Page 15 of Sinners Atone
I don’t have to wait long. The flame never kisses the tip of his cigarette. It doesn’t burn out, either. The monster kills it with a quick snap of his wrist, plunging him back into the dark.
I blink at the night, straining my ears to find something, anything to latch onto in the silence.
Nothing.
A beat passes as I shift from one sticky boot to the other. He’s still watching me; I canfeel it.Seconds stretch into minutes, and eventually, my heartbeat slows to its regular rhythm. My lungs expand, and when I release my next breath, a laugh tumbles out with it, nervous and light.
I’ve suddenly remembered why I’m not afraid of the dark.
It’s because I know those cautionary tales and horror movies are just fiction.
In real life, monsters don’t live in the dark; they live in the light.
They hold your hair back when you’re puking.
They bake cakes, make signs, volunteer in hospitals.
And sometimes, they even wear pink.
I stick my tongue out toward the black horizon, turn on my heel, and run back inside.
Low lighting, even lower ceilings, and air so damp it thickens the lining of your lungs.
The Catacomb Cave Bar in Devil’s Hollow is as creepy as its name suggests. Though, I’m proud to say it looks less macabre tonight because I arrived three hours early to give the space some much-needed razzle dazzle. Now, pink fairy lights soften the jagged cave walls, and clusters of rose gold balloons burst out of its darkest corners. I shoved anything ugly-but-movable into the back office, and anything ugly-but-nailed-down has been artfully concealed with table runners and glitter.
The elevator descends into the cave, and when the doors open, I’m pleased to see the night still has a pulse. I shimmy across the dance floor to the tune of a Spice Girls classic, air-kissing and giving apologetic one-armed hugs to all the girls I’ve yet to greet.
In the midst of showing Alessandra that the penis straw in her cocktail actually flashes if you squeeze its balls, a strong grip on my arm tugs me sideways.
“Where the fuck are your shoes?”
I don’t even need to turn around to know it’s Tayce. I can tell by her potty mouth and the scent of her expensive perfume. She’s glaring at my frilly socks, so I wiggle my toes for good measure. Being shoeless wasn’t on my agenda for the night, but I used up all my antibacterial wipes scrubbing at my boots and they still stink of tequila-laced vomit. I had no choice but to chuck them into the coatroom and pray they’re salvageable. They’re pink and sparkly, with a block heel that lets me walk all the way from Devil’s Cove to Devil’s Dip without so much as a blister, and saving for college on a minimum-wage bar job means I definitely can’t afford a new pair.
Holding onto Tayce’s shoulder, I tip up on my toes to yell in her ear. “Leah puked on them.”
Disco lights and disgust pass over her features. “The girl who works at the Devil’s Dip diner?”
“No, silly. That’s Libby. Leah’s the one who dated?—”
“I don’t care who Leah dated. I care that you’re prancing around barefoot in a nightclub. What if you step on a needle?”
Frowning, I scan the sea of giggling girls waving glow sticks and two-stepping. “I don’t think anyone here is the type to shoot up in the restroom?—”
“You have flip-flops in that big bag of yours, right? I’ll go and grab them.”
I tug her back by the wrist before she can head toward the elevator. “Yeah, but I gave my last pair to Rosalie. Her heels are two sizes too small. She said she got them on sale so…” I shrug. “Sacrifices had to be made.”
The music’s too loud to hear what curse word Tayce mutters, but her top teeth bite her bottom lip, so I can only assume it begins with a hardf.
“You’re too nice, Wren.”
Annoyance prickles at my cheeks. I love being called nice, just not by Tayce. She always says it with a side dish of disapproval and at the most inconvenient times. Like now, when the DJ has just started playing Gina G’s “Ooh Aah… Just a Little Bit.”
I stare wistfully at the Wren-shaped hole on the dance floor, then drag my gaze back to one of my two best friends.
We met three years ago, shortly after I started volunteering on the Devil’s Cove promenade. Well, three years and two months ago if you count all the weekends she spent glaring at me through the glass front of her tattoo parlor before we ever spoke. I’d gawped back awkwardly, partly because she was a new addition to the Coast, and partly because I couldn’t help it.
When she finally left her shop and crossed the road, it was with a bat. She swung it around the head of a drunk man trying to yank me into the taxi I’d hailed for him. As he withered on the ground under the sharp point of her stiletto, she asked me if I was a prostitute and if I knew there were safer ways to sell my body.
