Chapter 5

(Night)

A Symptom of Being Human

Three dead ends in three days. After factory row, several of them had hunted up the renegade Jokers who’d gone after Cody, just to be certain they hadn’t banded together again and gone after Sinn out of revenge for the out and out assault the club had executed in retaliation.

None but two were still riding together and they’d received concrete evidence that Sully had succumbed to his injuries, may the bastard rot in peace.

The third dead end had come when the Outer Banks chapter arrived after rousting every enemy and ally along the coastline.

Night ran his fingers through his hair and felt the grit of hours on the road clinging to it. He doubted his face was any better. Dirt, bugs, dry heat and dust had left him road weary and exhausted. Back up at the clubhouse there were dozens of others in a similar state of dishevelment. He doubted that even a cold beer would wash away the red clay coating his throat. Not that he could have one until his relief showed up.

His nose felt as clogged and irritated as his throat and the act of introducing smoke into the mix was so damned miserable that he snuffed out his half-finished cigarette and spit a wad of phlegm into the dirt.

Saint had grown as prickly as a porcupine in a wolverine den and twice as mean, meaning everyone, including his brother and nephews steered clear of him.

“Alright prospect, you’re relieved. Go grab some sleep if you can manage it,” Creature declared as he settled his massive form on the sand.

How a man that size managed to cross his legs and look entirely comfortable doing it was beyond unreal. Not only that, but Creature somehow managed to make it look easy while Night struggled to his feet, shoulders aching from holding the binoculars to his face for so long.

Sand duty was ass, but he understood why they were pulling two-hour shifts on the dune overlooking the compound. From that vantage point they could spy on the entire town, not that there was much to see. The filling station on the corner of Vine and Seventh was the only thing open all night, and in the two hours he’d been on watch, only one vehicle had pulled into the place.

It”s occupant, a middle-aged man in scrubs, had been easily recognizable from the hospital and the vigil the club had held when Cody had been laid up there. He’d been the only nurse on duty who hadn’t cut the MC wary looks or balked at having to approach them with updates. Of course, the wariness could have had something to do with Kat’s threat to drag one of the nurses around the parking lot by her hair after she’d referred to them as animals.

The bitch had threatened to sick security on Kat after that, to which the club had answered by forming a wall of leather clad muscle around her, effectively ending that threat unless they wanted to kick off an out and out war. Fortunately, someone had come out with updates not long after that and Kat had been allowed into the back to sit with her son and fuss over the injuries he’d been left with.

“There’s biscuits and gravy in the kitchen, fresh coffee too, though I wouldn’t touch it if you plan on sleeping. It’s got the burn of an acetylene torch and the kick of a pissed off mule.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“No problem.”

Each step across the sand was a sludgy slip and slide of damp, unstable grains and boots that couldn’t find traction. Halfway to the clubhouse he staggered and landed on his ass when his foot shot out from under him. He was still brushing sand off his backside when he reached the door and his boots were a downright disaster. Since the cleaning and maintenance of the place was one of many tasks that fell squarely on a prospect’s shoulders, he left his boots on one of the mats by the door, opting out of the additional work. As the only prospect currently with the Jokers, whatever mess was created would fall solely on him to clean up. One of many things he wasn’t in the mood for.

Like sausage gravy.

He’d spend half the morning on the shitter if he devoured so much as a small plate and there was no way in hell anyone was going to pause the search while he hunted up a bathroom on the road. The biscuits he could manage though. He slathered two with peanut butter and jelly, wrapped them in a paper towel and headed for the bunkhouse where several members of the club, as well as the riders Bellamy had brought down from his family’s MC, slept soundly, all of them exhausted from the extensive search for Sinn.

At any other time, in any other situation, the thought would have been the source of great amusement, but not while Sinclair was missing.

A small smile tugged at the corners of Night’s lips as he recalled the afternoon, just two days before Sinn’s disappearance, when he’d been escorting the man on a parts run that had morphed into a long lunch and some amazing conversation up at the cliffside drive-in.

“Wait, turn it up, I love this song.”

With Shinedown’s A Symptom of Being Human blaring from the radio and Sinn pressed against his back, they’d sat straddling Night’s idling machine, that sad guitar mingling with the rough purr of his engine. It was his first time hearing the song, but the lyrics had resonated with him in a way that was usually reserved for the hardcore metal he loved.

It was all about being different, upside down and not fitting into any of the molds folks tried to stuff you into. Sinn’s voice in his ear as he’d sang it had been scratchy and off key, but every bit as emotional as Shinedown’s lead singer’s, leaving Night longing to hear him without any accompaniment.

“Thanks,” Sinn murmured once the song had finished.

Night killed the engine and felt Sinn slip away from him, a wave of loss hitting him so unexpectedly that he didn’t reply. Instead, he’d sat there silently studying the beautiful man, safe from all the shrewd gazes who’d give him shit for lusting after the man who belonged to their MC’s VP. Some might even have warned Night that he was playing with fire, not that he cared. He wanted Sinn as badly as he wanted Saint, which was a whole other issue, considering his prospect status.

It wasn’t until after they had their food and were seated on the rocks near his bike that Sinn broke the silence that had descended between them.

“So why Night?”

“Why Night what?”

Sinn flopped against his shoulder and stole two fries after nearly knocking over Night’s Coke. He hoped his rescue of it went unnoticed. Sometimes even little incidents like that sent Sinn’s mood spiraling.

“Damn, what did you do, drown them in ketchup?” Sinn grumbled even as he leaned over and snagged another one.

“Not quite, but only ‘cause the bottle gave out.”

Snickering, Sinn started licking the ketchup from his fingers, only for Night to see it as the perfect opportunity to clean the man up himself. He trapped Sinn’s hand and slowly sucked the first finger into his mouth, keeping his hold light enough that Sinn could have pulled away if he’d wanted to. Was a good feeling when he not only held still, but let out a long, low moan, then shallowly thrust his finger in and out of Night’s mouth until he was the one moaning.

“We are going to have to revisit this oral fixation of yours when only the right pair of eyes is around to see it.”

“And by the right pair, I hope you’re referring to Saint’s.”

“Can you believe his mama actually named him that?”

“Considering mine named me after a member of Guns ‘n Roses, I can pretty much believe anything when it comes to naming, seeing as I’ve got a cousin named Tequila.”

“Let me guess, named after what they were drinking when he or she was conceived.”

“She and you nailed it in one.”

“Poor girl.”

“Naa…she just makes everyone call her Kiki.”

“Sounds like a strippers name.”

“Yeah, which means it fits perfectly.”

“Damn.”

“Pretty much.”

“Sounds like your family is as interesting and out there as mine is,” Sinn replied. “Though now I’m left to guess just which member of GnR you were named after and please don’t tell me Slash, that would be too easy.”

“Not Slash and not Axel, before you go there.”

“Okay, so much for the obvious choices. You’re what, twenty-four? So what are the odds we’re not talking original G n’ R members?”

“Twenty-two, and yeah, I’m named for one of the OG five.”

“Duff?”

“Naa, that’s my twin brother’s name though.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Guess your mom really loved that band.”

“Pretty much.”

“Does that mean you have an Axel or Slash for a sibling?”

“Nope but I’ve got an older brother named Haze. As in Purple Haze. We did have a cat named Slash and he more than earned the title.”

“Guess that’s as good as Murder Mittens, which is all mom ever calls any of the cats that roam around our place.”

“Accurate description if you ask me.”

“The piles of dead mice they leave lying around can attest to that.”

Chuckling, Night found himself recalling a few of the grislier presents Slash left lying around the yard. “She named me Izzy.”

“Really? So then why do they call you Night?”

“The question should really be why did I start calling myself that.”

“Okay, so then what’s the answer?”

“What’s the reason they call you Sinn besides your blatantly wicked ways?”

“Easy. My given names Sinclair. It’s nice enough, but it lacks the impact Sinn does.”

“You can say that again,” Night muttered.

“Awe, does the sound of it send your thoughts spiraling towards the gutter?”

“Every damn time I hear it.”

“Good. I like knowing I have some effect on you.”

“More than just some.”

“Enough to answer my question?”

“Yeah, okay, though it’s not nearly as interesting as your explanation.”

“Why not let me be the judge of that?”

“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Night replied as he swirled one of his fries through the massive amount of ketchup he’d squirted all over them. “She was always sayin’ that me and Duff were like Night and Day. Was pretty clear which of us she thought the sun shone out of, so I decided to embrace it.”

“Does she still feel that way about the two of you?”

“Prolly, considering he’s the only one who shows up on visiting day, when he’s not in lockup himself.”

“How long has she been incarcerated for?”

“Eight years on this stretch, but she did a two-year bit before me and my twin were born.”

“That sucks man. I always hated when mom was in lockup. The only good thing about it was that my old man stayed close to home and didn’t head off on any of the long runs. Even tried his hand at coaching pee wee football once.”

“How’d that work out for him?”

“Two practices,” Sinn admitted. “Some of the other dads had an issue with his language and the intensity with which he used it, which is saying something for Texas football dads.”

Snorting, Night tried to hold back his laughter until it burst from his throat, his body shaking as he moved what was left of his fries out of Sinn’s reach.

“As bad as soccer moms, are they?”

“Worse.”

“Really. Then you’ll have to tell me more about them…and Texas.”

“Hey, Saint wants to see us in chapel.”

Startled out of the memory, Night almost dropped the peanut butter and jelly biscuits he’d forgotten to eat.

“Coming,” Night replied, even as the echo of Sinn’s voice still rang in his head.

The man had been mid-tale when someone had pinged his phone, Night couldn’t remember who, but whatever they’d said propelled them to wrap shit up and get a move on. Less than 48 hours later Sinn was gone.

Now, Night was as determined to hear the end of that story as he was to find him and continue learning all that he could about the captivating man.