Page 106 of Sinners Atone
Three years. Every day, for three years.
And for the first time in those three years, the panic brings relief.
Stairs, more stairs, two left turns and a door. The sign says “Staff Only,” but the glowing green one above it says “Exit,” so I push through it anyway and find myself outside.
Rain falls in a barely-there mist. Icy air slithers down the front of my dress and wraps around my ribs like a lover with cold hands. When I steady myself against the wall, something digs into my lower back.
I fumble behind me and push a button for a heat lamp.
A red glow floods over my shoulders and heat slowly follows. As the timertick, tick, ticksquietly above me, my eyes adjust in the weak light.
I’m in some sort of courtyard, little more than a pocket of air trapped between four rock walls. They jut out just above my head to form a shelter, then climb all the way up to the sky and frame a shaving of the moon. Soggy cigarette butts litter theconcrete; a rusty lawn chair darkens a corner, and beside it, half a plastic cup of beer.
Guess I’m having a meltdown in the staff smoking area.
A sob escapes me, chased by a strangled gulp to fill my lungs back up. The lump in my throat feels different tonight. It tastes like despair, and for the first night in three years, there’s no fire behind it.
I’ve never been a quitter, but everyone knows that doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome is a sign of madness. There’s only so many nights I can shiver on a street corner, only so many shifts I can pick up at the hospital, only so many rompers I can knit.
That one sentence, five words, and thirty-five characters has ground me down to my bones.
Being good is tiring, and when it’s not in your nature, it’s goddamnexhausting.
A sudden burst of light to my left makes me flinch. A red glow spills out from beneath a leather boot like a bloodstain. My gaze crawls up to find another boot resting against the wall, then inches over black clothes, black ink, and a black heart, until it sparks on green.
I freeze.
Gabriel’s stare reaches out from beneath his heat lamp, cuts through the mist, and lazily probes mine. Then it falls to my lips, runs down the curve of my throat and across my thighs. By the time it touches my heels, my skin’s raw.
I let out a breath coiled in a shiver. How long has he been standing there, in the dark, watching me? It feels invasive, like I’ve just caught him lurking in my closet while I change. But my embarrassment barely has time to rise before a dangerous thought drags it down deep.
Here I am, again. Alone in the dark, with the Boogeyman.
I can do nothing but stare as he tugs a crumpled cigarette from behind his ear and tucks it into his mouth. He strikes a match against the wall, lights it, and blows out a red-tinted tendril of smoke.
His gaze shifts to the sky, voice worn smooth with disinterest. “You cry often?”
I can’t find the strength to lie. “Every night,” I mutter, dragging a tear around my cheek. Can’t find the strength to care about my makeup, either.
His jaw tightens, like my self-pity offends him. Another drag on his cigarette, then he disappears behind a cloud of smoke. When it dissipates, he’s looking right at me.
“You know the bakery on Dip’s main street?”
I nod.
“Money laundering front.”
I’ve never really been sure what ‘money laundering’ means, only that the bad guys do it in movies. Still, I let out a little puff of shock, because it feels like the right response. And I’m glad I do because I like the way his eyes brush over my lips again, and how amusement twitches his own.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” He scratches his beard before adding, “And their ‘homemade’ carrot cake is from Costco.”
This time, my shock is genuine. My mouth falls open, and a laugh of disbelief slips out of it. “Okay, now you’re definitely kidding. They charge like five dollars a slice. Goodness, someone should report them.”
He cocks a brow. “To who?”
“The police, obviously.”
