forced to think about what would happen if we ended up in a relationship together.

And to be honest, I couldn't see how it could go anywhere.

I decided it's best for me to stop moping and go ahead and get to work. I pulled out my laptop and log into my email, scrolling through and reading all the new offers being thrown at me. I write a lot of reviews on movies and books on a website I've created called TheFairLadyFreyja—a name that I used since I literally couldn't come up with anything else. However, it's done surprisingly well these past couple of years and it's actually beginning to make me a pretty decent income. Now, authors and people promoting movies threw their work at me left and right.

I decided I should respond to some of them.

Right in the middle of emailing a potential customer, there is a heavy knock on my door. My fingers hovered over my keyboard in surprise. As I stared at them, I watch them start to tremble. Because I knew who was at my door.

Maybe if I don't open it, they'll go away.

"Open the door, Freyja," Bruiser's voice called out from the other side. "We're not leaving here until you do."

Well, there goes that plan.

Rougher that is necessary, I closed my laptop and set it aside. To distract myself from what I knew was coming, as I make my way over to the door I forced myself to think about stupid things. Like what I should get when I go grocery shopping tomorrow or the fact that if I kept slamming and tossing my computer around I'd need to buy a new one.

Finally, I was pulling open my front door, standing face to face with Bruiser. In my yard were three motorcycles. One was empty—because it's owner is standing right in front of me—but the other two were occupied by the two men who came into Wallflower earlier. These two men were unrecognizable to me. They must have joined after I was already gone. Undoubtedly, they're wondering why they're wasting all their valuable time for one woman.

"What do you want, Bruiser?" I asked, not looking at him. Instead, I focused my gaze on the fact that the sun is high in the sky. It must be about one o'clock now. I must have been answering those emails for a longer time than I originally thought...

"You know what I want," Bruiser responded cheerfully, although his face was pleading. "Boss wants to see you, Frey."

I flinched slightly at his old nickname for me. Like Bruiser said in Wallflower, he and I were close. We were like brother and sister. And his wife, Carla, she was the only true female friend I'd ever had. Bruiser and Carla were truly the only real friends I could say I had in this world. I didn't like having to leave them, I didn't like the fact that I had hurt them. But that's the thing about fear: it makes you do stupid s**t. s**t you sometimes find yourself regretting. Even if you say you did the right thing.

"I'm not going back, Bruiser," was my stubborn reply.

Bruiser sighed and ran a hand through his blue hair, twisting the ring that rests on his free hand around his finger with his thumb.

"Look," he began, using the same tone I've heard him use when he's trying to close a deal with someone who'll be good for 'business.' "Boss wants to see you and there's no getting around that. So, tell me which you'd rather do, go and see him on your own terms or have him popping up at your house or when you're at the grocery store or at Walmart? The townspeople are already whispering among themselves and that's just from you talking to me. Can you imagine how they'd react if they saw you talking to him?"

I was unable to stop the frown from spreading across my face. Mainly because I knew Bruiser was right. For starters, I knew deep down that if I said no to this and slammed the door in Bruiser's face, Sinclair would just pop by on his own. He'd stop by when I least expected it, when I'm not prepared. And at least the car ride over could give me time to prepare to see him again. And secondly, I did not need the townspeople gossiping about me any more than they already were. If what Bruiser was saying is true and they're already talking about my encounter with him at the diner, it won't take long before word reaches my mother.

Yes, it would be better if I met Sinclair on my own terms.

"Fine," I muttered. "Fine, I'll go. Just let me get my coat."