Sinclair

Chapter Thirty: Deep Shit

EATING BREAKFAST WITH SINCLAIR in public was as awkward as anyone probably could have guessed. We ended up at Wallflower Diner and entered what was supposed to be a private booth in the very back of the bright yellow diner. The moment I had walked in with Sinclair, Carla, and Bruiser trailing behind me, the entire diner had gone eerily silent. Because before now, all the rumors had mostly been just that, rumors. And while, yes, people had believed them, no one had really truly seen with their own eyes that I was with Sinclair Buchanan and hanging out with Sinnerman's right-hand man and that same man's wife. As we had walked over to an empty table located near the back of Wallflower and tucked into a small corner, a timid looking waitress—dressed in one of the bright yellow uniforms that consisted of short-sleeved, collared shirts and rockabilly skirts—came walking up to us warily. Her black hair was done up in one of those complicated fifties updos and she was repeatedly clicking her pen as she stood in front of us.

"What can I get y'all?" she asked.

I honestly had to give the girl props, she did her best to sound polite even though you could tell she'd rather be anywhere else other than here. She'd probably rather serve freaking Hitler rather than us.After we had ordered, the customers had gone back to talking amongst themselves but anyone—even someone who had lost their sight and hearing—could tell that everyone in the diner was focusing on us. Honestly, if Wallflower wasn't having a waffle special right then, I would've just gotten up and walked out.

But soon, our breakfast was done and Carla, Sonny, and some of the guys took me back to my place to help me clean up the mess that The Sandman had done when he had broken in. Sinclair and Bruiser had gone to carry out some "plan" with some more guys and, after he had given me a completely inappropriate kiss, he had gotten on his bike and disappeared down the street.

As I drove up to my house, I was immediately aware of how terrible it looked. My door, which The Sandman had kicked in, was clearly broken and I'd probably have to pay to get it fixed. Sinclair had told me before I'd gotten here that he'd had a couple of guys keep an eye on my place to make sure no one snuck in or anything like that since the lock on my door didn't work anymore.

When I walked into my house, pushing the door open, it seemed like it looked worse now than it had last night. In the light of early afternoon, my house looked like it had been a part of some kind of competition to see who could smash things with more force and the winner would take home five million dollars. The more I looked around, the more things started to come back to me. The Sandman kicking down the door, shooting the guy who had tried to protect me, the fighting outside, the bodies littering my lawn and The Sandman attacking me.

"You okay, hon?" Sonny asks, suddenly standing right beside me although he was still on his bike a couple of feet away a little while ago.

"I'm fine," I say, putting on a brave face. "There's just so much cleaning to do. If yesterday wasn't traumatic, all of this surely is." And I swept a hand dramatically at all the broken glass and overturned furniture.

Sonny looked like he knew exactly what was going on in my head but wasn't going to push me. Instead, he walked into my house and headed into my kitchen, finding the little crevice where he knew I kept my broom and my mop.

"I guess we've got some cleaning to do, ladies."

In the end, we were able to clean up all the glass, pick up all of the overturned furniture and the many pots and pans that had been overturned when I'd thrown the boiling water on The Sandman's face. The cleaning process had gone incredibly quickly since my living room had really been the only thing that was severely damaged in the fight. Most things—my lamps, my coffee table, and the pot that I had hit The Sandman with, which apparently I had hit him with so much force the handle had broken—couldn't be salvaged. They were completely beyond repair and I would have to buy replacements. Everything else, though, was fine and after I got my door fixed, I'd be able to move back into my place.