Convict (Sin City Salvation 2)

Lights strobed over the bare flesh of her shoulders, highlighting her silhouette in shades of purple and blue. Music pulsed, vibrating up through the floor and into my pounding head like an unrelenting migraine. Something about this girl managed to provoke every last nerve I had.

Tonight, she was wearing a gold slip of a dress that was far too short for my liking. It dipped low in the front, exposing the rounded curves of her braless tits. It wouldn’t take much to drag that fabric aside to uncover all that soft, round flesh. Every fucker in the place was thinking about it, myself included.

With so many eyes on her, she hadn’t even noticed me in the dark corner. She rarely did when I watched her this way. But I thought she could sense me. I’d catch her looking over her shoulder, her fingers brushing over her neck as though she could feel the physical caress of my eyes on her skin. Sometimes, her armor would crack, and a glimpse of her vulnerability would shine through. She was on edge. Alert, but persistent. Then a moment later, she’d snap out of it and return to the game, more intent than ever.

I didn’t understand the motivation behind her desperation to repeat this cycle. At first, I’d assumed it was an addiction. What else could compel her to live in a hell where every day was the same and nothing ever changed?

On the surface, she was an enchantress, glowing with pleasure and sin. But I’d had plenty of time to pick her apart. She was exhausted. Anxious. Flighty. There had to be a reason she subjected herself to this, but it was a piece of the puzzle I had yet to figure out.

“Can I get you another drink?” The waitress intercepted my vision, and I shook my head, eager for her to move along. But she didn’t. When I glanced up at her, a pair of curious eyes roamed over my face. Some chicks liked the ex-convict look I’d never bothered to rebrand. The beard prompted assumptions that I’d be more than happy to take them out back and give them a rough going-over. Or so I’d been told.

“How about something to eat?” she offered, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.

Again, I shook my head. “I’m good.”

She hesitated, conjuring up another offer to throw my way, and my eyes narrowed. I’d heard more than a few times that I was a scary looking son of a bitch, and it didn’t take much to destroy whatever fantasy her imagination weaved. The waitress scurried off without another word, but by the time she disappeared, it looked like Birdie had too.

Fuck.

I scanned the sea of pulsing bodies, my head pounding as the noise drilled into my temples like a fucking jackhammer. I hated these places. I hated every loud, throbbing beat of the music. Every drunken, glazed stare tossed my way as I pushed through the crowd. The gold dress wasn’t anywhere in sight, and that left only one conclusion. I’d find her in the alley.

Warm air hit my face as I stepped outside and turned the corner. It didn’t take long to find the little criminal. Her honeyed voice drifted through the shadows as she demanded the poor fool’s wallet.

The guy was obviously from out of town. Rich trust fund kid with his pants down around his ankles and a dick that sagged under the realization he’d been played. But it still burned me. Had she kissed him? Touched him?

History told me otherwise. She’d never let them touch her before. She’d never let it get that far. But maybe that was only in my head.

“The watch too.” Birdie nodded to his wrist as she emptied the wallet and stuffed the cash into her bag.

The kid hesitated. “But it was my father’s.”

She paused, and it was moments like these that I knew she wasn’t truly lost. “Fine, keep the watch. What else do you have?”

“My cuff links,” he offered, eyeing the Taser in her hand. “They’re gold.”

She extracted them and waved her weapon of choice. “Don’t follow me.”

He nodded, and she turned on her heel at the same time I ducked around the corner. As much as I’d like to stick around and smack the shit out of her ass for being so reckless, she didn’t need to know I was ever there.

Back at the compound, I smoked a blunt and downed a shot of whiskey before bed. I still felt restless. It had been a long fucking day, and I had a lot of pent-up tension.

Stripping off my clothes, I stood in the middle of my bathroom, the cool familiarity of a pocketknife against my palm. Old urges resurfaced as I twisted the handle between my fingers, recalling the day’s events. I closed my eyes, and the ghosts of my past weren’t far behind.