Butterfly Storm {MINOR REVISIONS}

16 || Devil

～·～·～

A squeal of horror sucked into her throat and Indigo immediately snapped back. Provoked instinct jerked the point of her leg up. She barely gave Mick a chance to breathe when her bony kneecap smashed into the tender flesh of his crotch. Like the sweet satisfaction of squeezing a stress ball, she felt the soft bulge cramp into the pelvic bone.

A pained gasp threw the bastard forward, straight into Indigo's thrusting fist. Her knuckles cracked ruthlessly into the undercut of his jaw, throwing his head back. Another pained noise squeezed her satisfaction. Seizing Mick's vulnerability by surprise, her hands scruffed him by the hooded collar. In one fluent motion, she twisted around, gaining momentum, and heaved the bastard away from her shop.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" she spat out, roughly wiping her mouth as Mick lost his footing.

He shouldered into the street, scuffling, for scrap marks to dust his clothes pebbly gray. He rolled onto his side, hands buried between his legs. A pained moan was his answer. Indigo had no remorse. Her lips curled in disgust. A tch huffed from her chest, and the Italian turned around, making a reach for the door.

Only, she fell short in her stride. Carletta leaned against the doorframe with the door propped at her pointed foot. Her own scrunch of disgust peered beyond Indigo, phone in hand, recording.

Indigo raised a questionable brow. Carletta didn't acknowledge it when replying, "Evidence."

Mick heaved out wheezed air. His twisting grimace dropped into the face of the pavement where strained creases collected pebbled dust. "Fuck," he rasped out, the pain wearing down his usual baritone. "When the fuck did you get so violent?"

Carl scoffed like it was obvious. "When you decided to fuck with her, chump change."

Indigo smirked as her migliore amica kicked the door wider for her. An emphasis of 'let's go'. Once inside the vintage atmosphere, a click signified the door lock. Carletta pulled the blinds down—its unfolding racket an echo—blocking out the male left huddled on the floor.

"Who the fuck was that loser?"

Indigo glanced over her shoulder, viewing the pathetic excuse of a man through the thin strips of wood. She shrugged. "My ex."

"Eww." Carl's expression visibly recoiled as she took another glance herself. "That pretty boy mother fucker's Cyrus?"

"No," Indigo huffed, falling back against the counter with braced hands. "I put a restraining order against Cyrus. And he has black hair, remember?"

Carletta crossed her arms, invalidating Indigo's argument. "There's a thing scientists invented, it's called bleach and contact lenses. Or did you forget how much of a creep he was?"

Indigo rolled her eyes yet said nothing because Carl was right. Cyrus was the type of man who clung to attention and wouldn't take no for an answer—no matter how polite or blunt the woman was.

After a meaningless one-night stand became a two-week fling, Indigo lost interest. The first night they met, she sensed something off about him. Her instincts warned of danger, yet that—initial—dangerous thrill only drew her in like a moth to a flame. And she hated it. She didn't know whether it was because of the hazardous environment she grew up in, or a coping mechanism after the cruelness of Mick's ways. Either way, it had her attracted to Cyrus.

Until he became overbearing; boldly claiming his right to her body, blowing up her phone with a possessiveness only teenagers would swoon at in books, and following her home and standing there for hours. She'd been trying to get rid of him for days. To his dismay, he kept coming back like a lost puppy despite how many polizia warnings he got.