Page 12 of Dance with the Devil

“What about you?” she asks. “You hungry?”

Whenever I’m near this woman, I’m starved—but it’s not for food.

It’s for her laugh. It’s for her fire. It’s for her sunshine and brightness.

Fucking hell, it’s for hertaste.

But I can’t tell her that, so I shrug instead. “I could eat.”

She checks her phone. “I’ve got another hour or two before our cook serves dinner. If I don’t come down, Dame will just think I’m really focusing on my new choreography.”

“New choreography?” I ask. I love watching Genevieve dance, and hearing her talk about her career reminds me why I’m throwing up the admittedly weak walls I already have. She has something more important than her crush on me: her professional career. “What’s that about?”

Her features light up. She’s always so pleased when I show an interest in her job, just like I can’t help but crumble under her praise whenever I show her another finished sketch.

“I’m practicing a new piece,” she gushes. “The Performing Arts Center in Union City is hosting open auditions in the middle of June. It’s been a while since I had a show to do, and this one is my favorite.Black Swan.”

Maybe that’s for the best. Between the audition next month, and rehearsal, she won’t have as much time for me.

And, no, I’m not bitter about that at all.

Keeping my features impassive, I say, “I hope I’m not distracting you.”

“You’re not,” she says quickly. “But,” and I see a flirty twist to her lips as she climbs up off of the stool, inching her way closer to my desk, “what about me? Am I a distraction, Cross?”

Yes.

I pretend not to understand. “I’m not quite finished with my sketch yet,” I tell her, grabbing the folded cover of my iPad, flipping it so it hides the drawing of Genevieve sitting in my studio, looking at my book of designs. “But that’s cool. Let’s eat.”

“We don’t have to go out. If you’re expecting a client in or something, we can order in.” Her pretty blue eyes sparkle. “We can take the food upstairs.”

Bringing Genevieve up to my private apartment, in the same space where I keep my bed? That’s a temptation that I don’t think even I can resist.

“Nah. I’m feeling tacos. What about you?”

“Tacos are good,” she agrees. “But if you don’t want to go out with me…”

I never want to come between Genevieve and her family.

I never want to derail her career.

I never want to singe her with the fire I’ve never been able to escape.

“You know where I keep your helmet, butterfly. I’ll go get my keys.”

We’re being followed.

I noticed the nondescript black car tailing my bike about four streetlights back. They were on my ass, and I just thought it was another asshole driver who didn’t want to share the road.

So I took a turn that would add five minutes to our trip, but I wanted to see if they would take the bait. Two right turns and a left later, and I had my answer. They were definitely following us.

Shit.

This is my fault. So desperate to prove to Genevieve that I was different than her brother… from the moment we met at the Playground, she’s told me that one of the things that she likes most about me is how I’m sensitive. I’m not brutal and ruthless like the other gangsters she knows, and that’s including both her older brother and cousin. She’s convinced herself that I’m an acceptable Sinner because my speciality is in ink and because I have a soft touch when it comes to my art.

And I let her. I let her believe that since I knew I’d lose her if she knew the truth. That, despite my quiet nature and my sad eyes, I’m as much of a morally gray villain as any of the criminals walking around Springfield with a devil or a dragonfly on their skin.

I could protect her. In a way I couldn’t protect my family when I was a boy, if anyone came after Genevieve,Icould protect her now. That didn’t mean I was reckless; with her safety, I wouldneverbe. I just refused to keep her locked up when she’s with me the same way her brother does. If Genevieve wanted to explore Springfield on the backseat of my bike, I was confident in my abilities to keep her safe.

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