Page 70 of Sinners Atone
“And if that doesn’t work?”
He shrugs. “Then you’re fucked.”
“Great,” I mutter, unzipping my jacket to let some air circulate around me. “I’m going to be sick.”
“Not in my car, you won’t.”
Yeah, well, he’d deserve it. Though I’m not stupid enough to say that while I’m still cross-legged in his trunk, an arm’s reach away from being trapped within it again.
Instead, when he rises and steps aside, I clamber awkwardly out of the vehicle. My boots touch solid grass, and the impact rolls a thrill through me. It’s the adrenaline-fueled type you get after staring your fears in the face and realizing they’ve blinked first.
I look up at the dark house and exhale into the night. I’d almost forgotten about the power outage. I almost forget Gabriel’s behind me too until he slams the trunk shut and his voice touches my nape with a rough edge.
“Why don’t you drive?”
My lids flutter shut. His question’s a hard puff of air to my high.
I curl my hands into my fists at my sides and stare up at my bedroom window. “Never learned.”
I’m not a liar, I’m a pretender. There’s a difference. His frigid silence drifts up my back, and the heat of his gaze chases after it. Swallowing, I turn around to gauge how believable I sounded.
He’s leaning against the trunk, one foot crossed over the other. His expression is invasive and gives nothing away. I turn around and lean against the car too, because standing beside him suddenly feels less scary than being in his line of sight.
I was wrong. Because at least I couldn’t feel his heat crackling down the right side of my body when I was in front of him. Couldn’t feel his arm brush over mine as he slides a cigarette between his lips.
He strikes a match. The sharphisssizzles through my blood, and I strain my eyes sideways to stare at him as he shields the flame from the wind with a cupped hand.
He blows a tendril of smoke into the night.
Then he extends the cigarette pack to me.
I glance down at it, then up to him. He’s still staring straight ahead. I’ve never smoked a day in my life, though for a second, I’m half tempted. Partly because it’d give me something to do instead of fidget, and partly because there’s something dangerously thrilling about sharing a smoke with the Boogeyman.
I shake my head.
“You don’t drink, you don’t smoke,” he murmurs, snuffing out the match with a snap of his wrist. “What does the Good Samaritan do for fun?”
It’s too dark to tell if he’s genuinely curious or if he’s trying to belittle me. When I don’t answer, a small noise of amusement follows his next exhale and confirms the latter. I watch it dissipate into the dark, my shoulders hitching in defense.
Raking my fingers through my ponytail, I force myself to look up at him.
“They call you the Boogeyman, you know?”
“Good.”
“But you don’t scare me.”
It’s the blackest of lies told in the most transparent of tones. If he took a half step to the left, my stomach would lurch into my throat.
He studies the stars through another puff of smoke, the corners of his lips lifting. “And yet, you haven’t stuck your tongue out at me since.”
“And yet, here I am, standing in the dark alone with you again.”
At the wordagain, he stills, the cigarette an inch from his mouth. I realize, with a pounding pulse, that I’ve reached out and touched the taboo. Alluded to the night we’ve barely spoken of. But now that it’s out there, I want to squeeze it, rip it open, and lay its entrails on the grass before us.
Perhaps I’m still riding the high of escaping his trunk, so I press on.
“You never told anyone about that night.”
