Page 109 of Sinners Atone
I grow cold. Then clammy.
No. Surely not.
Gabriel’s resting easy against the bar. Black jeans, black T-shirt covering the black hole where his heart should sit. He’s got one boot casually hooked around the other, but when his gaze locks onto mine and sparkshot, I realize there’s nothing casual about him at all.
A fever drifts through me.
This can’t be happening. He can’t bereal.
“Um.” This woman must think that’s the only word I know. “Excuse me for a moment. I’ve just got to…”
Never mind, there’s no time for pleasantries.
Gabriel lazily tracks my approach, his gaze peeling off silk and skin. I weave through tables, narrowly dodging a passing server. I’m barely looking where I’m going—too focused on getting to the bar and getting himoutof it.
He turns around and rests his elbows on the bar as I slide up beside him, as though he weren’t watching me at all.
Holding my glare in the reflection of the mirrored wall, he rakes his teeth over his bottom lip. “Do you know why so many joints have mirrors behind the bars?”
What? “What are you doing here?”
He slowly raises his whiskey glass and takes a sip. “Go on, guess.”
Panic laced with irritation fissures through my blood. Knowing he won’t answer my question until I answer his, I bite back, “I don’tknow.So the barmaid can touch up her makeup probably.”
He releases a dry breath of amusement. “No. It’s a tradition that dates back to the Old West. Saloons would put them up so punters drinking at the bar could see if anyone was approaching them from behind.”
Distracted, I throw a cautionary glance over my shoulder at the door. “Cool. Awesome fact. Can you leave, please?”
I’m practically begging, but he continues as though he hasn’t heard me.
“Because if anyone were to approach them from behind, it’d usually mean they’re about to catch a bullet to the back of the head.”
My stomach turns to lead. His tone is sunny-day calm, but when he lifts his chin to look at me in the reflection again, the overhead light catches the slither of dark amusement in his eye.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. My throat dries out, and now I can’t talk either.
Swirling the liquor in his glass, he turns to face me, the movement slow and deliberate. His gaze is objective, yet it feels like a rough scrape as he takes in my outfit.
“Why do you always wear pink?”
I stare at him.
Oh, my God.
He’s here because I’m here.
Guess I’ll see you there. It wasn’t an empty threat, it was a promise.
Oh, Jesus. I’d clawed the jealousy out of his black soul to feed my own ego. I was out of my mind last night, tossing my remarks into the dark like matches, thinking they’d never land near the light.
But they did. He caught one.
Now he’s going to teach me a lesson by setting my evening on fire.
I swallow the dread and try to gulp in a full breath. Gritting my teeth, I fold my hands together and force myself to smile.
“It hides the bloodstains,” I say weakly, mocking his answer to me when I asked why he always wears black.
