Page 81 of Sinners Atone
The roar of the storm whipping through the mountain ridges. The occasionalclunkof balls dropping into pockets. The soft melody drifting out from under Luan’s fingertips and down the hall. The chalet’s soundtrack usually has a way of dulling the constant ache between my ribs, but not tonight. Tonight, I’m toodistracted by the words brewing at the base of my throat and the fight to stop them spilling out into the room.
I let out a hot breath through my nostrils, rest my elbows on my knees, and glare down at the carpet; I can’t fucking look at Denis while he leans on his pool cue and studies me.
“This isn’t about Rafe’s men, is it?”
I give a tight shake of my head.
He sighs. “Her.”
He knows better than to say her name.
A ball rolls into a pocket; I feel the thud in the pit of my stomach. Silence follows, all the heat trapped in Denis’s glare.
“It’d take me five minutes to find?—”
“No.”
No.
Three years.
I’ve lasted three fucking years.
She’s perfect, in her little box. My little angel with wings fromAmazon.With a touch too warm for my skin; with a name too sweet to ever pass my lips. I want to keep her there forever. A reminder of all the good in the world, of everything I’ve never had or deserved.
I swore I wouldn’t dig, though now I’ve seen her fucking body, it’s getting harder to resist finding out what she’s hiding beneath it. And maybe if I found out she isn’t soperfectafter all, I could set her free.
But that’s the problem. The Devil himself couldn’t claw Her from me.
I grit my teeth and drag my gaze up to meet Denis’s.
“Fine,” he mutters, his shoulders sagging. He cracks his neck, runs a hand over his short braids and tightens his grip on the snooker cue. “Buckle up; this is going to hurt.”
Good.
I close my eyes and brace for the blow.
Welcome to The Rusty Anchor, where the fire roars, the roof leaks, and the bar gives you a splinter every time you slide your money across it.
Uncle Finn hates that I work here. He says the place should have been shut down years ago, because there’s no way it turns a profit selling chicken wings and cheap beer to the same twenty port workers. He also says not to get himstartedon the health and safety issues that come with welding two decaying shipping containers together, balancing them on the side of a cliff, and filling them with fat drunk men.
It turns out, The Rusty Anchor is some sort of architectural miracle; it survived the port explosion with little more than a few busted windows. With my boss, Eddie, not being one for sensitivity or tact, it was business as usual a mere few days after it happened.
Only, it isn’t business as usual at all. People are dead, everyone else is laid off. A handful of locals have turned up,probably with nowhere else to go, and are drowning their sorrows in the bar’s darkest corners. It’d be an unbearably slow shift tonight if it weren’t for Tayce and Rory propping up the end of the bar, and the gaggle of out-of-towners who stormed through the front door ten minutes after opening.
Businessmen and rich tourists heading for the bright lights of Devil’s Cove end up in the drowsy town of Devil’s Dip all the time, especially during the festive period. The signs on the highway are confusing, and if you take an exit too early, the next sign you’ll see is the flickering neon one slapped on the side of this bar.
They usually just duck in and ask for directions, all while keeping one eye on their belongings and the other on the suspicious stain on the rug. Not these guys, though. They strolled in, shook the rain off their suits, and didn’t stop for a second to read the somber mood in the room.
As soon as one of them snapped their fingers in my direction and ordered a cocktail I had to Google, I knew I’d be running off my feet tonight, especially since I’m flying solo. Dan called in sick, and though I feel sick for a different reason, one with rough hands and inked skin, I don’t have the luxury to do that. I need the money too bad.
Sweeping Tayce’s beer bottle off the bar and replacing it with a fresh one, I turn my attention back to Rory. She’s holding a fan of playing cards, and the frown denting her brow tells me she’s not happy with her suit.
“Okay, but like, what does he actuallydo?”
Tayce tosses down the Four of Clubs, and Rory bites out a bird pun. “He’s head of security,” she snaps, taking her irritation out on me. “He makes sure my husband doesn’t get murdered.”
“Buthow?”
