Page 72 of Dance with the Devil

He smirks. His chin is split and his nose is already bleeding from the fall, and still he smirks. “Knew you were a fag. Just can’t wait to get on top of me, huh? Guess it’s better than you wanting my cock up your ass.”

Mickey thinks he can distract me with his homophobia bullshit? “You lit my fucking place on fire?”

He shrugs, and I lose any self control I might’ve had left.

I whale on him. Pinning him with my legs, I go for the face to stun him, then lower my aim to his chest when he starts bucking my hips, trying to shake me off of him.

I’ll give him credit. He takes the beating, only grunting as each hit lands, and when I take a second’s pause to see how he’ll responds, he sucks in a breath and asks me in a strangled voice, “Did you really think I was going to let what you did to me go?”

I hit him again, going for the gut. If he can still talk, I haven’t made enough of an impact on him “If you were smart, youwould’ve. And you wouldn’t have stuck around after you struck a match.”

He grunts, but refuses to lose that mocking glare. “Can you blame me? I wanted a front-row seat to see you burn.”

“Well, I didn’t.” I tighten my fingers so that the next punch to his jaw hurts both of us. My fingers scream, but Mickey doesn’t. Not yet, at least.

He grins, his mouth bloody this time. I got a good, square hit and he thinks it’sfunny. “For as much as that cost me, I’ll be asking for a refund then.”

I don’t understand. Is he insane? I plow my fist into his cheek, his head snaps, and as soon as he shook off the hit, he’s talking nonsense about refunds. A refund on what? The accelerant he used that failed to catch?

“Winter lost, you dick. Even he hasn’t come after me yet. If he’s smart, he’s written off Springfield and moved on. But you had to come back withfire?”

“Got your attention, didn’t I? Besides, you’re the fucking moron who slipped up. You really think this is still about a job? Fuck, no. This is personal. And I’m going to make it personal if it’s the last thing I do.”

Oh, trust me.Thatwas the last thing he did.

As though he really believes he’s getting out of this confrontation alive, Mickey laughs. His face is covered in blood, one eye already swelling shut from my fists, and he laughs.

“Beat the shit out of me if you want. That won’t stop what’s coming. You were only the first target. I’m gunning for that Libellula bitch next.” He spits in my face, the glob hitting me right in the cheek. “For Noah.”

Genevieve.

Bracing his shoulders with my hands, ignoring the spit dribbling down my cheek, I lower my face until we’re almost nose to nose. “I’ll kill you before I ever let you get near her.”

Mickey’s eyes are insane. That’s the only way to describe them, and he has to be because no one sane would taunt a Sinner while he’s at his mercy.

But that’s exactly what he does. “What you did to my cock was reflex. I was so big, you couldn’t help but bite down, da Silva. But killing anyone? You’re a fucking pansy. You ain’t got the balls. That’s why that cunt took out Noah.Youcouldn’t.Cocksucker.”

Throwing my trauma in my face would’ve been enough to earn him a death sentence. But threatening Genevieve?

I take two fistfuls of Mickey’s hair. Rearing back, I grab his head as I move, then shift forward, cracking the back of his skull against the asphalt. There’s a sickening crunch as his eyes flutter than roll back, showing off the whites.

My chest is heaving. Adrenaline has me smashing his head again once more for good measure before climbing off of him. I don’t know if he’s dead yet. He might be, but if he isn’t? He will be soon.

But I can’t leave him here to die. The cops in Springfield are crooked as hell. Devil has half the force on his payroll, with Damien owning the other. Sinners and Dragonflies can get away with a lot, but murdering a man in cold blood and leaving the body out for civilians to stumble over? Even a guy like Officer Burns, one of Devil’s most bought beat cop, would have to call that in.

No. I’ve got to deal with this.

Besides, it’s not like I can save my studio. I’m the only one on this strip who lives in an apartment over their shop, so the street’s empty. I hate to think that my neighboring stores might go up in flames because they have the misfortune to be built next to mine, but they have smoke alarms to go with their burglary ones. I do, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if the SFD is already on their way to battle the blaze.

And that means I need to get Mickey out of herenow.

My bike’s out of the question. My keys are still in the apartment upstairs, and I couldn’t leave Springfield with an unconscious body strapped to my back. I don’t own a car, and without my phone, I can’t call any of my fellow Sinners to help me with this. Rolls would drop everything in a heartbeat to help me fix this mess, but he’s all the way at Paradise Suites with his wife.

And this fucker made it a point to threaten the woman I mean to make mine.

Growing up in Springfield, a kid can pick up on quite a few skills. Especially when he graduated high school and, following after his friend, falls in with the wrong crowd. Rolls idolized Devil when he was a brawler fighting for cash, and he ended up using his quick fingers as both a pickpocket and the best three-card monte player on the streets. Me? In between doodles and the odd piece of graffiti before I met my mentor and got into ink, I stole more than my fair share of cars.

Chop shops paid enough for me to survive after I got kicked out of foster care. I stopped once I got my own studio and my career starting to take off, but there are some things you never forget how to do.

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