Skin of a Sinner: A Dark Childhood Best Friends Romance(39)

I asked Damien for their address, since Lord knows he owes me for all the times I’ve given out favors for him and the cartel he’s running with. I re-check the GPS on my phone. The blood roaring in my ears increases. They only live a few blocks from her.

And she sleeps with the fucking window open. Anyone could climb in.

Fuck it. I’m going to install bars on that window.

The thought only unsettles me more as I park my bike several houses down from where they live. I take a couple of steps away, then glance back at my bike. My only other love. It could be the last time I see her. She might not be in one piece by the time I get back. It’s a shitty neighborhood, and she could get sold for parts.

I stole those wheels from someone who owed me money. Someone else might steal the same set of wheels because they need money. It’s almost like the circle of life.

I check that she’s locked tight one last time, give her a pat, then I’m off on my merry way to fuck up those two pricks.

My body buzzes with anticipation. I can already imagine what their blood will look like on my riding gloves, and I hear the sounds of them begging me to stop. I don’t care how old they are; I’m putting them in their place. They didn’t pick on someone their own size, so why should I?

After the high of kissing Bella and all the built-up frustration that came with it, this is going to be the cherry on top. I thought I’d have to reach out to Damien, my contact, and find a place to let off some steam tonight, but I guess everything works out for me, eventually.

The street is dimmer with the helmet visor down, but there’s no missing their duplex and the two lookalikes sitting on the deck, smoking a joint. They look like idiots.

The twins look like their names sound: short, blonde with a number two cut, and brawny.

Cold sweat gathers down my spine from excitement. I’ve met their type before. Guys like them wouldn’t be sitting outside in this neighborhood without carrying a gun. My lips twitch up at the corners. No one in this area would care if one goes off, but guns mean cops. I’m not in the mood to deal with pigs.

Clad in black, I creep along the side of the house, sticking to the shadows and keeping my footsteps light. I don’t do many of these outings while wearing a helmet. The anonymity is great, but it fucks with the senses. I won’t be able to see or hear as well.

The twins are completely oblivious to the intruder in their midst. I can smell the weed through my helmet, and I might not be able to see their bloodshot eyes this far out, but I’m sure they will be.

Shielded by the darkness, they don’t see me coming, too spaced out to hear me stretch my neck from side to side before the first crack from my fist carves through the night. Fucker Number One tips to the side, bringing the chair with him. Fucker Number Two scrambles for his gun behind his back, but not fast enough to avoid being hit in the jaw by my riding gloves.

God, that felt good.

His head snaps back, hitting the wall behind him. He groans as his hands instinctively snap up to stop another assault.

“What do you want?” Fucker Number one recovers in time to draw his gun, but it flies out of his hands before he has a chance to use it. Then, someone from inside the house starts screaming, raising my hackles.

An old woman comes running out of the house with a baseball bat, tripping over her slippers and nightie as she goes.

Fuck.

I don’t hurt old ladies.

Goddamnit, I have to somehow take her down without laying a hand on her.

“This isn’t about you,” I yell at her.

Fucker Two suddenly remembers he has a gun, and Fucker One uses the distraction to launch himself at me, hitting me square in the chest. “You cunt.”

A laugh rumbles out of me right before I bury my fist into the prick’s ribs and swing my head forward, using the helmet's weight to connect with his forehead.

He rears back with blood spurting from his nose, the bottom half of his face drenched in the beautiful crimson.

“Get away from my sons!” their mother screams. I don’t get to appreciate the sight of the dark red splatter over his pale skin, because I stumble forward when pain tears through my back.

Helmets are great for anonymity, but fucking shit for visibility.

“Fuck off.” I throw my hand back with a snarl and yank the bat out of the culprit's hands. The lady yelps from being thrown off balance. But then her screams turn into words. Only a single word, Help.

Fucker Two aims his gun at me. “Don’t you fucking touch her.”

They can’t see my grin as I say, “That’s my line.” I tilt my head to the side, eying the gun. “You weren’t planning on using that on me, were you?”

I swing the wooden bat before he manages to pull the trigger. Those things are great, but they’re shit for close combat, which is why I prefer my fists. Using a gun doesn’t give me the same satisfaction as pummeling someone’s head in until they’re an unrecognizable pile of flesh and bone.

He cries out as the weapon is ripped out of his hands and lands by their mother’s feet. Fucker One returns, hunched over, charging forward like a raging bull. I lift my leg before he makes contact, sending him careening backward just as Fucker Two swings his arm.

From the corner of my eye, I watch as the woman runs toward the gun on the ground.

And then red and blue lights flash.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.