Devil in a Suit

Chapter 2 Episode 2

I get back to my teaching, but the whole time I feel the Italian’s eyes on me. His beady eyes don’t fit in his face properly. They go back and forth as I walk around the front of class, never leaving me. I get the uneasy feeling that something bad is going to happen.

Which, unfortunately, is a feeling I am all too familiar with.

“You let me know if you want me to orchestrate that pendejo,” Lucille says with plenty of finger wagging.

We are standing outside the rec center, the sun long gone now. The parking lot is pitch-dark in its absence, since several of the street lamps are broken. Johnny, Max, and Sofiya have already left, but the Italians are taking their sweet time. The thin man is ushering them into a black minivan like they’re headed out on a field trip, almost invisible in the night.

She makes a snip-snip motion with her fingers by way of explanation.

“Cut his balls off,” she says. “That clear enough? You want me to stay?”

I shake my head. “I’ll be okay.”

“Too tough for your own good,” Lucille tuts, giving me a hug. “See you next week.”

She struts away and I return to the rec center, winding my way through back to the classroom. I normally hang around for a little while to prepare for the next class. If I’m feeling particularly charged up, I’ll sometimes sketch a little. But tonight, I just want to get my things and go home. I throw my handbag strap over my shoulder, lock the door behind me, and head back towards the lobby to leave.

He’s waiting for me in front of the glass double doors—Mr. Lung Cancer, with a nasty gleam in his eye.

“Rude lady,” he says, clearly trying hard to find the words. “Slut lady.”

I reach slowly for my purse, which contains my pepper spray. I think, not for the first time, that I need to get a gun. Nothing drastic; a small caliber, something for defense. He sees me reaching for the flap of the bag and he waggles an eyebrow at me knowingly. He expects me to open it, and he wants me to know that he knows what I’m trying to do.

So I do the exact opposite. I stride to the left, shove open the side door, and walk out into the night. That jerk can wait in there until the sun rises for all I care.

“Rude lady,” I hear from behind me. He moves way too quickly for an ogre. In a flash, I’m somehow backed up against the exterior wall of the building, his bulk a shield I can’t get past. Thankfully, he’s not touching me. Yet. “Teach some respect.”

I assess my options: a knee to the gonads, spit in his eye, rake his cheek with my fingernails. All viable, but I need to make sure it’s effective enough so that I can duck and run. And he looks intent.

“Women need respect,” he goes on, sounding like a sexist caveman. Tarzan love Jane. Jane grovel for Tarzan. “I teach.”

“No, what you’ll do is back the f**k off before I make you regret it,” I hiss. Miraculously, I sound calm. “I mean it. Back. Off.”

Over his shoulder, I see a limo pull up. Wait, a limo? The sight is so strange in this rundown part of town that for a second, everything seems to stop. Mr. Lung Cancer glances at it. Something in him changes, melts.

The back door swings open. The man who steps out and strides over to us is jaw-droppingly handsome. Over six feet, muscled, his thick arms filling out his steel-gray suit. Even in the low light, I can make out the glinting blue-green of his eyes, sharp and intelligent.

As he exchanges words with the thin, scarred man, he barely glances at him. He stands like a man used to being in control. The only thing that moves is his hand, a tiny twitch in his fingers, as though he’s strumming an invisible guitar. He’s clean-shaven, with slightly smirking lips. A proud sneer in the set of his jaw. He must be thirty, maybe a little older.

I turn away from him, a little unnerved by how flustered I’ve gotten. This is not the time to be swooning over good-looking strangers.

“You have five seconds,” I tell the big Italian, “or I’m going to make you regret it.”

“I’d listen to her.” The handsome stranger is talking to the Italian but looking at me. “She doesn’t seem the sort to make idle threats. Step back.”

The smoking asshole steps back right away. Bowing his head, he makes as if to apologize. The limo man waves a hand toward the minivan, and my would-be-attacker skulks off like a dog with its tail between its legs.

“I must apologize for my friend,” the stranger says, those blue-green eyes like jewels at the bottom of a pool of water. His voice is deep, smooth, and tugs at things within me I haven’t felt for a long time.

I push it all down. New life does not equal new man. Nope. No way. I have far too much at stake to throw that kind of dynamite into the middle of things.

“I was handling that,” I tell him.

“Oh?” His lips twitch ever so slightly, threatening a smile. He seems amused. “And how, precisely, were you going to handle it?”

“What? You think I can’t deal with one handsy jerk? I’ve dealt with worse, believe me.”

“I do believe you,” he says. “Or rather, I believe that you believe it.”

“Oh, we’re doing riddles now?” I ask sarcastically. “How fun. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”

“I believe a ‘thank you’ is in order,” he interrupts, still standing completely still. Except for his eyes, and those lips: full, tempting, arrogant as hell. I repress a million warring urges. “Don’t you?”

I gape at him in disbelief. A thank you? Clearly, that guy and his friends are this dude’s employees or whatever. Which means this is the one who’s responsible for them being here in the first place. Which means, really, that he’s the one who’s been disrupting my class.

And this asshole wants me to thank him?

Maybe when hell freezes over.

The only reason I’m here is to check in with Nario about the possibility of the Irish showing up. We could easily have these classes at my mansion, or one of my clubs. But Nario—ever the strategist—suggested that we hold them publicly, on the off chance that we could tempt the Irish out into the open. I was hoping for a fight. Something to get my blood pumping.

But now I’ve found something else to get me going instead.

The woman isn’t my normal type. Her hair is fire-red, and she has a light smattering of freckles around her cheeks. Her face is thin and her cheekbones are set high like a princess. Her body is lithe, fit, tempting. The kind of body you go to war with. Bedding her would be a fight in its own right—a fight I couldn’t possibly lose.

She is clearly not Italian. Her skin is far too pale, like snow. Fire-red hair and snow-white skin, this woman, tempting me.

“You want me to thank you?” She shakes her head, loosening more strands of hair. “You’re crazy.”

I can’t help but smile. I feel Nario watching me, but I ignore him. For the time being, the rest of the world doesn’t exist. I haven’t felt desire like this in … ever, perhaps. The base of my manhood throbs.

I incline my head. “Yes, thank me. Isn’t that what helpless maidens usually offer up to their rescuers? Among other things?”

“Helpless maiden?” she snaps. “I was—”

“Handling it, yes. You mentioned that.”

She seems surprised when I walk closer to her. She smells of strawberries and perfume and chalk and, faintly, a smell that is all her own. Perversely, it’s the last that draws me in: her distinctive odor. I want to smell more of her. I want to taste her. “But you must know something. That man, had I not arrived, would have done whatever he wanted with you. What is your name?”

“Hazel,” she answers, and then furrows her eyebrows as though annoyed at herself for saying anything. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

We are close now. Her breath is coming quickly. “My name is Carlo,” I tell her. “It is a mutual pleasure, I am sure. What are your plans for this evening, Hazel?”

“Home, bed, just generally being done with jerks for the night, really.”

She pushes past me. I feel the contour of her hip graze against my side. “I was hoping you’d join me for a drink,” I say, not moving.

She pauses. I have her, I realize. She should have kept walking, not revealed her desires so brazenly. Does she want me as badly as I want her? Her ass is a tempting curve in those tight jeans, just begging me to peel the material away and reveal the gift beneath.

“Now why would I do that? Especially considering you’re the asshole who’s responsible for messing up my class these past two weeks.”

“Because you want to,” I say. “And, in life, I have found there is no better reason.”

“So if I, like, want to dropkick an elderly lady because she’s taking too long at the checkout, I should just go ahead and do it?”