Page 52 of Dance with the Devil

He went big and bold, right on his forearm so that he could show it off all over Springfield. Because it was his arm, not mine, I made sure he okayed the stencil, then got to work.

Crooked? Hell, no. It’s fucking straight.

He squints. “I mean, if I look at it like this?—”

“It’s straight.”

There’s something in the edge of my voice that warns Pax from saying another word. He swallows, nods, and I pick up the plastic wrap. Clean up the client first, I tell myself, then clean up my station.

Once that’s done, I give him another rundown on the tattoo aftercare before I let him escape from my space. Pax mumbles a quick, “Thanks,” and bolts through the open doorway, nearly colliding with the man strolling in at the same time.

Poor Pax. Even I can muster a little sympathy for him when he sees he nearly steamrolled our fixer—and Devil’s right-hand man. The new soldier babbles out a quick apology, and disappears down the hall before Rolls can finish glancing down at the barely visible crease on his thousand-dollar suit jacket. Probably to the Playground for a drink to celebrate his near miss, I’d bet, before I stop thinking about him at all.

Though I do think that maybe I’ll stop by, too. I know the odds of sitting in a far back booth and spying Genevieve dancing in the middle of the dance floor are ones even a degenerate gambler like Rolls would never take, but my exhausted mind and battered heart can’t help except hope a little.

Then again, as Rolls moves into the room, holding an energy drink in one hand, jerking his thumb behind him with the other,I’m thinking that drowning my sorrows in a shot of whiskey isn’t on the table right now…

He nods at me. “Everything good, Cross?”

“The tat was straight,” is all I say as I snap off one of my plastic gloves.

“Of course it was,” Rolls easily agrees. “If it’s your work, no doubt.” A tiny smirk tugs on his lips. “You offer the new kid that numbing cream you’ve got?”

I snort. “With the way he came in, swaggering like he owned the space? Get real, sunshine.”

“Just making sure I wasn’t the only one you wanted to watch squirm. I mean, my devil hurt like hell, but I should’ve let you numb me up when you gave my my seahorse.”

I remove my second glove. “Your fault. I offered last time.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just saying, I think that’s the last ink for me for a while. I wear my loyalty to Devil and our crew on my side, and my love for Nic near my junk. I think I’m good now.”

“Well, if you decide you want any more, I’m only a call away. And,” I add, still stewing over what just happened, “it’ll be fucking straight.”

Rolls quirks his eyebrow at me.

I shake my head. “Forget it. What’s up? You need me for something? Devil told me to give Pax his tat, then I could head back to my shop. But if something came up…”

Rolls isn’t just the syndicate fixer. Among all of his other responsibilities, he long ago made himself the head of clean-up for Devil. Whether it’s an informant who needs to be taken care of, or a body that needs to disappear, Rolls is in charge of it. True, he’s got a crew of his own that do the dirty work, but if he needs an extra hand and came to see me, that might just be the distraction I so desperately need.

Shame he shakes his head as he says, “Nothing like that.” He lifts his hand, flicking a strand of blond hair back into place untilhe’s perfect again before he adds, “But since you mention it… you got clients to see tonight?”

Considering I haven’t bothered opening up Sinners & Saints for walk-ins yet, and any clients on my books were canceled after everything that happened, I don’t. I’m good enough that I’m worth the wait, and when I feel like focusing on something other than a Sinners brand, I’ll open up again.

Just… just not yet.

Then I glance up at him, catching the slight tension in his too-handsome features. Fuck. I should’ve guessed already. He’s not here in his role for our syndicate.

He’s here out of concern for his old friend.

I’ve been expecting this. To be honest, I’ve beenavoidingthis. Once I accepted that what I had with Genevieve had to be left behind in Hamilton, it was a struggle to return to the life I had before. Rolls was part of that. Tattooing was the biggest part. Attending meets, checking in with the state of the syndicate, helping to unload the trucks when the latest shipment of guns came in… all things I used to do that I just… I couldn’t do anymore.

I breathe. I eat. I don’t sleep, but that’s nothing new. And I only keep the last shreds of my sanity by telling myself over and over again that this is for her.

This is for my butterfly.

She’d hate me if she knew. The way I basically ghosted her after being there by her side all those weeks… she sure as fuck hates me now. It’s better that way, but sorry if one thing I can’t handle more than anything else is being around a happy fucking newlywed.

But he’s here now, and I don’t want to blow him off. Rolls doesn’t deserve that. It’s not his fault that right when I thought I might have a shot of happiness, like everything else in my life, my dreams of a future with Genevieve have gone up in smoke.

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