Page 40 of Sin Like the Devil

I release Luka’s hand, a small bundle of laxatives passed between us. He takes one look at the impending hothead barrelling towards us then books it with a muttered thank you.

“Welcome,” I grumble.

My Wednesday deliveries are almost complete. The usual suspects have scuttled up to accept their packages and deliver payment or hopelessly barter for a grace period they should know I’ll never give.

Blowing out a long breath, my skin prickles with pins and needles. It feels too tight. Stretched thin over my bones, like the groaning, rusted springs of a used trampoline being pummelled by an overexcited child. Mania always begins physically for me.

Another warning sign.

The upward swing is coming.

After my intense encounter with Raine, I spent a two-day stint in bed. Leaden and immovable. I only moved to use the bathroom and drink water from the tap. Not even my stomach could fight the weight of depression and force me to eat this time.

Tossing and turning, his words tormented me on a sleep-deprived loop. You don’t blame soldiers for the price they paid to survive the battlefield. Maybe not. But shouldn’t the survivor feel some remorse? Shouldn’t they mourn the blood on their hands?

Lennox and Xander don’t feel remorse. They have no regret for their cruelty, only pride at the position they stole in the most heinous of ways. Some villains cannot be redeemed. Especially those who refuse to acknowledge their own crimes.

“Ripley!” the voice hollers again.

Sighing, I scratch at my irritated inner arms beneath my jacket. I should’ve known that Rick would send one of his lackeys to fetch his usual smokes, like I’d somehow surrender the goods if he didn’t show his face again.

The poor bastard looked scared shitless when I told him to trot back to his friend to deliver the bad news. I ain’t selling shit to Rick ever again. Not after the stunt he pulled. But apparently, he’s going down swinging.

“Morning to you too,” I greet cheerily.

Stopping short, Rick holds back a snarl. “Where the fuck are my smokes?”

“As I told your little pet, Carlos, I have nothing for you.”

His hands curl into fists at his sides. I don’t give a shit about the lines of olive-toned muscle bulging beneath his t-shirt. If he makes a single move, I’ll unleash hell on him.

“We have a standing order!” he insists, nostrils flaring.

“Like I explained in the cafeteria, I don’t sell to assholes. Clearly, you didn’t heed my words.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“People keep doubting me.” I lay on an exaggerated pout. “Am I not being clear enough?”

Rick’s face is slowly turning a beetroot shade of red. It’s not an attractive look. No one’s here to pay attention to us in the abandoned quad, it’s too cold to brace the icy wind and impending snowstorm today.

I’d prefer an audience; I can’t have people thinking they can talk to me like I owe them shit. Rick’s been inching ever closer to crossing that line for a while now. My authority over the patient population can’t be challenged without consequence.

“You don’t want to do this,” he warns in what I’m sure he thinks is a threatening tone. “I don’t care what people here think of you. I’ll bury you all the same.”

“For refusing to sell you some cigarettes?” I laugh at him.

“For disrespecting me!” His lips curl back in a grimace. “And for being a bitch!”

Laughter dying, I let him see exactly how pathetic I think he is. “Tell me who the hell would respect someone like you?”

“Back off, Ripley. Final warning.”

“Or what?” I challenge. “You gonna teach me a lesson, tough guy?”

His shoulders hunch in preparation. “Maybe I will.”

I see the blow coming from a mile away, ducking before his fist can connect. However, a punch to my stomach comes too soon after for me to avoid. Pain flaring in my midsection, I wheeze through a choked breath.

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