Page 19 of Sinners Atone
“Shit.” She glances at the elevator doors closing on Rafe and snatches her purse up off the table. “Cover for me.”
“Huh?”
“Just while I call him and tell him not to come.”
A second passes before the realization hits me. “You hired astripping cop? After you promised me that?—”
“Jeez, Wren, could you squeak any louder?” she hisses, stealing a shifty look at Angelo. “Of course I didn’t hire a stripping cop.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“He’s a firefighter.” She turns on her heel. “Be right back.”
As she fights her way through the sea of dancers, irritation washes over me. I love her, dammit, but I sure wish I’d followed through with my earlier intrusive thought of pulling her hair.
Sighing, I turn my attention back to the table and busy myself with tidying. I dab at spilled liquor and smooth out a crease in the tablecloth. As I sweep Rory’s sandwich crumbs onto her discarded plate, I remember Tayce never grabbed her that water.
I glance up from rearranging the cupcakes to make sure she’s still standing. Though, it’s never a good sign when she’s not actually standing where I left her. Squinting into the flashing lights, I scan for blonde curls and sequins, and eventually, find her in a dark, quiet corner, trapped between a jagged wall and Angelo’s broad silhouette.
My gaze lingers.
Then it sticks.
Her hand squeezes the nape of his neck. His grips the curve of her hip. A fistful of fabric, an arched back, parted lips brushing over a flushed cheek. They flash like stills from a movie under the pulsating light, everyclickburning a bigger hole in my chest.
This is true love, and Christ, how I crave it.
Dangerously so.
A shock of guilt and something darker zigzags through my insides. I catch myself and snatch up my thoughts before they can run away from me. Before they can bolt out of the club, get behind the wheel of a beat-up Chevy, and peel east down the highway.
If my future is a hand, my past is a vise, and it’s starting to squeeze my lungs. I scan my surroundings for a distraction. Tayce is nowhere to be seen—she’s probably still arguing with the stripper over a last-minute cancellation fee—and even though the DJ is playing the best songs to have ever graced thecharts, hardly anyone on the dance floor is dancing, thanks to the magnetic pull of the Visconti in the corner.
I settle for collecting as many empty glasses as I can carry. When I squeeze through the crowd and dump them on the bar, Dan glances up from behind it and rolls his eyes.
“Can you stop doing that already? It’s your day off.”
“Someone’s got to do it.” I smile at him pointedly and dodge the wrath of his dish cloth as he pretends to whip it at me.
“Where are your shoes?”
“Leah puked on them.”
“Figures. Wanna borrow mine?”
I lean over the bar to get a look at his shoes. He’s swapped out his Nikes for smart black loafers tonight—not that I’d be caught dead wearing either, even if they were my size.
“Mm. Don’t think they’ll match my dress, but thanks for the offer, honey.”
He laughs and twists the cap off a water bottle. “Here, your friend needs this.” He nods to the shadowy corner where Rory and Angelo are making out. “She bumped into a bar stool earlier and accused it of trying to start a fight.”
It’s my turn to laugh. Dan usually works Friday and Saturday nights with me at The Rusty Anchor, and it’s safe to say Rory’s drunken antics are far tamer than what we’re used to. He’s the perfect shift buddy: he doesn’t complain when I prop my iPad against the tip jar and watch nineties rom-coms, and he’ll always unpack the deliveries off the truck so I don’t break a nail.
I prop an elbow on the bar and twist to follow Dan’s amused gaze. “Can we take the white wine out of her white wine spritzers?”
Rory backs up my suggestion by wobbling sideways and knocking into a high-top table nearby. Angelo steadies her with one hand and catches a toppling champagne bottle with the other.
“Yes, but if she notices, it was your idea, not mine. I’d rather not get on the bad side of a woman who fights furniture.”
