Page 7

Pippen

July 9, 2023, Soulless Sinners’ clubhouse ,

Rubbing my throat, I turned just as Payne walked up the stairs, Sypher right behind him. His demeanor—the hollow look in his eyes, the way he sagged—instantly told me he was deep in his mind. Dark shadows, like bruises, circled his eyes, and his exhausted shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world pressed down on him.

His gaunt features and the desperate tremor in his hands screamed he hadn’t slept since Montana’s inhumane treatment. I would stake my life on it. I knew he wouldn’t be helpful until he slept. His exhaustion was palpable, a heavy weight in the air around him.

The problem was, Illyria was running out of time.

Sypher didn’t have time to rest and recuperate.

I needed his fucking brain, now.

“Mr. Fedorov? Mr. Payne told me. I can find her for you.”

With a surge of panic, I dashed toward him, my fingers clamping onto his arm as I hauled him out of the room, the air thick with tension. Knowing the quicker I could help him regain his composure, the better for everyone involved.

With every stride that distanced us from the throng of people, the tension visibly eased from his shoulders. As soon as we were inside my office, I quickly shut the door with a decisive click and turned to face him. Taking ahold of his face, I whispered, “Danny, look at me. Tell me where your head is at?”

With a pained wince, he muttered a barely audible sound, his eyelids pressed tightly together. “I failed them. They hate me.”

“Shit.” Cursing in a hushed tone, I embraced him tightly, my arms wrapped around him, then I reached out and switched off the lights, plunging us into darkness.

In the sterile silence of my office, the only sound was his tiny breaths ghosting against my neck while I held him, trying to calm the raging tempest in his mind. I’d been here before, hauling him back from the precipice, the icy grip of fear tightening around his heart. I knew this wouldn’t be the last time. Sypher, despite his intellect and outward confidence, was a man deeply scarred by his experiences, clinging precariously to sanity. The veneer of his public persona barely masking his inner turmoil.

I didn’t know how long I stood there with him in my arms, but when I felt his body relax and his breaths even out, I knew he had finally fallen asleep. Carefully picking him up, I carried him over to the small cot I kept in my office when I was too tired to walk home. Making sure he was comfortable, I grabbed a blanket and covered him up. Without thinking, I reached for that one lock of unruly hair that always seemed to cover his face and moved it to the side.

“You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, don’t you?” I whispered, then closed my eyes, shaking my head.

A desperate longing consumed me—to be the person he ultimately turned to, his most essential need in this world—yet he remained emotionally unavailable. In the meantime, my encounters with him were brief and fragmented.

Tiny little bits that left me craving him more.

Right then, at that very moment, we were worlds apart, both of us on the opposite side of heaven, and until we found our way to the middle, we would never have the one we wanted most. He could deny it all he wanted, but the electricity that crackled between us whenever we touched, the scent of his cologne lingering in the air—I knew he wanted me just as much as I wanted him.

Only he wasn’t ready to admit it.

Until he was, I would be patient.

I would wait for him and be the friend he desperately needed.

The only sounds in my small office came from the low hum of my computer and the occasional click of the mouse while I toiled through the night and into the morning on my tracing program, careful not to disturb Sypher’s rest. Frustrated by the lack of progress, I continued on, allowing him the much needed sleep his exhausted brain craved. Initially, he was quite restless and agitated, tossing and turning. Eventually, his body relaxed, his breathing slowed, and he drifted off into a peaceful and deep slumber.

To be frank, in all honesty, I had assumed that the rhythmic clicking emanating from my keyboard was what had actually calmed him and sent him off to sleep. The cadenced, soothing clickety-clack of the keys on my keyboard was a sound as familiar and comforting to him as the very act of breathing itself, a constant and reassuring presence in his daily life. Almost like a soothing lullaby used to lull a baby to sleep.

Time and again, I couldn’t help but steal glances at him, mesmerized by the sight of him while he slept. I had a feeling that he would eventually leave and that we would end up right back where we started. I made sure to commit the memory to my mind, storing it away along with other such memories as a way of ensuring I wouldn’t forget it.

Sypher was born a Golden Skull. Inheriting his cut from his dad.

I was prospecting to be a Soulless Sinner.

Two different clubs from two different backgrounds.

Besides our shared passion for computers and our membership in motorcycle clubs, we had little in common. While I favored the elegant melodies of classical music blended with the improvisational spirit of jazz, Sypher’s tastes ran to the powerful riffs of hard rock and the twangy rhythms of country bluegrass. He liked sports and hanging out with his family and friends. I preferred the solitude of running and the occasional matinee in the theater district. He wore jeans, grungy T-shirts, and black biker boots. I preferred tailored slacks, a fitted Henley, and designer shoes. While my body remained unmarked and free of any adornment, his was a canvas covered in numerous tattoos. Despite our vastly different backgrounds and personalities, a connection still existed between us, defying all expectations of incompatibility.

I knew it, and so did he.

Where I was comfortable in my skin, he hid beneath his.

And that right there was the problem.

He was still grappling with the fact that his attraction to men triggered a complex and unsettling cocktail of fear and excitement—a reality he had yet to fully accept.

Well, more like his attraction to me.

It wasn’t until Sypher reached college, a period marked by a newfound sense of freedom and self-acceptance away from his family’s watchful gaze, that he began to experience what could be defined as true romantic feelings. During his time at school, Sypher experienced a significant period of personal growth and development, which was typical for teenagers as they transitioned into adulthood. Despite his popularity and seemingly effortless success with women, I believed his unexpressed emotions for me created considerable turmoil and uncertainty within him.

In stark contrast to my own upbringing, which involved extensive international travel and exposure to a wide array of cultures and lifestyles, Sypher’s childhood was spent in the isolated mountains of Tennessee, a region where I strongly suspected same-sex relationships were uncommon, thus limiting his exposure to alternative lifestyles. Surrounded by three older brothers and numerous male cousins, all of whom were aggressively pursuing romantic relationships with women, Sypher found it difficult to escape the rather crude, rudimentary simplistic model of relationships that they had established.

A low grunt and the rustle of the cot let me know he was finally waking up. Checking my watch, I noticed the time. He’d only slept for ten hours. Not nearly enough, but it would have to do.

I didn’t know when Montana or the others would come barging in demanding results, and the faster I could get Sypher behind a computer so he could tell me where I went wrong, the faster I could fix my tracking program.

Getting up from my seat, I walked over to the small coffee pot I had and poured him a hot cup, knowing he preferred his coffee black. Walking over to him, I said nothing when he slowly opened his eyes and looked up at me.

“I’ve got a full pot for you. Are you hungry?”

Shaking his head, he sat up and rubbed his hands down his face and groaned. “How long was I asleep?”

“Not long enough,” I replied, holding the hot coffee cup out in front of him. “Drink this.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, ‘cause Montana and Maxim want results, and I need your help to get them.”

Taking a sip of the coffee, he moaned. “Damn that’s good.”

Getting to his feet, he stretched out his back and looked around my office before asking, “Where is my computer?”

“Montana has it. He said you will have to use what I have.”

Sypher shook his head and walked over to my computer, sitting down in my chair, placing the coffee cup next to the keyboard.

“Did you run a diagnostic?”

“Yes, twice.”

“Double check the algorithm?”

“Yes. But I never configured my tracker for air travel.”

Nodding, he stretched out his arms in front of him, moved his head from side to side before he started clicking away on my computer and got to work.

It took Sypher longer than I expected to figure out the problem, but when he did, he wasted no time tracking Illyria, and with her location found, we hastily gave it to the club, who all ran from the building to go get her.

Heading back to my office, I started cleaning up when he walked back in, leaning against the wall, watching me.

“You not gonna talk to me?”

“What are you talking about? I’ve been talking to you.”

“That was work.”

“What do you want me to say? You were crystal clear when you left my apartment. I didn’t think it needed further discussion.”

Pushing off the wall, Sypher closed my door before walking over to me. “I’m sorry. I was an ass.”

“Yes, you were, but I knew that going in.”

“I miss my friend.”

Slowly turning to face him, I simply said, “And I miss the man that you were.”

Sighing, Sypher shook his head. “I can’t be what you want, Dante.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Fine,” he growled. “I won’t. You don’t have a family breathing down your neck. You don’t have to explain yourself to anyone. I do.”

“No, you don’t,” I said, my anger rising to the surface. “You are a grown ass man. You owe no one an explanation. You can be anything, do anything, fuck anyone you want, Danny.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is. You are overthinking everything as usual. You always do that when—”

“What?” He groaned. “When I what?”

Seething with rage, I rounded the table and stood before him. “When you regret something.”

I watched when his eyes widened and he slowly shook his head.

“Don’t you fucking lie to me. You regret fucking me!”

Fuck this shit.

I was done.

I had barely walked two steps from him before a hard shove sent me crashing into the wall, the force of it making my head spin. My fist was cocked, aimed at his face, when the unexpected impact of his kiss sent shockwaves through me.