Before Sinclair

Chapter Five: I've Been Waiting to See You, Little Goddess

 I’M INCREDIBLY DISAPPOINTED in myself.

That’s the only way I can describe the way I’m feeling now as I stand in front of Carla’s, twiddling my thumbs like some kind of f*****g addict as I stare at the building from the safety of my car.

The sun has only just fallen behind the horizon, and already this place is in full swing. It’s common knowledge that there are women in Willow’s Creek who seek fun and danger without the drawback of being in a relationship with men who do unsavory things, and they come to Carla’s to scratch that itch. The men of the Iron Order rarely dated, but they were always up for fun, at the very least.

The gossipers who sat on their porches during the summers would call them Iron Order’s groupies behind their backs. In reality, though, it’s obvious that those people shunning the women who come here wish they were ballsy enough to do the same.

The parking lot is filled with people already. There is a group of bikers being flirted with by a group of women, their dresses as skintight as the one I wore just a week ago. They didn’t look nearly as uncomfortable in their dresses as I had felt in mine; it was like wearing such clothing was second nature for them, and I envied them in that area. I often wanted to wear something as sexy as what I had worn last week, but I had little to no confidence about things like that.

Being sexy suited people like Sofia better than it suited me.

I watch as one of the women flirtatiously takes the beer bottle a large biker who is all shoulders has been drinking and downs the rest of it, handing him the empty bottle and laughing. The parking lot is full of headlight blazing and the artificial mellow lights from the bar spilling out into the full lot, so I see his teeth gleam against the lights when he smiles at the woman and pulls her close to him...

It reminds me of why I’m here in the first place and a flush spreads across my face. I look away from them.

Even if Sofia had suggested it, should I not be strong enough to step away from this? Spending one night with Sinclair was fine but was it really a good idea to spend more time in his bed?

My cell phone, which has been sitting in my lap since I pulled into Carla’s, feels like it weighs a f*****g ton. In the end, I know it’s ridiculous to pretend I’m doing the right thing now. I had texted Sinclair and when he had responded, sounding very into the idea of meeting up again, I had agreed to meet him here.

I can’t even use Sofia as an excuse. I’m not here to ensure that Sinclair doesn’t trick himself into thinking he’s in love with me. I’m not here to make Sofia feel better in her endless pursuit of what was quite frankly a desire that was headed absolutely nowhere. I’m not even here to tell Sinclair, face to face, that this will be the last time we have s*x. To tell him that, I only wanted him one more time and that was it.

Because I know this won’t be the last time. Only an i***t would think this time is going to be the last. The s****l tension between Sinclair and I is palpable and when that s****l tension is left to its own devices, the tension turns into a f*****g bomb that explodes, leaving nothing but ash and ruin in its wake.

Knowing that waiting in my car is completely useless when I’ve already made up my mind, I push the door open and step out. The slightly too chilly air brushes against my cheeks and I’m glad I’ve worn my cardigan. It’s at least five degrees colder than it was when I first left, and it was already plenty cold to begin with.

The scent of oncoming rain lingers in the air and I breathe in deeply. I have always liked the smell of rain. I like the too calm feeling right before a great rainstorm starts and the way the air is heavy with its scent right before the rainfall starts. In short, I’m a rain fan. I like looking at it but I don’t enjoy being caught up in it.

I make my way past the group of bikers and the women cooing sweet nothings at them, and head toward the bar. I keep my gaze forward and my steps quick, the universal language for “Don’t f*****g talk to me.” I can feel eyes on the side of my face and then on my back as I duck into the bar, but no one bothers me.

The bar has better lighting now than it had the last time I was here. Briefly, I recall how the lights had gotten brighter last week but I had been so engrossed with checking Sinclair out that I hadn’t really taken the time to look around.

This bar has a kind of rugged charm to it. There’s a simple oak bar top that is pristinely shiny despite and there are copious amounts of liquor on the large, thick shelves behind the bar. The shelves are backlit with a cool blue light, which wasn’t the case the last time I was here. To the right, there were stairs leading to the sunken part of the bar where four billiard tables were lined up adjacently but with enough room that no one had to worry about disturbing the others. There was another huge table further away from the pool tables where a large group of people was playing a card game.

I make my way to the bar, my eyes scanning the place automatically. It makes me feel safer to scan my surroundings and the people in those surroundings. Especially in a place like this with people like these.

The pretty Latina from the last time, Carla, watches me with unfathomable eyes as I walk toward the bar. She’s cleaning out a glass, and her inky eyebrows are furrowed together but she doesn’t seem aggravated or displeased.

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” she murmurs when I’m close enough to hear her over Janis Joplin yelling at the audience to take another piece of her heart. She watches me as I sit down. “This place didn’t really seem to be your scene the last time you were here.”

I’m kind of surprised she noticed but when I look at her, I get the impression that I shouldn’t be. She has these deep dark eyes that seem like they see everything; like they can see into your soul if she looks at you long enough.

“I was dragged here last time,” I blurt out.

Her eyebrows raise in curiosity and her head tilts to one side, a few strands of hair as black as midnight fall from her messy braid. I find myself wondering how someone so beautiful can exist. Was this a bar where beautiful people just turned up? Carla and Sinclair, who would be next? Adonis? Aphrodite?

“My friend brought me here last time.”

I didn’t know why I was so keen on explaining my situation to Carla. There’s just this air around her that makes you want to spill your guts. It’s kind of dangerous when you consider who her husband is and who’s investing in this bar behind the scenes.

“Your friend?” She weighs that for a bit, looking off into the distance before her eyes come back to me. “I don’t remember seeing you with anyone that night. Besides Sinclair, I mean.”

My face grows hot. “She went off somewhere.”

“And left you alone?”

“Yes.”

“In a bar like this with this lot of rowdy wolves?”

I nod.

“Your friend sounds f*****g shitty.”

I laugh. I can’t exactly disagree with that, but somehow, I also don’t want to say it aloud. It would make me feel like I’m being rude to Sofia. Although she annoys me—sometimes to the point of me wanting to strangle her—I don’t hate her. There are times where she can be fun to hang around.

Carla places the glass she has been cleaning under some compartment beneath the bar top and slings the towel over her shoulder.

“Pick your poison,” she says, gesturing with sarcastic grandiose at the backlit shelves stockpiled with liquor behind her.

Looking at all of it makes me feel overwhelmed. Because, yes, I know the different kinds of alcohol but I’ve never tasted any of them. Looking at all of it now, I can’t help thinking I should have taken Sofia up on her offer all those times she asked me to come out partying with her when we were in high school. Maybe I would find myself a lot less overwhelmed in this situation and I would be able to order a drink with the utmost confidence.

“I’ll take what I had last time.” It sounds like a question.

Carla nods. Her face is as calm as it was before, but there is vast humor in her opaque eyes and I get the feeling she wants to burst out laughing.

“Margarita it is, then.”

I’m equally as amazed now as I was last week as I watch her add the ingredients and mix it up. Watching Carla mix drinks is a lot like watching those satisfying videos of people cutting soap, or workers who are exceptionally good at their jobs in factories.

“Are you here to meet Sinclair?” she asks suddenly, as she’s pouring the finished product into a glass.

I suck in a surprised breath, heat rising to my face. My hands, which have been gripping the counter as I concentrated on her skillful preparation, curl away from the counter in my startled state.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” She slides the margarita glass toward me, eyeing me with a type of curiosity.

I take a drink to cool down my overheated body. Part of me is hoping she’ll tell me Sinclair is not good for me and I should leave while I still can. If she says that, I’d leave. Her saying those words would snap me back to my senses.

If she was going to say that or anything else, she doesn’t get a chance to. In my peripheral vision, all I can see is dark clothing, and something deep blue flashes by as a large body vaults itself over the counter and crushes Carla against its chest.

When Carla pushes the figure away, glaring at him and cursing at him in Spanish, I realize the figure is a man. He is tall and lanky but with enough sinewy bands of muscle that his lanky body doesn’t look awkward. He has vivid dyed blue hair and his eyes that are staring down at Carla are filled with incredible fondness that would sink me into a deep depression if such a gaze were ever directed at me.

My body freezes. Is he…?

“I thought you were going to be out late,” Carla says in an accusatory voice. Her expression and her tone of voice don’t match her actions, though, as she wraps her arms around the man and buries her face in his chest.

That’s when I know that he’s exactly who I think he is.

He’s Bruiser. Sinclair’s right-hand man.

They say that wherever Sinclair is, Bruiser is not too far behind. My heart races and I glance around the bar, disappointed when I don’t see Sinclair anywhere.

“We finished early,” Bruiser replies, burying his face in Carla’s hair. “It wasn’t anything that was too big of a deal. A bunch of kids who didn’t know any better…” he trails off, his eyes straying over to me.

A jolt of fear rings through my body as our eyes lock. The stories about Bruiser are almost as popular as the stories about his boss. He had been given his nickname at some point during the time he and Sinclair were in New York. A group of petty thugs who worked for the mafia running the area Sinclair was shaking things up in received the order from their higher-ups to hurt Bruiser enough to teach both of them a lesson. Not kill him but to show him who ran that area.

How could any of those guys have guessed that coming after Bruiser would be a mistake they’d regret for the rest of their lives? Or at least for the rest of their time in the ICU. There were eight men, each armed with pipes or metal bats, ready to break Bruiser's ankles and leave him a bloody, beaten mess in that alleyway.

Only when the police arrived after receiving a report about a huge fight from multiple eyewitnesses, they found the eight guys laying there. All of them were unconscious and bruised beyond recognition. According to the rumors, their injuries were so severe, they had to stay in the ICU for a week to recuperate.

And now, my eyes are locked in the gaze of said man. He doesn’t look like he wants to beat me until I’m unrecognizable but my anxiety is screaming at me that a hospital bed is waiting for me in the near future.

He doesn’t do anything that I’m expecting, though. He pulls away from Carla and narrows his eyes speculatively for a few seconds before he grins at me. I’m taken aback by how easy and relaxing his grin is.

“Nice curly hair, deep dark eyes, a face too pretty to be in Willow’s Creek. You’re Freyja, right?”

I start at that, my eyebrows pulling together.

Bruiser laughs, deep and baritone. “You’re the one who the Boss went home with…last week, was it?” He draws in a breath that whistles through his teeth. “I’m f*****g shitty at keeping up with dates at times. But I do remember seeing the back of your head when you were getting into my car.”

“The car was yours?” The words come out before I can stop them. I’m not as nervous as I was before. He doesn’t seem too dangerous. At the very least, he doesn’t seem like he wants to hit me.

He nods, his gaze far away.

“How do you know my name?”

“It’s my job to know the names of all the outsiders who come in and out of this bar, Freyja.” He looks to both sides of him dramatically and leans toward me, saying quietly, “A lot of unsavory people try to come here from time to time. If someone acts up, it’s my job to get rid of them.”

Ice runs where there was once blood. I swallow hard.

“Get rid of them?”

Bruiser takes his thumb and draws a line across it, his face stony and his eyes as cold as I felt.

Carla smacks him over the head, her face disapproving.

“You’re scaring her. Stop.”

Bruiser laughs, all of the iciness in his eyes melting away. He puts his hands up in a sign of surrender.

“Alright, alright. Sorry. She’s just so obviously uncomfortable I couldn’t help but want to screw with her.” He gives me a grin completely devoid of all malicious intent and says, “I’m Bruiser. Nice to meet you, Freyja.”

“You, too.”

Bruiser smiles a little like he can sense the lie in my knee-jerk reply. My eyes drift over to Carla, only to find that she’s all the way on the other side of the bar, pouring drinks for a group of women who are clustered together, laughing among themselves. She makes her way back toward us, her eyes warily going over to her husband.

“You’re not trying to scare her anymore, are you?”

Bruiser laughs, leaning toward Carla. “Seeing how much you like her, of course I’m on my best behavior.” He leans down and whispers something in her ear that makes Carla take the rag that’s draped over her shoulder and hit him with it incessantly, cursing in Spanish again.

Bruiser doesn’t seem to mind and his laugh is so loud, it attracts the attention of a few other bikers who, when they see Bruiser being attacked, laugh just as loudly as he does.

“But I have no more intentions on playing practical jokes on you anymore,” he says, after Carla has calmed down. She’s still glaring at him, though her expression seems more embarrassed than angry. Even though I wonder what he said, I think it’s better that I don’t know. “The only other woman is pretty as you in Willow’s Creek is my wife.” He winks at me cheekily.

Carla rolls her eyes but her lips curl up into a smile as she glances over at me. “You don’t have to be so tense,” she murmurs. “The men here are assholes, but they’re relatively harmless.” When she sees the look on my face, she corrects herself. “They don’t hurt innocent people, I mean.”

While I’m pondering how it’s true that I’ve never heard any rumors of the members of the Iron Order hurting innocent people—normally the rumors spoke of them going after people who antagonized them—a familiar scent fills my nose. It’s heady and deep and clean. It’s the scent that my brain memorized just as clearly as it memorized his eyes and the press of his body, the feel of his lips grazing across my skin, and the way his hips moved.

My heart reacts immediately and is only put in further peril when I feel his lips at my ear.

“I’ve been waiting to see you, little goddess,” he whispers.