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 somethings 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 fuck-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.