Page 11 of Sinners Atone
I’m being dramatic. Not to toot my own horn, but I probably have lots of notifications coming through after being underground in the Devil’s Hollow nightclub for hours with no cell service. Messages from all the group chats I’m in, likes and comments on my latest Instagram post, and probably a text or two from Uncle Finn asking how the night’s going.
Even if the buzz was an email, maybe it’s notthatemail. A bad habit of online shopping and an even worse habit of ticking random boxes at the checkout page means I’m subscribed to a million newsletters, and God knows how many back-in-stock notifications I’ve signed up for.
It could be anything. It could also not even be midnight. But my phone feels like a rock in my pocket, and I can’t bring myself to pull it out and check. Instead, I ball my hands into fists and slide my gaze to the starless sky.
“What time is it, Leah?”
The question leaves my lips in a frosted whisper. When the silence stretches over seconds, I wonder if she heard me, or if she’s even out here at all. Then wobbly footsteps strike concrete, and a shadow travels along the walkway to merge with mine.
“Just past ten. Why?”
Ten. It’s only ten o’clock.
And just like that, I’m one sentence, five words, and thirty-five characters, including spaces, lighter. The high hits me so hard I don’t care if the relief is only guaranteed for the next two hours.
I do care when Leah takes two steps toward me, because I’m not quick enough to take two steps back before she doubles over and vomits on my boots.
“Ew!”
All thoughts of midnight emails and unfinished sentences leave my head as I jump out of the splash zone and into action. I’d grabbed my SOS bag from the coatroom when I followed Leah out of the club. Even though she said she only needed some fresh air, I’d watched her sink three tequila shots in as many minutes, and I’ve spent enough time holding back hair and wiping away tears outside of nightclubs to know there’s not a girl on this coastline who can do that without consequence.
Leah hurls again. Thankfully, nowhere near my sparkly pink boots this time. I pull out two types of wipes—antibacterial for my heels and cosmetic for Leah’s smudged lipstick—and a hair tie.
“Don’t worry, it’s one of those spiral ones that doesn’t leave a crease in your hair,” I reassure her, pulling her long brown locks into a loose bun. She’s about to say something, maybethank you, but more vomit comes out instead.
“You’re welcome,” I chirp anyway, scrubbing away at my boots as she decorates the deck.
Leah’s not the first person to vomit on me, and she won’t be the last. And I guess I deserve it, because although I work at The Rusty Anchor in Devil’s Dip, where power washing regurgitated beer off the back patio every payday is practically a job requirement, I also volunteer in a lot of places people puke in. Nobody pays me to stand on the Devil’s Cove promenade every Saturday night, looking out for worse-for-wear partygoers who need help getting home. Nor for my shifts at the Devil’s Hollow hospital, where puke is the bodily fluid I have to worry least about.
Tonight is a rare night when I’m not working or volunteering. This is Rory’s bachelorette party, and as her self-appointed party planner, I’ll be damned if I spend all night out here.
Time to call Leah a taxi and get back to the party. I toss the wipes in a nearby garbage can and tug out my cell, which is easynow that I know there’s no dreaded email waiting for me—yet. I call Coastal Cabs with one hand and rub Leah’s back with the other.
Comforting clichés come as easy as always, and I murmur the ones everyone wants to hear when they’re bent over outside a super-fancy nightclub spewing their guts up.We’ve all been sick at some point. Honestly, no one even saw you leave.
I want to add that she should have lined her stomach with the sandwiches I laid out instead of sneering at them, but I keep my thoughts to myself. No one likes a Judgmental Judy.
Before I can tell Leah that a taxi is on its way, the nightclub door groans open and slams shut, trapping the sound of 2000s pop classics and drunken laughter between its hinges.
I glance up and meet the steely eyes of a bouncer I don’t recognize. He glares at Leah, at the deck, then at me.
I beam up at him. “Such a chilly night, isn’t it? I hope you’ve got some thick thermals on under that jacket.” Frost crackles under my boot as I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Do you think we’ll get a White Christmas this year?” Leah’s spine arches under my palm as she retches like a cat. My smile widens as I pretend not to notice. “I suppose it’s too early to tell.”
I don’t catch what he mutters under his breath as he stomps back inside, but his tone is mean, and because I have skin as thick as one-ply toilet paper, it stings.
“Rude,” I huff out, my face burning under the heat lamp. Rudeandweird. There’s not a single bouncer on this coastline who isn’t happy to see me.
He must be new.
“Is he going to kick me out?” Leah gargles, slumping back against the wall.
I tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Of course not, honey.”
It isn’t a lie, not really. No matter how grumpy the bouncer is, he’ll have to grin and bear all the perils of a bachelorette party tonight because the bride is marrying into the Visconti family.
I was eleven when Uncle Finn moved us west out of Seattle to the Devil’s Coast. The first thing I learned was that he’d picked the worst out of its three towns to live in. The second thing I learned was the name Visconti. They seem to own everything around here. This club, plus all the other clubs, and the bars, the restaurants, the hotels. Leah could punch the bouncer’s mother and he’d likely still let her back into the party.
I, on the other hand, am kicking Leah out. I didn’t get up at 6:00 a.m. to bake a hundred cupcakes and blow up double that amount of balloons for Leah to puke all over my hard work.
