Page 17 of Never Die for a Sinner
I can practically feel his gaze searing into mine, reminding me of what he’d said about having me in his bed.
“You want to be fucked until you don’t have to think about anything but me and all the things I’m doing to you, sweetheart?”
“God, Ava. He’s just a man,” I growl under my breath, and turn my head away, making myself look busy by pretending to read instead of anything productive because I can’t focus.
It’s no use. The blonde male main character in this book isn’t the same.
Why are men with messy black hair always so attractive?
After a long moment, Levi revs the engine once, then, like a demon in the night, he speeds off down the drive.
Finally, when the sound of the car disappears, I let out the breath I’d been holding, leaning my head back against the wall behind me.
Okay, maybe he’s right.
I do need to get laid.
LEVI
I’ve found heaven in the blood I can spill in underground street fighting.
I slip through the crowd of men and the few women that find themselves here, the scent of weed and sweat overpowering as I pass the cage in the center of the room.
Two men are in the ring, each one battered and bruised. Some might find it horrifying—taking joy in bashing another man’s face in. I think it’s exactly what this world needs more of.
The ability to let go of all social constructs and fight shit out like grown men. Release the pent-up frustrations that we allface on a day-to-day basis without having to worry about the repercussions.
It’s why I found this place. The adrenaline rush it gives me. I come alive the moment I step through the door.
No one knows I’m DEA. Well . . . former DEA. No one knows my family is one of the richest in the state. No one knows Christian Cross, my FBI big brother, or his twin, Sebastian—the crazed lunatic who tried to murder Mila.
Here I’m just me. Whatever version I want to be.
I slide up to the bar and take a seat. The place used to be a dog-fighting ring until Diego, the man who owns the Tomb, “bought” it for the low price of two .45 bullets and a whole lot of bloody mop water.
“Back again, I see.”
I glance up at the bartender with fire-engine red hair.
“Tough crowd,” she says, slipping a beer across the counter toward me. “Sure you want to fight tonight?”
I take a swig of the beer, ignoring the bad taste on my tongue. I’ve always hated beer, but you’d have to be an idiot to come into a place like this completely sober, and my flask isn’t allowed.
“Tough crowd every night,” I muse, and Cherry comes around the bar, falling onto the stool beside me.
Cherry’s sweet . . . ish. I may or may not have spent a few drunken nights, maybe at her place, but not in a while. Don’t get me wrong. She’s a nice girl. She’s lived a rough life, and she deserves to get out of this place. I’m just not the one who’s going to give her that. I can barely keep myself alive.
Not to mention, those soft green eyes that seem to be burned into the back of my fucking eyelids lately.
“What are you doing here, Cherry?”
She cocks a delicate brow at me and takes the beer out of my hand. I let her because it tastes like ass.
“What else would you suggest I do, Black? Sell cookies outside the local nunnery?”
They call me “Black” for my hair. And for my black heart. When I get in the ring, I don’t hold back. Everything fades away, and I don’t have to think. I can just let go.
Not to mention, giving them my real name is suicide.
