The Devil's Little Angel
“Is a woman's dressing an automatic invitation? From what my men told me, you were the one who couldn't take no for an answer.”
“It doesn't a'ight. I'm sorry. I was drunk, Man.”
“You touched what doesn’t belong to you,” I said quietly, crouching in front of him. “My Wife. And you think being drunk is an excuse?”
“I didn’t know, I didn’t—”
“Okay,” I responded quietly, walking towards the table where different torture instruments were spread out.
“You for real? You gone let me go?”
I picked up a sledgehammer; his eyes widened to the size of saucers. I couldn't see my face, but I knew my smile was that of the devil's, because if it wasn't, I wouldn't be enjoying every second of this.
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