Sinclair

Chapter One: The Cat That Ate The Canary

THE TOWN I LIVED IN WAS a small one. It was one of those towns where everyone has seen everyone at least once or twice. Whether you happened to pass each other at the Piggly Wiggly located smack in the middle of town or you happened to end up in "Stella's Furniture" at the same time. In this town, you were bound to come into contact with one another eventually. We were incredibly small after all. A population of only 1,122 of us, to be exact.

Willow's Creek was located somewhere in the south of North Carolina. It was a town so small that no one else in the world had heard of it. It was a town so small that if you walked up to someone from out of town and asked them about it, they'd look at you incredulously and ask you what in the Hell you were talking about.

It was a fairly close-knit community. But, like all small towns, the townspeople loved to gossip. Last year it had been about Mrs. Johnson sneaking her female coworker into her home on Wednesdays when her husband was working and her kids were at school. The year before there were rumors that Chase Mitchell, the son of the most cutthroat lawyer in town, had gone and joined the shunned biker gang known as The Iron Order. This year it was about that very same biker gang getting into it with a rival gang that had slipped into town. People were uneasy.

See, The Iron Order may have sounded like the name of some harmless wannabe rock band, but they were far from harmless. The Iron Order was led by a man named Sinclair Buchanan—they called him Sinnerman or just Sin on the streets. He ran a "business" from this small town all the way to the metropolitan areas of New York and across oceans in places like Japan, Italy, England, Ireland. There were talks that he had ties to the Japanese crime organization, the Yakuza and the most powerful mafia families from each state and country that he visited.

Despite all the rumors, though, no one could seem to catch The Iron Order or their boss in the act. Despite the talks of numerous drug rings, unauthorized brothels and murders of the men who opposed them, there seemed to be no evidence that The Iron Order had anything to do with those crimes. Many people have summed it up to the fact that the police were in their pockets. To be completely honest, it wouldn't surprise me. Considering the fact that The Iron Order had only started up about eight years ago and was already gaining so much reach and power, it made sense that their boss—the Sinnerman—would be reliable enough to make the police his bitches and keep them off his back. A lot of people even said that when murders orchestrated by The Iron Order took place, the police would purposely file false reports, saying it was just some random argument among street thugs gone bad and never look deeper into it.

Whether it was fear, money or pure respect that kept those officers quiet, no one really knew. But it was clear that everyone with any sort of power in this town answered to one person: Sinnerman.

The Iron Order frequented at a bar on the edge of town simply named Carla's. It was owned by Carla Rodriguez, a fiery Latin woman who cursed like a sailor, often got into fist fights with guys-- and won--and was married to a man with the friendly name of Bruiser. Bruiser, from what I knew, was Sinnerman's right-hand man. If Sinnerman was going to make a move, you could be damn sure Bruiser would know about it. This led to a lot of enemies trying to kidnap Bruiser, wanting information. But Bruiser didn't get his nickname for no reason. The rumors say that those men who tried to get at him were always found later, beaten beyond recognition.

Which, again, makes sense. If he's Sinnerman's right-hand man, it only makes sense that he would be tougher than your typical lackey.

As I sat inside of Wallflower Diner, waiting to be served, I let my hand type at the keys rapidly as the inspiration for my new story really hit me. You see, to deal with the knowledge that I hate people and that I'm twenty-one years old with no hint of a love life, I write. Whether I'm good or not, I'm not sure, but all I do know is that I love it. I love the feeling of creating characters and the feeling of creating the world in which they will live. There's something so satisfying about writing through someone else's eyes, about seeing the world that exists in someone else's mind.

As my waitress came back to the counter where I was sitting, she set my plate down, murmuring a quick "Here ya go, hon." To which, I nodded in response.

Here's another thing you should know about me going forward: I'm anti-social. And I'm not saying I'm anti-social to sound edgy or to fit in with some kind of trend, I mean I'm literally anti-f*****g-social. If I saw someone I knew from high school walking my way, I'd walk the other way and pretend I didn't see them. If I saw someone in person and saw them looking my way like they were about to greet me, I'd avoid eye contact and pretend to be busy with something else until we had passed each other by.

I'm anti-social.

I'm not exactly sure when my anti-social tendencies really began. According to my mom, I was an extremely talkative child. I would talk to anyone and everyone no matter when we were. Even in middle school, I could recall my need to fit in. I wanted friends, then. I tried so hard to make them.

Again, I can't remember when I stopped. I can't remember when I began thinking, "Life is better if you're alone." But somewhere along the way, yeah, I began thinking, I'm better off by my lonesome. People disappoint you if you let them get too close.

I popped a piece of bacon into my mouth as I began typing out a story of a heroine far stronger than I could ever hope to be. Mom has always said I should send my work to a literary agent and have them take it on. She was convinced that the things that I wrote were magic and that I should share them with as many people as humanly possible. I wasn't sure if my writing is what you would call magic, but so far, this story is turning out far better than I had anticipated. I could see the characters in my mind's eye. I could see the scenery and, as I typed, I nodded to myself, no doubt looking every bit like a psychopath.

Right as I was getting really into it though, the bell above the door dinged, alerting the staff that someone else had entered. Not really caring, I continued working.

"Welcome to—" One of the waitresses started to say before stopping abruptly.

It was at that moment that I realized Wallflower Diner is completely silent. Today was a slow day to begin with, so it was already pretty quiet but the once quiet murmurs have gone completely silent. It's so silent now that, if someone dropped a feather onto the ground, it would be loud enough to break the silence.

And I knew who was here before I even turned around, but I turned around anyway, wanting to confirm what I thought I knew with my own eyes.

Two members of The Iron Order were standing at the entrance of Wallflower Diner. You could tell who they were as soon as you saw them. They were tall, menacing-looking men. One with a long, thick beard and the other with rugged stubble. They wore black leather jackets that anyone who had lived in this town for the last six years could instantly recognize. Written in interesting font were the words Iron on the left sleeve and Order and the right. And I knew without a doubt that, if they turned, the Iron Order logo on the back would be there: a design of a skull with a large snake wrapped tightly around it, circling in through the skull's mouth and coming out through its right eye.

But what really caught my eye was the fact that Bruiser was with them. He was clean-shaven, unlike the other two, and he had dark blue hair. Bruiser was not conventionally attractive by any standards. His nose was far too crooked, his teeth were not at all perfect, and his body didn't look like he's about to win Sexiest Man of 2018 by any standards.

However, Bruiser had a certain charm to him. It's a magnetic pull that makes you like him almost as soon as you talk to him. That's how he was able to help his boss out, gaining the trust of their foes and their allies. That's how he was able to snare Carla, one of the most beautiful women in this town.

But I immediately knew what was up when Bruiser's eyes met mine. Because if Bruiser was out actively looking for me, then it could only mean one thing.

He sent him.

Sure enough, Bruiser muttered something to the other two and they, sparing one final glance at me, head over to a table where a waitress quickly made her way over on shaky legs, looking every bit like a baby deer.

Bruiser came up beside me and slides onto the stool, resting his hand on the counter and holding it up, signaling the waitress who had served me my meal. She went over to him, asking him what he'd like, stuttering as she did so. He politely asked for coffee and the breakfast special. She nodded and quickly went to put his order in.

For a minute, he didn't speak. He just watched as the waitress who—after handing his order to the cook who got straight to it—nervously sat a mug in front of him and poured his coffee. After she was done and had gone, he picked up the mug and took a deep, slow sip, clearly wanting to make me wait before he explained why he was here.

"It's been a long time, Freyja," he finally said after his long sip was done. He sat the mug on the counter and it made a soft clink which was not at all comforting in this incredibly silent diner. "How have you been? Well, I hope."

I didn't respond for multiple reasons. One, I wasn't quite sure what to say because the truth was, I had history with The Iron Order. No, not history with The Iron Order, I had history with their boss, Sinnerman. Complicated history that I didn't exactly want to think about ever again but was now being dredged up as I looked at the blue haired man in front of me. Secondly, the diner was deathly quiet. It actually seemed like no one was so much as breathing. I knew that every ear was trained in on this conversation. Everyone was listening, waiting to hear even the slightest bit of juicy gossip from the girl who was sitting beside the infamous Sinnerman's partner in crime.

"Boss wants to see you," Bruiser said to me, dropping his voice a little lower and leaning closer so that no one can hear his words but me. "He said, "it's been a year. Time's up, little goddess." His words, not mine."

My lips pursed at that nickname. Little goddess. It's been a long time since I've heard that one. But I forced myself to focus on more than that man's old nickname for me.

"What does he mean, "time's up?" I asked, shaking my head. "There wasn't even a 'time in.'"

Bruiser grinned widely, picking up his mug and taking another large gulp. He set it down and motioned the waitress over again. Knowing that I was waiting for his answer—and no doubt being able to feel my semi-anxious gaze on his face—he watched leisurely as the waitress finished pouring coffee in his cup before she scurried away again.

He took another long sip, making a satisfied, "ahhh" before he looked over at me, giving me a grin. He looked every bit like the cat that ate the canary.

"Boss is fond of you. You know that. Not only were you good at spinning hella good stories—which the boys miss hearin' by the way—but you were useful to us. You know, to this day, there's no one who can create an alibi on the spot like you could."

"That's why he wants me to come back?" I made a noise that was half snort and half scoff. "Well, I've already told him this once and I guess I'll say it again, I'm not going back to that." It was a struggle to keep my voice extra quiet as I looked around to make sure no one was listening. They were all murmuring quietly amongst themselves, trying to appear like they weren't listening but I've lived in this town long enough to know better. "There are far more talented people than me who could help him out with Iron Order business. Tell him I said leave me the hell out of it."

This time, it was Bruiser's turn to scoff.

"Please, darlin', you and I both know that's not really why he wants you to come back." He took another sip of his coffee, shooting me a sly look after he was done. "We all know you were screwing the boss. It was pretty obvious. He was real territorial over you. Not to mention, everyone knows he used to sneak over to your old place every night."

"So?" I asked, raising a brow. "It was just sex."

"Apparently, Boss would disagree with you."

The waitress was back now. She placed his plate right in front of him and after he gave her a quick "thank you," she happily moved away from us. Because, although Bruiser has a magnetic air about him, he's still a part of The Iron Order and anyone with half a brain knows that they are dangerous.

That we are dangerous.

"So, I'm supposed to take you back to Carla's to meet with him," Bruiser continued conversationally, unwrapping his fork and knife and then cutting into his pancakes. "Please, tell me you're just going to do this the easy way."

"You know better than that, Bruiser," I responded, shutting my laptop with unnecessary force and shoving it into my bag. "I'm not going back. I f*****g refuse."

I threw some money on the counter and stood up, hoisting the bag over my shoulder. Before I could fully walk away, though, Bruiser grabbed my wrist to keep me in place. This resulted in the diner going completely silent again. No one seemed to know how to react. Do they help me or leave me to fend for myself?

Leaning forward so no one else can hear, he said, "Freyja, I've always considered us really good friends. More than friends, you're a lot like my sister. My annoying, smart-mouthed little sister. So, I'm going to tell you something that I know you already know somewhere deep down. There's nowhere that you can go that he won't find you. I don't know what happened between the two of you. I don't know why you just suddenly up and left. All I know is, he's been watching you every day for this past year. He hasn't visited any of the strip clubs that he owns and he hasn't slept with any of the women who come to Carla's and ask him if he wants a good time. I've said all along that something weird was going on with him since you left, and now I know what. He's in love already. With you. And he's not letting you go. This isn't the last you're going to see of me."

And then he let me go, watching with eyes as unfathomable as the ocean as I stumbled out of the door, feeling dazed.