Page 8 of As Devils Love

“I’m fine” is what I try to answer, but the noise “im fn”is all I can muster.

“Do you know her?” The stranger asks Simone, staring into her eyes with a dangerously protective glare.

“She’s my best friend.” Simone hooks one of my arms over her shoulder. “What happened to her?”

“Drunk, I think.” He rolls his enormous shoulders. “Started collapsing in my arms.”

I admit to Simone, in the broken language of inebriation, that I had a drink without her.

“Oh, Lord, let’s get you out of here.” The giggling that follows her statement is proof that this isn’t anything serious. At least not to me.

Well, Mr. Barman, you weren’t lying about that drink. So, cheers to a great night out andThe Morning After.

Chapter Three

CRUE

“Let’s get this done quickly,” I growl at Mark when I find him lingering in the hallway between the men's and women’s bathrooms. He’s lazing against the wall with his back pressed against it, and a lit cigarette hangs from his hand, as if we aren’t here on a job.

“Not gonna ask how it went with that ginger firecracker?”

I don’t have time to indulge his teasing tone. My timer for these kills started ticking the second theginger firecrackerwhisked Fia away. If I still want to finish these kills and be out in time to catch them, we’d better get moving.

“Heard enough from her.” I pat him on the shoulder as an indication to follow me.

“What? Really?” He sounds surprised. Maybe it’s excitement.

Who cares? Emotions muddy the senses. This wasn’t the right time to rib him about the best chance he’s had to get laid in weeks.

“No,” I shut it down. “She was preoccupied with Fiametta after the chemical cocktail I fed her.”

“Taking Matteo’s words to heart, are we?” Mark hooks an arm over my shoulder and starts walking out of sync, as though he’s had way too much to drink. “Break that poor girl in a million different ways before you kill her.”

I won’t confess it to Mark, at least not yet, but I beat Matteo to the punch on this one. Fiametta Napoli became my plaything the second she stepped out of the Sanctuary Club. Finding out she’s Lorenzo Napoli’s daughter only sweetened the deal. I can have my toy, rough it up, and when it’s broken and boring, I’ll throw it away and move on.

“Shut it,” I reprimand him in lieu of an answer. “I want you tip top until we’re done.”

“Whatever you say, boss man.” Mark lets his words start rolling longer, emphasizing his false inebriation as we reach the bathroom door.

I’ll give him credit where it’s due. Mark’s a good actor. We don’t do it often, but under conditions such as these, where we want to appear as inconspicuous as possible, it’s a valuable tool in our toolbox.

It has always come naturally to me. I suppose that’s because I’ve been acting normal my whole life. In my youth it was falsifying emotions of happiness, irritation, or grief. Mimicking the other children, after our teacher gave us tasks or orders. As I grew older, it became a matter of survival.

The fact that I can kill with a grin on my face, as well as my eagerness to be sent from one battle to the next, raised more than a few eyebrows. A handful of tests and checks later, some blonde bimbo doctor labeled me a psychopath and suggestedremoving me from the army and placing me in an institution for my own good.

My commanding officer didn’t buy her bullshit and kept me on to finish my tour, before releasing me to do as I chose with a firm nudge toward the mental health options. But what self-respecting monster would try and hide his demons inside a prison in his mind?

Instead, Mark and I opened a hunting shop. It’s a perfect cover for guys like us. I started blending into society as Crue Amos, American every-man. Luckily, I don’t have to play the role often. No one comes into our store to strike up a conversation or to make friends. They’re all like me. Jumping from one kill to the next.

“Can’t we move any faster?” Mark’s gone fully into his character now, and I can barely make out the words he’s trying to use. We burst through the restroom door and rush to one of the stalls. “I’m about to piss myself.”

“Almost there, buddy. Hold it a little longer.” I take the time to scan our surroundings. There are three guys in the bathroom. Our two targets, who are standing side by side at the urinals, and a third, unfortunate bystander washing his hands. He has about thirty seconds to get out of here.

“She’s gone. Looks like we can call it a night.” The meatier of the two says.

“No trouble from the masked crusader, either. All in all, I’d say it’s a good night,” the shorter one replies.

Mr. Meat and Short-stack have a name for me? How sweet.

---