Page 54 of Sinners Atone
As soon as I cross the threshold, the hairs on the back of my neck rise. The air is thick with regret and the stench of urine, and when I grab the phone receiver, it’s ice cold to the touch. With a trembling hand, I dig around in my pocket for some quarters, then drop them in the slot with a hollowclick.
“W-what’s the number?”
The dullthudof the door closing reverberates through my bones, and the sudden warmth brushes my back.
Deep down, I knew it was coming, yet I still stepped inside.
Christ, Wren. Why did you step inside?
Movements heavy with dread, I grip the receiver tighter and turn around to face the man caging me in.
Hindsight is everything; mine tuts in my ears and calls me an idiot. The bulb overhead casts him in a new light, illuminating all the things I should have noticed before: the steady gaze, the bad acting. The lack of liquor on his breath.
Swallowing a lump of panic, I slide my gaze up to his.
“What’s the number?” I repeat as steadily as my nerves allow.
A cruel smirk twists his thin lips. He reaches up, and I flinch as his palm grazes my bauble earrings, and settles, damp and hot, on my jaw.
There’s not enough space to twist out of his reach. Or enough oxygen in here to scream, and even if there was, it’s not like anyone would hear me.
My stomach twists when his fingers slide south, down the curve of my neck to my thumping heart, carving a slimy path to the cup of my bra.
“Please don’t,” I whimper.
It’s not my pathetic plea that stops the roaming hand but a sudden flurry of wind. It ruffles my hair and jangles my earrings, bringing icy air and an inked fist, which wraps around the man’s throat and yanks him backward out of the phone booth.
My gaze darts from where he falls, to the large boot stopping the door from closing again.
I don’t need to look up to know who it belongs to.
In what sick world do I live in, where I’m relieved to see the man who threatened to cut out my tongue?
It’s a fleeting feeling, replaced with a dizzying foreboding as my gaze drifts up from his boots, over black-clad muscle, and locks with his.
Rage simmers out of him like a slow-burning fire. He’s scarily still, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s a figment of my imagination, some kind of anti-angel my brain has summoned under duress. Then his eyes spark with a look of disgust marred with annoyance, and the low tremor of his voice filling the booth feels very, very real.
“Close your eyes and count to ten.”
Gabriel slams the door shut, trapping me in with the ghost of his growl.
Growing numb, I try to do what he tells me, but I don’t make it past the count of five. There’s a sickeningcrackand a screamso guttural it can only be wrenched from the deepest part of one’s soul, and it makes my heart lurch skyward.
Oh my God. He’s going to kill him.
I haven’t witnessed a murder in a long time, but muscle memory and self-preservation are a powerful combination. They want to drag me down to the floor and under the kitchen table. To pull my knees up to my chest and take my brain away to my happy place. It’s a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence and a manicured lawn. Where Sundays are for board games and no one goes to bed angry, and no matter how many times the radio plays Mom and Dad’s wedding song, they always stop what they’re doing, push the living room furniture to the walls, and dance.
But I can’t just curl up on the floor. Not just because I’m not a child anymore, but also because I’m pretty sure someone peed in here, and I’m not ruining yetanotherdress.
Another scream launches me into action, and I spin around, desperately searching for anything in the booth that can help. A number to call.
I scan the business cards tacked above the phone. Under the dim glow, I look at ads for escorts, an emergency locksmith, and a local fortune teller. All useless. Then a slither of gold glints under the dim light, and I snatch the black card from the wall.
The Sinners Anonymous hotline.
Wait—what the hell am I doing? Why aren’t I calling the police?
As I grapple for the phone receiver and hover a finger over the number nine, a gust of wind blows through the booth.
