Page 69 of Sinners Atone
A dry amusement sweeps over his gaze. “You trying to convince me or deter me?”
Before I can answer, he walks around to the driver’s door and dips his head to talk to someone through the window. My ears prick up; obviously, he must have ridden here on his bike, but I hadn’t given thought to the fact someone else must have driven the car. Even when I strain my eyes, I can’t see who it is.
He comes back just seconds later, holding a set of keys. “Here,” he says, tossing them at me. “Hold onto them.”
I look down at the silver in my palm. Not entirely convinced it isn’t a trick, I click the fob and the rear lights flash twice.
“Happy?”
“No.” I zip the keys into my coat pocket anyway.
“Good. If you’re being kidnapped, you’re not meant to be happy.” He raps the trunk lid with his fist. “Now, hurry up. I’ve got puppies to slaughter.”
Sighing, I take a step toward him, and despite every fiber of my being screaming in protest, I clamber inside.
“Lay down.”
I’d rather cut my own bangs than lie down in this trunk, but alas, I’ve already walked through the gates of hell, I might as well make myself comfy.
Shifting sideways, I bend my knees and lower onto the bed, then drop my head with a self-soothing puff. I feel sick, and the musty carpet smell entwined with the faint kick of fuel isn’t helping.
The car groans under Gabriel’s weight as he drops to his haunches and sits on the rear bumper.
“Good girl.”
What?
I thrive off being called good,but the words are unexpected coming from Gabriel Visconti; my body’s reaction even more so. My breath shallows, and the lightest lick of heat sizzles in my core. I’ve always been a people-pleaser, though his praise feels more pleasing than it should.
“I’m going to shut the lid now, okay?”
If I weren’t so distracted by his approval tap dancing on my skin, perhaps I’d have protested, but he’s reshuffled my priorities, so all I can do is nod.
The night’s sky slides behind a veil of black, and the darkness becomes even darker.
An ominousclicksteals the breath straight from my lungs. Terror lights like a match in my stomach, my nervous system the wick. It tears through my veins, the fire burning me from the inside out.
Gasping, I slam my palms against the lid on instinct, driving my knees upward and bucking my hips.
“I don’t like it, let me out!”
“You’re going to let yourself out,” he states. “Most cars have a safety release latch. Take your right hand and feel along the lining.”
In a blind panic, I do as he tells me, skimming my fingertips along the edge of the cage. “There isn’t one!”
“In the middle of the front wall.”
My hand snags on something plastic and protruding. I pull it, and now theclickis one of dizzying relief.
I kick upward with all my strength until the gap between the lid and the bumper widens. Cold air whooshes in, and I inhale it in large, desperate gulps.
“Oh my God, I’m dying.”
“You’re not.”
“I am. Can’t breathe.” I sit upright and glance up at him. He’s standing a foot away, arms crossed, observing me with a look of indifference.
When my breathing slows, he crouches down and lazily rests his arms on the bumper. “All new cars have release catches. If they don’t”—he reaches inside the trunk and pushes out the left rear light—“these pop out. Shove your hand through and wave like crazy.”
