Page 20 of Sinners Atone
A reassuring reply is on the tip of my tongue, but it wilts as quickly as it blooms.
Because there’s that feeling again. The rough, prickly sensation of being watched. It drags up my spine and grips a hold of my nape. Then it whispers a warning in my ear, and with a sharp tug on my chin, it pulls my attention to the far side of the club.
“Wren?”
Dan’s voice is a hollow echo behind me. I want to turn and grab onto it like a life raft, but I can’t. Everything is suddenly too heavy and too slow. My limbs, the music, the dancing. Even the strobe light is working in slow motion. It crawls up inked skin, over an angry scar, up to an unwavering stare.
Green.
Dan calls my name again, but he sounds even farther away this time. And he is, because now my bare shoulders are brushing past other shoulders as I move across the dance floor.
Inked skin, angry scar,green.
Inked skin, angry scar,green.
The light sweeps over this trifecta on a lethargic loop. I’ve seen it before, only illuminated by different lighting. Lit by the lone match in the parking lot earlier, but also?—
Hands meet my waist, green spins into sparkles and a slur of metallic pink. I’m facing the direction of the bar again, only this time, I’m not looking at Dan but Rafe.
He pins me with a look of mock disapproval, then brings his hand to his chest. “Are you trying to break my heart, Wren?”
I blink at him, disorientated. “Huh?”
“TheWren Harlow dancing alone to an ABBA song? I’ve never seen such a sorry sight.”
He tugs me into the thick of the dance floor. Blood rushes back to my brain, and the world picks up its regular place.
ABBA. Rafe Visconti. Right.
I breathe out a dry, shaky laugh, and force my body to move to the beat of “Waterloo.”
“Did you know ABBA won the Eurovision song contest with this song in 1974?” I yell in his ear, a little too loud, gripping his upper arm a little too tight. “It was originally titled ‘Honey Pie,’ but that just doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it?”
Rafe glances down at me in amusement before spinning me in a full circle.
Ink. Scar. Green.
My socks slide on the mirrored floor, and I crash into Rafe’s chest, but he’s quick to steady me. “Whoa, easy there.” His gaze darts south, and he frowns. “Where are your shoes?”
“Do you know that man?”
I didn’t mean to say that. I meant to say,Leah puked on themlike I’ve been saying all night. But the spin loosened my tongue, and the question flew off it, desperate and breathy.
Rafe looks over my shoulder and cocks a brow. “Who, Gabe?”
Gabe.
The synapses in my brain crackle and pop, bridging neurons and hammering disjointed puzzle pieces into place.
Gabriel, like the angel?
It can’t be.
“Wren—”
“Who is he?” I blurt out.
We’re no longer dancing. We’re standing still, staring at each other, him with an expression somewhere between concern and confusion, and me with a heavy chest and a throbbing pulse.
