Page 25 of Sinners Atone
Time has a way of distorting memories, sure, but I’m certain of two things—those eyes would have never softened at my cheesy, badly timed jokes, and they belong to a man I should have never been on a dark road with.
I seek relief by turning my attention to his mouth. As I’m wondering what the hell will come out of mine, his lips move.
My gaze flicks back up. “What?”
Despite the heavy baseline and the blood roaring in my ears, I heard him. Each word was deep, slow, and unmistakable.
And his wavering stare tells me he meant every syllable.
It’s not often I’m lost for words, so my mouth opens on instinct, but I clamp it shut when he steps toward me.
Crap, he’s close. Fibers-of-his-shirt-grazing-my-chest kind of close. My bare skin tingles from the heat, and I swim in the hot, dizzy feeling it gives me.
He stoops to meet my ear. I hold my breath and palm the wall behind me, anticipating the scrunch of his beard against my cheek, but it never comes.
“If you stick your tongue out at me again, I’ll cut it out of your head.”
What?
Shock freezes me in place. I’d heard him the first time and, of course, thought he was joking. Not everyone was blessed with a good sense of humor. But there’s no lightness in his tone; it’s flatline, factual. He could be reciting Pi to the tenth decimal point.
As the strobe light touches our corner of the club again, I follow its path. It reveals his fist clenched tightly at his side, andthe letters on his knuckles dance with the movement. I track it up his neck and tilt my chin to meet his eyes. Maybe that’s where the humor lies. But he’s too close and so damn tall that all looking up does is brush my nose over his beard, bringing me the scent of charred firewood and well-worn leather.
The dizziness heightens.
Then as quickly as he closed the gap between us, he backs off. Fists still clenched, he steps to the side and glances tightly over his shoulder. It feels like a dismissal, and Christ, he doesn’t have to dismiss me twice.
Cheeks burning and legs shaking, I resist the urge to break into a run. Instead, I walk stiffly onto the dance floor, where it’s warm and bubbly and the sound of bad singing soothes me. Each sweaty shoulder that brushes against mine thaws me a little, and by the time I’ve reached the other side of the club, the shock has melted, giving way to something else: irritation.
Did he really justthreatenme? For something as innocent as sticking my tongue out at him?
Oh, I know his type. They’re a dime a dozen on the Devil’s Cove promenade: bouncers and security guards drunk on the dribble of power they possess. He guards the keys to the Visconti kingdom instead of the entrance to a nightclub, but the attitude is still the same.
Irritation fizzles into anger. He’s not the Boogeyman of Devil’s Coast, he’s the local bully.
And there’s only one way to deal with bullies.
When I reach the far side of the dance floor, I spin back around on my heel. I catch his eye just as the strobe light hits him and stick out my tongue again.
I’m tempted to stick my middle finger up too, but that’d be rude.
And Wren Harlow isneverrude.
Iwas right: Angelo Visconti can pick you up with one arm without grunting.
“Water,” I announce as he wraps an arm around my waist, hauls me to his side, and lifts me a few inches from the ground. I lean back against his forearm to stare up at him. Gotta make sure he’s listening. “Lots and lots of water. Do you have electrolyte packets? If not, salt will do.” I poke the top button of his shirt. “Just a pinch though, otherwise she might have a puffy face for tomorrow.”
He checks his watch. “That would be a travesty.”
“Oh, God. Don’t even put it out into the universe.” His shoulder connects with the nightclub door, and we spill out into the icy night. I pull my knees up to avoid my socks touching the veranda’s wet concrete. “She has silk pillows, right? Make sure she piles her hair up into a loose ponytail—emphasis onloose—and that she sleeps on her back.”
Glancing to where Rory is sliding into his car, Angelo dips his free hand into the pocket of his pants and pulls out his cell. Then he lazily checks his messages before putting it away again. “Silk ponytail. Got it.”
My frosted sigh grazes his cheekbone. He’s not paying attention. “You know what, maybe I should just stay over tonight. Rory’s lax with her skincare routine at the best of times, let alone when she’s?—”
“Wren.” Angelo comes to a stop under the heat lamp, his eyes humming with quiet amusement. “You’re welcome at our house anytime. Anytime, but not tonight.”
There’s a stiff second before the penny drops. When it does, the shells of my ears grow hot. “Oh,” I mumble, fiddling with the shoulder strap of my SOS bag. “Yes, of course. Well, um, just make sure she’s hydrated.”
