Page 4 of The Bane of a Sinner
It was the first Friday of the month.
The thought twisted into an icy knot in my stomach. I’d sworn it off for months. Promised myself. Made damn sure my schedule would keep me away. This wasn’t just a night of forced socializing; it was a night of backroom deals, whispered threats, and the casual cruelty that scraped raw against my conscience. It felt like a betrayal, a slow, agonizing surrender to the very thing I’d fought so hard to escape.
My hand hovered over my helmet, as my first impulse was just to ride away, to ignore the insistent pull of obligation—a pull fueled by years of ingrained loyalty and the chilling fear of what would happen if I didn’t show. They were family, of a sort, bound by blood and by years of shared... misdeeds. This wasn’t about a hot shower anymore; this was about choosing between the comfort of self-preservation and the suffocating weight of responsibility, a responsibility I didn’t want and didn’t ask for.
But the alternative? The consequences of defying him were far worse.
A shiver ran down my spine. With a sigh that held the weight of a thousand compromises, I removed my helmet, the chilly night air doing little to soothe the burning guilt that already consumed me.
I was going to regret this.
I already knew it.
The clubhouse was jam-packed, and the music boomed loudly, a physical assault on my already pounding head. Not that George Stone would fucking care. Tonight was mandatory. It didn’t matter that I’d just finished a seventy-two-hour shift at the hospital, reeking of vomit, urine, and God knew what else clinging to my scrubs. My exhaustion clawed at me, a physical weight threatening to drag me under.
But the real weight, the one that truly suffocated me, was the expectation. The moment I stepped inside, he would expect me to smile, to charm, and to choose a woman. The thought twisted a knife in my gut. I wasn’t celibate, not exactly. It wasn’t a vow, more a... strategic avoidance. A necessary sacrifice. The women I’d known, the fleeting connections I’d made over the years, all ended the same way—with a hurried goodbye, and a guilt-ridden whisper of “I don’t have time.” A lie I told myself as much as them.
My life was a carefully constructed wall, built brick by brick with dedication and long hours, shielding me from anything that might crack its sterile surface. Relationships were messy, unpredictable, and risked derailing everything. My residency was the pinnacle, years of sacrifice distilled into this final push. To jeopardize that... it felt like a betrayal of myself, a surrender to weakness.
But George Stone, with his bullying charm and unwavering expectation, was the antagonist in my internal war. He wasn’t just malicious; he was oblivious to the invisible burden I carried. His casual expectation was a force I couldn’t easily defy.
The Soulless Sinners weren’t an average pack of leather-clad wolves, sniffing out the cheapest heat. Forget the greasy spoon barflies, the desperate-eyed groupies, the tattooed tramps clinging to the fringes of the biker scene. Hell, the very thought of those women—the stale beer reek clinging to their cheap perfume, the taste of ash and regret on their lips—would make any Sinner’s gut churn with a cold, visceral disgust.
My brothers weren’t animals scavenging for scraps of flesh. No. This brotherhood was forged in the crucible of blood and chrome, and held itself to a higher, far more brutal standard. Our loyalty, our pride, was a barbed-wire fence around a sacred space—a space where cheap thrills and casual conquests were deemed not just unworthy, but an insult to the very soul of the club.
No, the brothers’ hunger was far more exquisite. A ravenous craving for intellect, for the sharp tang of a mind that could weave intricate tapestries of thought—a woman whose words were spun gold, not straw. The very air around them crackled with a disdain for the mundane, a chilling aversion to the cacophony of cheap theatrics. Their silence spoke volumes—a polished obsidian mirror reflecting the brutal efficiency of their desires, the cold steel glint of their unwavering purpose. The scent of old leather and expensive perfume clung to them, a stark contrast to the fetid stench of melodrama they so utterly despised. They were predators, yes, but of a different breed—hunters of minds, not bodies. Their appetites more refined, their methods precise, their boredom absolute.
And where did the brothers in the Soulless Sinners find such virtuous women? From the Gentlemen’s Club, of course. The most exclusive, high-priced brothel in New York. An establishment owned and operated by a man simply known as Barney.
Barney’s girls weren’t the kind you found staggering out of the dive bars near the docks, their eyes glazed over and their futures dimmer than a dying ember. These girls were different. Sharp, ambitious girls, their eyes glittered with cold intelligence that belied their vulnerability. They were climbing, clawing their way up the ivory tower, and we were the greasy ladder they used.
Each one carried the weight of expectation, a silent pressure that radiated from their carefully composed smiles. The unspoken pact hung heavy between them, a venomous sweetness. A whispered promise, a transaction sealed with a careless touch or a simple nod of acceptance. They’d volunteer, their voices a silken whisper laced with a calculated pragmatism, their eyes knowing exactly what they were bartering. A night, a weekend, a semester—their bodies traded for tuition, for textbooks, for the freedom they craved.
The brothers feasted on their beauty, their youth, their desperate hope. The touch of their skin, a fleeting warmth against the chill of their ambition. They weren’t mindless playthings; they were architects of their own destinies, ruthlessly pragmatic, using whatever tools—and whomever—they had to, to reach the summit. And the brothers in the Soulless Sinners Motorcycle Club were just another tool in their arsenal. A necessary evil, perhaps, a price willingly paid for a future beyond the suffocating grip of poverty. When the arrangement ended, there were no tears, no recriminations, only a cold, calculated farewell—a shared understanding of a transaction completed, leaving one party richer, and the other undeniably happier.
And I was about to walk into the middle of all of it.
Shaking my head, I grabbed my duffle and headed inside.
No time like the present.
As I stepped into the clubhouse, the noise hit me like a physical blow. The thump of bass vibrated through my chest,and the air, thick with the tang of liquor and sweat, closed around me like a net. I felt trapped, ensnared by the very atmosphere I’d tried to escape. The Soulless Sinners were already deep in their revelry, as my club brothers’ laughter and coarse jokes filled the room. I spotted the club president, George Stone, his bulky frame draped over a plush couch, a smirk playing on his lips as he surveyed the room with the air of a king holding court while two young girls stroked the ego of a man old enough to be their father.
My stomach twisted; I knew that smirk, that calculating glint in his eye.
It meant trouble, the kind that left a sour taste in my mouth and a weight on my conscience.
With a resigned sigh, I made my way through the crowd, my movements drawing curious glances and whispers. I felt like an intruder in my own world, an outsider observing a ritual I no longer understood. The Soulless Sinners’ world was one of shadows and secrets, a place where loyalty and brutality went hand in hand. It was a world I’d once navigated with ease, but now it felt like a foreign land, its rules and rituals unfamiliar and unwelcoming.
“August!”
Looking over my shoulder, I saw Montana standing near the bar, his arms around two beautiful blonde twins. Shaking my head, I walked over to him.
“Two for the price of one tonight?” I joked, handing the bartender my bag in exchange for a club soda.
“Yep.” My best friend smirked. “And later I’m gonna see just how identical they really are.”
Rolling my eyes, I leaned against the bar and asked, “So how long do I have to stay before I can leave without your dad chewing on my ass?”
