Page 53 of Sinners Atone
I’m stooped to check if there’s any ID in an abandoned Gucci purse when a prickle of awareness skates over my shoulders.
I glance up. Farther down the road, there’s a blond-haired man with an unsteady gait making his way toward me.
“Are you okay?” I shout. “Do you need help?”
His laugh rolls down the promenade, booming and slightly unsettling. “Hey, you’re the girl who works at the dive bar!”
As he passes under the light of a streetlamp, I study his brown eyes, slender frame, and button-down shirt, waiting for a spark of recognition, but I draw a blank. He’s not a local, and out-of-towners in The Rusty Anchor are so few and far between that they always stick in my mind.
I’ve never seen this man in my life.
But then he trips over a fast-food carton, and my unease turns into concern. “You didn’t drive here, did you?”
He laughs again. “Of course not. But, uh, I do need some help.”
The knots in my shoulders loosen. “Sure, that’s what I’m here for,” I say brightly. “Have you lost your friends?”
“Yes, and for the life of me, I can’t remember where we’re staying. All these hotels”—he staggers backward as he sweeps an arm over the horizon—“they all look the fucking same.”
“Do you have a room card?”
He pats his pockets and sighs. “Lost it.”
“Bummer. Can you call a friend?”
“Phone’s dead.”
I tut. “You should never go on a night out without full charge. But not to worry, you can use mine.”
His gaze burns down on me as I rifle through my bag for my cell. I tap the screen, and nothing happens. Frowning, I hold down the on button, only for an empty battery sign to appear on the screen.
“Lllooks like you ssshould take your own advice.”
Dammit.
When I look up, he’s a step closer. Too close. Drunk people rarely have any sense of spatial awareness, but there’s something about his hot breath grazing my cheek and the way he towers over me that drags a thread of discomfort down my spine.
I glance over at Tayce’s shop on instinct, suddenly feeling the void of her constant glare through the window, then I shake off the discomfort, paint on a smile, and step back.
“There’s a telephone booth down the road, you can call from that.”
Our lonely footsteps echo along the empty street, our shadows distorting as we pass under pulsating lights. When wereach the phone booth, I tug open the door and step aside to let him in.
Instead, he leans against the frame and studies me for a moment too long. There’s something off about his gaze—it’s dark and murky, darting around too fast for comfort.
“I’m so drunk I can barely see straight,” he whispers. “Could you dial the number for me?”
My gaze drifts into the phone booth, to the naked bulb swaying from the roof and all the corners its light doesn’t touch. A shiver vibrates down my spine.
Suddenly, Gabriel’s haunting words graze my ear like a whisper in an empty room. “If it happens in the dark, it didn’t happen.”
It’s sat like an itch beneath my skin all week. I can’t stop scratching it, wondering why it’s there, and why it won’t go away.
Sensing my hesitation, he lays a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Please? You’ll be so much quicker than me. I’m so drunk I’m seeing double.”
Well, he’s right about me being quicker. I’m cold, tired, and hungry, and the sooner I can get home, the better.
The small voice at the base of my skull whispers a warning, but the call of my bed is louder, so reluctantly, I step inside.
