Sinner (MC Club Biker Urban Alpha Male Erotic Romance) Read Free

habit. I don’t wear it when I work outside. Can you imagine wearing all that stuff while gardening?”
     
    He shrugged. “I can’t imagine wearing it at all, frankly.”
     
    “You get used to it.”
     
    “Why’d you become a nun?”
     
    “Why’d you become a biker?” I retorted.
     
    “Because I hate when people tell me what to do and I love riding. Why’d you become a nun?”
     
    I sighed. I sat back on my heels, looking at the ground.
     
    “I got knocked up when I was fifteen. My parents are super conservative Catholics. They pulled me out of school, stuck me in a home for girls—most everyone there was either on drugs, a lesbian, or pregnant—and after that, I didn’t really have much choice but to take orders.”
     
    “That’s fucking primitive,” scowled Dario. I shrugged.
     
    “It’s my life.”
     
    “Why don’t you leave? Are you eighteen yet?”
     
    “I’m nineteen.”
     
    “Then fucking leave. Tell those old hags to fuck off. I mean, unless you like being here.”
     
    I glanced behind me, back in the direction of the convent, which was camouflaged and obscured by trees.
     
    “No. No, I hate it.”
     
    “Then run away. Who’s going to stop you? You’re an adult.”
     
    I shook my head.
     
    “It’s just not that easy. I don’t have any friends outside the convent anymore. My parents wouldn’t take me in. I just don’t know anyone.”
     
    “So? Knowing people is awful. Being by yourself, that’s where it’s at.”
     
    He pulled a cigarette out of the pocket of his vest and lit up. The smoke smelled sweet and fragrant. It had been so long since I had smelled a cigarette. I had been a smoker in high school, carrying a pack in the pocket of my Catholic schoolgirl skirt or even tucked into my bra strap and thinking I was so bad. Of course, I hadn’t smoked since I had gotten pregnant and then not since I had got to the girls’ home.
     
    “So, what’s your name?”
     
    “Sister Marina Ramirez.”
     
    “Marina. That’s a pretty name. That was my older sister’s name.”
     
    “Really? Was?”
     
    “She’s dead.”
     
    “I’m sorry.”
     
    “So am I,” he said with a sigh, blowing a ring of smoke drifting out of his lips.
     
    “What’s your gang called?” I said quickly, trying to change the subject. He had been looking at me expectantly, as if he wanted a piece of holy wisdom—a promise that his sister was dancing like an angel in heaven with all the saints. But at this moment, I didn’t feel like passing on the good word.
     
    “The Damned,” he said with a smile. He pointed to the tattoo in his arm.
     
    “It’s Dante,” I said, smiling back.
     
    “Good eye. I love Dante.”
     
    “So do I,” I said quickly. “I learned Italian so I could read it in the original. I told the sisters I wanted to read theology but I read Dante and Boccaccio instead.”
     
    Dario grinned.
     
    “Speak some Italian to me, sister,” he said leaning back. I gulped. I hadn’t expected to have to recite anything but fortunately, I did have a few passages committed to memory…
     
    I began:
     
    “ Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,
ché la diritta via era smarrita.
     
    Ahi quanto a dir qual era è cosa dura
esta selva selvaggia e aspra e forte
che nel pensier rinova la paura!
     
    Tant’ è amara che poco è più morte;
ma per trattar del ben ch’i’ vi trovai,
dirò de l’altre cose ch’i’ v’ho scorte. ”
     
    Dario let out a long, low whistle as I finished up. His eyes were shining and he grinned at me. His smile made me want to go to sleep, made me want to fall into his arms. I had to avert my eyes, or else I was afraid he would see me blushing.
     
    “That’s fucking beautiful. No one writes like that, anymore, I bet. He was one in a million.”
     
    “Why ‘The Damned’ then?”
     
    “What’s wrong, sister? Do you want to save me?”
     
    “I already did,” I said, poking his bandages.