Page 84 of Sinners Atone
Instead of biting, I ignore them. I ignore the “out of use” sign Eddie slapped on the dishwasher too and load it up with beer glasses, then bump it shut with my hip.
Dammit. Speaking of signs. I forgot to check that these out-of-towners are adhering to the rules of my own.
Chest tightening, I glance up at my “No More Than Two Drinks If You’re Driving” sign above the bar to make sure it’s stillthere, then spin around and frantically count the empty glasses scattered around on tables.
Okay, so the guy fiddling with a cigar has barely made a dent in his first beer, probably because it tastes like dishwater. The one who snapped at me is only halfway through his fancy cocktail—probably because I made it wrong—and David and the two others are all just starting their second drinks.
Phew.
I grab my notepad and pen and head outside.
It’s the kind of blistery December night that makes you want to cancel all plans. The rain has slowed but the wind hasn’t, and the moment the door swings shut behind me, it whips at my ponytail and scorches my ears. I curse myself for not tugging on my coat.
Hugging my notepad to my chest for warmth, my gaze slides over to the gravel where the harsh glow of the neon sign bleeds into black. The parking lot isn’t usually this dark, but last week, all the streetlamps shattered. Eddie said it must have been from the explosion, but I think it’s more likely to have something to do with his rant about rising electricity prices and the sledgehammer I saw in the back office.
I step into the abyss. When the ground transitions from slippery cement to rough gravel under my heels, I know I’ve reached the start of the parking lot, so I use the flashlight on my cell to see. The light washes over shiny cars with fancy logos and leather seats, and I quickly scribble down the license plates. Having worked here for nearly a year, I’ve come to be real good at guessing what vehicle belongs to which out-of-towner. The Bentley has cigar man all over it, and the Aperol Spritz dude definitely has the gumption to park his four-wheeler across two disabled bays. When I write down the plate for the Toyota, a sad smile tugs at my lips. I just know it belongs to Kind Eyes, whichis nice, because this model was voted the safest in the US last year.
Such a green flag.
And such a shame his name is David.
I’m crossing over to the sleek sedan parked in the farthest corner of the lot when my torch cuts out.
I frown. Tap my cell screen.
Nothing.
What the hell? The battery can’t be dead, I’ve had it on charge behind the bar for the last thirty minutes. But now that I think about it, the plug sockets probably use too much electricity for Eddie’s liking too.
The night swallows my sigh. As it snatches the tendrils of my icy breath too, my shoulders stiffen. I scan the horizon and strain my eyes, waiting with bated breath for the prickle of awareness or the glimpse of a shadow shifting within a shadow. Even the mere thought the Boogeyman is out therewatching me,makes my pulse throb and my breasts ache.
Christ. I’ve never been afraid of the dark, but now I’m afraid I’m looking forward to encountering the monster that lurks within it.
Disappointment and self-loathing hang bitter in my chest. I finish scribbling down license plates with a tremble in my hand and head back to the bar.
As I step onto the patio, the door opens and Kind Eyes appears. He doesn’t fill the doorframe like Gabriel does. Doesn’t fill me with the sameheateither.
He feels safe.
He makes me feel nothing at all.
Which is why I bite down on my pen, rip the cap off, and grab his hand. “You’re going to take me on a date,” I say, writing my cell number on his skin. “Somewhere romantic. Got it?”
When I look up at him, an amused smirk plays on his lips. “Yes ma’am.” He admires the number on the back of his hand as I brush past him and stomp back inside.
The dark follows me in too.
I fear all the frogs in the damn world couldn’t drag it away from me.
I slidea fresh beer over the bar. “So, what’s it like working for Rafe?”
Penny scrunches up her nose. “It’s like stepping on Legos repeatedly for eight hours a day, then having to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn to do it all again.”
I bite back a smile. The flush creeping up her neck at the mere mention of his name tells a different story.
I’m not being dramatic when I say Penelope Price is the coolest girl I’ve ever met.
She’s wedged between Rory and Tayce, flipping through the deck of cards with one hand and twirling her beer bottle with the other. She’s moved on from bad-mouthing her new boss to showing Rory how she can beat him at Visconti Blackjack, and though I’m too stupid to know what card counting means, I can’t help but hang onto every word that slides out of her mouth.
