Page 6 of Dance with the Devil

Instead of quipping that people spend hundreds of dollars to watch me perform, I ask, “Just dance?”

If this guy says he expects me to strip or give him a lap dance?—

“Just dance. I saw you before. It’s like you’re floating on air. I want to watch again, if that’s okay.”

“In that case, sure. I love to dance.”

He gestures for me to follow him. We don’t touch, but as I move at his heels, the tiny hairs on my arms seem to stand on end. Like there’s a spark passing between us, an undeniable chemistry that I might be imagining.

Does that stop me? Not even a little. In fact, I move until I’m right behind him, humming a little as a hint of something woodsy and earthy with a hint of… motor oil? Maybe motor oil… the rich smells clinging to his hair and his leather jacket have me ready to follow him anywhere.

Okay. Let’s be real. If this man wanted me to dance in the alley behind the Playground, I would’ve gone with him without a doubt. But that’s not where he brings me. Instead, he guides meto the edge of the dance floor, right where a side booth rises up about a step higher than floor level.

He slides into a seat, dropping his phone on the table, setting his unopened energy drink on the top. With the pen twirling between two fingers, he uses his free hand to grab one, two, three paper napkins from the holder before placing the small stack in front of him.

Then, with a look of pure concentration, he pops his chin in his hand and waits.

He wants me to dance? I dance. Ignoring the upbeat music, I listen to the music in my heart—a rapid rhythm that started the first moment I looked in this beautiful stranger’s eyes—and I move in time to a song only I can hear.

I forget about Christopher. I forget about how I was supposed to keep from drawing attention to myself. I dance because I love it, and I dance because I’ve always blossomed under the attention of anyone who appreciates what I can do.

At one point, I peek over at him. It’s a little frustrating to see that he’s bowed over the napkin, pen scratching away at it, but I tell myself that it doesn’t matter. I came to the club to have a good time, and even if he’s not impressed by my skill, at least I’m enjoying myself.

Minutes go by. I allow myself to be swallowed up by the crowd because if the stranger has had his fill of watching me, then I’ll perform for myself.

It’s his turn to follow me. I’ve barely gone out of his sight before he’s tossing the pen down, sliding back out of the booth, maneuvering his way so that he can stand right in front of me before I’m gone.

He lifts up the napkin. He’s not handing it to me, showing me the white square instead, and I focus on what he’s drawn in the middle.

It’s a butterfly.

I stop dancing, marveling over the unique design. How did he do it? Using the black ink from his pen, multiple different shading techniques, and some impressive skill, he’s captured a butterfly in flight—and he’s showing it to me.

“You drew that?”

He jerks his head. A nod.

“You’re an artist,” I breathe out. My fingers ghost against the edge of the napkin, barely touching it. “It’s beautiful.”

Oh, mama.He’s beautiful, and he smells so damn good.

“It’s what I do,” he says, taking the napkin back. He disappears it into his pocket before I can ask for it. “I’m a tattooist.”

Know what? That makes a lot of sense. If he’s responsible for all the ink I can see—and what I can only imagine is hidden beneath his shirt—then he’s a walking advertisement for his craft, and he’s excellent at it.

And then he says, “I own Sinners & Saints off of Third,” and I’m slapped back to reality.

The truce is too new. My knee-jerk reaction to anything Sinners Syndicate is to flinch because they were my brother’s enemies for so long. It doesn’t matter that the Sinners’s leader—Lincoln Crewes, the Devil of Springfield—was a friend of Dame’s when he was younger. For years, a war was brewing between both of our gangs, and Damien drummed it into my head so damn often, I still think ‘Run’ when someone flashes the devil horns and tail in front of me.

You don’t get to use ‘Sinners’ in any business unless you have an in with the Sinners Syndicate. It’s like how, on the East End, Dragonfly-vetted businesses have a decal on their window. That doesn’t mean that he’s part of the syndicate, just that Devil is allowing him to represent his crew.

I mentally cross my fingers, then ask, “You cater to the Sinners Syndicate?”

For a moment, his face hardens. It doesn’t make him any less gorgeous, though it’s a hint of danger that shouldn’t be half as alluring as it is.

I get it. I know what I look like. Petite and blonde and deceptively innocent, in another life, I might’ve been a sorority girl instead of a mafia princess. I shouldn’t be casually mentioning one of the two powerful gangs in Springfield.

Shit, I shouldn’tknowabout them.

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