Sinner's Revenge (Sinner's Creed MC #2)(9)

Written By: Kim Jones

Without a glance in her direction, I dismiss Ebony. “Sorry, doll. Looks like I have other plans.”

The smile that lights up Diem’s face is more genuine this time as she looks up at the tall woman. “Bye, now.”

“Fucking bitch,” Ebony mumbles under her breath.

Diem’s smile is gone. The sparkle in her eyes is lost in the darkness that fills them. Her body straightens with lightning speed as she reaches out and grabs Ebony’s wrist.

“Say it again,” she demands, her voice low and threatening. The air seems to crackle around her and I shift uncomfortably. And maybe just a little turned on.

Ebony snatches her wrist away, narrowing her eyes on Diem. She tries to play it cool, but I can see the fear written all over her face. “Whatever.” Then with haste, she leaves the restaurant.

I keep my focus on Diem, watching as she regains her composure. Grabbing my beer, she tosses it back, then snaps her finger for the waiter, who appears out of thin air. “Jack Daniel’s. Double.”

He nods and disappears, leaving me all alone with the confusing, infuriating, lethal woman sitting at my table. This bitch is eight kinds of crazy. And I’m so f*cking intrigued that I can’t leave, even though something inside my head is screaming that I need to.

“My mother was a whore. She was faithful to my father long enough to have me. After that, she f*cked everything she could. Mostly his friends, family, business associates . . . It’s not the act of sex for money that’s so degrading. It’s the disregard for all the hurt that is caused from it.” She speaks like she’s reading from a book. Like she rehearsed this line over and over. Hell, maybe she did.

“Did someone important say that?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah. Me.” She’s daring me to laugh. To ask her who she is. To feign shock at the possibility of her being someone of importance. Truth is, I don’t really care who she is. “Do you have a wife, Zeke?” She’s not judging, just curious. And she really does know my name.

I start to lie just to get a rise out of her, but there are way too many forks on the table. I’d hate to have my eye gouged out by a woman half my size. What would I tell people? So I answer truthfully. “No.”

“So you came here looking for a whore?”

“I came here for the lobster.”

She smiles a little and leans back, seemingly pleased with my answer. “So who are you, Zeke? You seem to know so much about me.”

“I’m nobody important.”

She laughs, her dark eyes sparkling once again. “I doubt that. You know, I’m pretty good at reading people too.”

“Is that so?” I recline further in my seat, ready to hear what she’s got. I already have my predictions as to what she’ll say, but I’m anxious to hear it anyway.

The waiter shows up, bringing me a refill and the drink she ordered. He looks at me and I nod. Hell, what’s another twenty bucks.

She raises her glass to me. “Thanks. Don’t worry. It’s cheap whiskey.”

I smirk. So she thinks I’m poor.

“Let’s make a deal.” Great. Another f*cking deal. “For every correct guess, I get a point. For every wrong one, you get a point. Best three out of five. The loser has to do one thing the winner wants.” She leans forward, dropping her voice. “Anything.”

“What if I lie?”

“You won’t.” She’s so sure that she offers her hand, wanting me to shake on it. Her trust in me is sweet. But not as sweet as she’s going to look on her knees in the bathroom.

I take her small hand in mine. “Deal.”

“You’re hurting.”

My brow draws in confusion at her words. Was that an assumption?

At my bewilderment, she smiles. “Point.”

“Half a point. That could mean a lot of different things.”

She shrugs. “Fine, *. Half a point.” Taking a sip of her drink, she takes a moment to study me. I give her a lazy, challenging smile. She won’t catch me again.

“You’re hurting, because you just lost someone. Someone very close to you.”

I swallow at the reminder, but keep my face expressionless as I manage, “Point.”

“Hmm, let’s see.” Her eyes fall to my hands that are folded in my lap. “You’re into fighting. Not MMA or anything, but like jiujitsu or martial arts.”

“My point.”

She frowns, clearly thinking she had that one in the bag. “Okay, I’m adding a clause. If it’s something I really believe to be true, then you have to explain it to me if it’s not.”

I shake my head. “You can’t just add a clause.”

“You added the half-point rule,” she argues. And she’s right.

“I grew up in a rough neighborhood. I’ve been fighting all my life. But I’m not a trained fighter, just a street kid who learned to defend himself. You happy? *?”

She ignores my throwback as she scans my body thoroughly, then studies my eyes, my clothes, and finally my tattoos. Her confidence builds as the next theory forms in her mind. This one, I probably will have to lie about.

“You’ve done time. And I’ll even go a step further and say it was for something you really didn’t do.” Her eyes soften with sympathy. I have to fight to control my laughter.

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