18. Crooked

EIGHTEEN

CROOKED

CROSS

T he new soldier looks down at his fresh ink and frowns.

In my rolling chair, my back goes stiff, my body still. I’d already finished the shading on his devil horns and the matching tail, and was grabbing the plastic wrap to bandage him up when he sat up and started scrutinizing it. The frown is just enough to catch my attention out of the corner of my eye, and I wait.

Pax’s frown deepens.

I drop the plastic wrap down on the tray, knocking over the leftover ink onto the paper towel beneath it. “Something wrong with your tat?”

The kid startles. I know why, too. Like most Sinners, I have a rep in the syndicate. I’m cool-headed with a steady hand, more quiet than anything, the stereotypical artist who uses his own body as a canvas. I’ll joke around with those I know well, though not even my closest pals know the depths of my past beyond the fact that a fire stole my family, and I moved from one neighborhood to another until I settled in with my last foster placement at fourteen. I was a loner in high school who found an unlikely friend in golden boy Royce McIntyre, and with Rolls being Devil’s second-in-command now—and my being the syndicate tattooist—that’s the reason behind my elevated status on the West Side.

If the new soldier knew I bit the tip off of Mickey’s cock because he threatened to sexually assault my butterfly, he wouldn’t have shot me a side-eyed look after frowning at my work—though he sure as shit nearly slips off the leather chair when I snap at him.

Pax wasn’t expecting it. Too bad. So I kept to myself before, and am even more of a recluse since being rescued with Genevieve. That doesn’t mean I’m going to sit here and let him act like my work’s not good.

No one frowns after I get done with them. Confidence in my needle is all I have left, and I’ve done hundreds of Sinners brands, from Devil himself to even his sweet, little wife.

So when Pax shakes his head and says, “Nah, man,” I can’t let it go.

“You’re still frowning, newbie.”

Pax bristles at the nickname. Glancing down, he twists his forearm so he can get a better look at the design.

I wait some more.

He offers it to me. “I dunno. It look crooked to you?”

I grit my teeth at the implication. My eyes are bleary, my head pounding, and this twenty-two-year-old kid has the nerve to pick apart my ink? I came all the way to the back offices of the Playground to tat him because that’s my job, and because I always do a Sinner’s brand on-site instead of at my studio, but no matter how much my world feels like its spinning off its axis, there’s one thing I will always pride myself on: professional tattoos every single fucking time.

“You approved the stencil when it went on,” I remind him.

Depending on the client, I either draw freehand or use a stencil as a guide. The devil horns are muscle memory at this point, but since this was Pax’s first tat, I let him choose the size and position of where he wanted Devil’s brand on him.

He went big and bold, right on his forearm so that he could show it off all over Springfield. Because it was his arm, not mine, I made sure he okayed the stencil, then got to work.

Crooked? Hell, no. It’s fucking straight.

He squints. “I mean, if I look at it like this?—”

“It’s straight.”

There’s something in the edge of my voice that warns Pax from saying another word. He swallows, nods, and I pick up the plastic wrap. Clean up the client first, I tell myself, then clean up my station.

Once that’s done, I give him another rundown on the tattoo aftercare before I let him escape from my space. Pax mumbles a quick, “Thanks,” and bolts through the open doorway, nearly colliding with the man strolling in at the same time.

Poor Pax. Even I can muster a little sympathy for him when he sees he nearly steamrolled our fixer—and Devil’s right-hand man. The new soldier babbles out a quick apology, and disappears down the hall before Rolls can finish glancing down at the barely visible crease on his thousand-dollar suit jacket. Probably to the Playground for a drink to celebrate his near miss, I’d bet, before I stop thinking about him at all.

Though I do think that maybe I’ll stop by, too. I know the odds of sitting in a far back booth and spying Genevieve dancing in the middle of the dance floor are ones even a degenerate gambler like Rolls would never take, but my exhausted mind and battered heart can’t help except hope a little.

Then again, as Rolls moves into the room, holding an energy drink in one hand, jerking his thumb behind him with the other, I’m thinking that drowning my sorrows in a shot of whiskey isn’t on the table right now…

He nods at me. “Everything good, Cross?”

“The tat was straight,” is all I say as I snap off one of my plastic gloves.

“Of course it was,” Rolls easily agrees. “If it’s your work, no doubt.” A tiny smirk tugs on his lips. “You offer the new kid that numbing cream you’ve got?”

I snort. “With the way he came in, swaggering like he owned the space? Get real, sunshine.”

“Just making sure I wasn’t the only one you wanted to watch squirm. I mean, my devil hurt like hell, but I should’ve let you numb me up when you gave my my seahorse.”

I remove my second glove. “Your fault. I offered last time.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just saying, I think that’s the last ink for me for a while. I wear my loyalty to Devil and our crew on my side, and my love for Nic near my junk. I think I’m good now.”

“Well, if you decide you want any more, I’m only a call away. And,” I add, still stewing over what just happened, “it’ll be fucking straight.”

Rolls quirks his eyebrow at me.

I shake my head. “Forget it. What’s up? You need me for something? Devil told me to give Pax his tat, then I could head back to my shop. But if something came up…”

Rolls isn’t just the syndicate fixer. Among all of his other responsibilities, he long ago made himself the head of clean-up for Devil. Whether it’s an informant who needs to be taken care of, or a body that needs to disappear, Rolls is in charge of it. True, he’s got a crew of his own that do the dirty work, but if he needs an extra hand and came to see me, that might just be the distraction I so desperately need.

Shame he shakes his head as he says, “Nothing like that.” He lifts his hand, flicking a strand of blond hair back into place until he’s perfect again before he adds, “But since you mention it… you got clients to see tonight?”

Considering I haven’t bothered opening up Sinners & Saints for walk-ins yet, and any clients on my books were canceled after everything that happened, I don’t. I’m good enough that I’m worth the wait, and when I feel like focusing on something other than a Sinners brand, I’ll open up again.

Just… just not yet.

Then I glance up at him, catching the slight tension in his too-handsome features. Fuck. I should’ve guessed already. He’s not here in his role for our syndicate.

He’s here out of concern for his old friend.

I’ve been expecting this. To be honest, I’ve been avoiding this. Once I accepted that what I had with Genevieve had to be left behind in Hamilton, it was a struggle to return to the life I had before. Rolls was part of that. Tattooing was the biggest part. Attending meets, checking in with the state of the syndicate, helping to unload the trucks when the latest shipment of guns came in… all things I used to do that I just… I couldn’t do anymore.

I breathe. I eat. I don’t sleep, but that’s nothing new. And I only keep the last shreds of my sanity by telling myself over and over again that this is for her.

This is for my butterfly.

She’d hate me if she knew. The way I basically ghosted her after being there by her side all those weeks… she sure as fuck hates me now. It’s better that way, but sorry if one thing I can’t handle more than anything else is being around a happy fucking newlywed.

But he’s here now, and I don’t want to blow him off. Rolls doesn’t deserve that. It’s not his fault that right when I thought I might have a shot of happiness, like everything else in my life, my dreams of a future with Genevieve have gone up in smoke.

She’s better off without me. I know that. God fucking knows that Damien Libellula would also agree, but even when we were in our early twenties and just coming into the life, Rolls always pushed me to find a sliver of something to look forward to.

Back then, I found it in my needle. When it was one in my arm or one in my hand, I went art instead of H, and I was… fine. Part of me was searching for that muse, hoping for that spark, but if it never happened, then whatever.

Now it has—and it’s torture going back to the way it used to be.

The emptiness. The loneliness. The constant ache behind my eyes, and the endless thoughts running like a train through my head as I basically beg for the sweet release of sleep if only to forget for a few blissful hours that I held my butterfly in my hands only to set her free.

Free… I snort under my breath again. Whether it’s a gilded cage of her own making, or one where her older brother holds the key, there’s no denying that Genevieve is just as trapped now as she was when Winter kept us behind that glass wall.

And, like then, there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

So, locking down my emotions as I pretend not to see his concern for me, I simply say, “None scheduled, but that could always change.”

And if it doesn’t, that’s fine, too. I have other shit to do, and if I can dodge Rolls getting to the point behind his unexpected visit, I will—and then I can get to it.

To be fair, I shouldn’t be that surprised he stopped by. Besides the fact that his new wife works as a waitress for the Devil’s Playground, when Rolls isn’t doing his other syndicate duties, he’s also in charge of the nightclub. He spends most nights here, running the casino in the back, making sure the girls upstairs are taken care of, and keeping the drinks flowing and the music pumping.

But that’s the thing. He should be at the Playground, not the back offices where Devil meets with his inner circle, Tanner haas most of his computer setup, and I keep my second studio sterilized and stocked. Regardless, Rolls knew where to find me tonight—checking here instead of tagging me on my phone or stopping by Sinners & Saints—and I’m sure neither one of us is leaving until he tells me why.

Royce ‘Rolls’ McIntyre is as much a Sinner as the rest of us. Still, he’s a good guy at heart, and devoted to those he considers his. Whether that’s Devil or me, his wife or those in his clean-up crew like Killian and Jose, he has a slight tendency to mother us—which, yup, is the reason why he’s here now, and he proves it when he can’t help but use his free hand to gesture at my face.

“Or you could head on over to your apartment and get some rest.” Rolls clicks his tongue. “You look like shit, buddy. Like you haven’t slept in days.”

Right. Because I really haven’t. Not for more than a couple of hours at a time anyway.

He holds out the energy drink he brought with him. “Here. Something told me you might need this.”

I wave him off. “I’m good. Thanks.”

Rolls’s brow furrows further as he lowers his arm to his side. “You sure? You normally guzzle this shit by the gallon.”

I used to. It’s not even the memory of the nasty caffeine headache I spent three days dealing with before it subsided enough for me to feel human again that got me to quit the stuff. Turns out, only being able to sleep soundly with Genevieve in my arms wasn’t a fluke. I haven’t slept for shit since we broke free of Winter’s prison, but the idea of chugging an energy drink to be coherent has lost its flavor.

I told her once that there were worse things I could be addicted to. I meant it, and I’d only begun my fascination with her then. Now? My Genevieve withdrawals are even more fucked-up than those caffeine ones.

I pat my chest. “Gotta start thinking about the ol’ ticker. Wouldn’t want it to up and explode on me. Especially not after all the trouble you guys went to to bring me home.”

Rolls moves closer to me, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Never doubted we would for a moment,” he swears.

I didn’t, either. Nope. It was whether I’d still be in one piece when they finally tracked us down that I wasn’t so sure of it, but as long as Genevieve made it out, I didn’t care. Now we both did, and it’s as painful living without her as I imagined it would be.

I don’t shake Rolls off. Part of me wants to, but I’d never disrespect my oldest friend like that. Instead, I change the subject to one guaranteed to get him away from the one I’m eager to avoid.

“Enough about me. How’ve you been? How’s your wife doing?”

Rolls’s whole face lights up as he shifts his position, leaning with his suit jacket up against the wall at his back. “Nic? She’s doing great. Not too happy with me that I won’t let her leave the Suites until I’ve introduced Winter to ol’ Woody the woodchipper, but she’s been helping Ava out with the baby while Devil’s taking care of Sinners business.”

I still can’t believe I missed it. That Ava finally gave birth while Genevieve and I were trapped in that cell. I haven’t had the chance to meet Devil’s daughter yet, either, though that’s probably to be expected.

When I’ve spent every minute I’m awake obsessing over my butterfly, I’ve barely had time to keep my studio going, let alone pretend like some part of me didn’t die when I had to let Genevieve go.

But her brother was right. I would only remind her of the trauma she went through, and he said that before he knew that I was forced to fuck her on camera. For God’s sake, she was a virgin . She’ll never have sex again without thinking about how her first time was stolen from her.

I did that. And I can tell myself all I want that I had no choice, that they would have shot her in the knees if I didn’t, but that only explains the first time I fucked her.

The second time? She might’ve been the one to come on to me, to tell me that she needed to own the act on the heels of being forced to take my cock, but I would’ve done anything to get back inside of her. I didn’t need to be convinced, and a good man wouldn’t have been.

A good man would’ve known that she’d just been sexually assaulted—that we both had by Johnny Winter and his goons—and told her that we could wait until we were safely out of the cell again.

A good man wouldn’t have lost control twice, coming inside of her, trying desperately to mark her as his even when he knew that she never would be.

A good man…

I’m not a good man. But, for Genevieve, I’m trying to be. And if that means I have to keep my distance, staying away from her for her own good, I will.

I promised I would protect her. I failed when we were trapped together. I won’t fail this time.

So I blocked her number so I couldn’t be tempted. Then, because I’m a fucking hypocrite, I take a ride over to the East End on my bike just to be as close to her as possible whenever I can.

Who needs sleep when I can torture myself by staring up at her window like some lovesick Romeo standing beneath his untouchable Juliet’s balcony?

Don’t think about Genevieve, I tell myself pointlessly. I’d be better off trying to convince myself to stop breathing. It’s that hard to do, and I rub my chest, grasping for something else to distract Rolls and me both.

“Baby doing good, too?” I ask.

Rolls cracks open the energy drink. He holds it out to me, I refuse, and he takes a swallow. His handsome features twist as the taste hits him. “You like this shit?”

“It grows on you.”

His look tells me that he’s not so sure he agrees, but he takes a second sip anyway. “Baby Clare’s doing just as great. That’s something else that grows on you, too, I guess.”

Oh? “What do you mean?”

Rolls deep blue eyes gleam. “My Nic’s having a little baby fever of her own. I told her let’s get this trouble with the Snowflakes sorted and we can start giving it a serious try ourselves.”

I know Rolls. Even when Nicolette was one of our waitresses and supposedly off-limits to Sinners, he was so obsessed with her, he wagered ten grand on a bet to win a night with her. I also heard a couple of guys talking about how he disappeared into a Playground supply closet before they started dating officially. Add that to how possessive he was of her when he brought her to me so I could do her cover-up and… yeah.

In a way, I guess I’m just shocked she didn’t get knocked-up as quickly as Devil’s bride did. Still, I raise my eyebrows at him and ask, “What the hell have you two been doing already?”

He grins. “Lots and lots of practice.”