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Swindling and hustling are one thing; arson and explosions are another ball game entirely. Christ, these sins are stacking up like charms on a necklace, and I don’t know how much longer I can bear that burden around my neck before I keel over from its weight.
Sitting upright makes my head spin, so I grip the side bars of the bed and stare at the ice-blue sky framed by the window, waiting for the dizzy spell to pass. As the wispy clouds and the soaring birds come into focus, emotion prickles in my throat, threatening to supply my eyes with a fresh wave of tears.
“Did you know two thousand frowns equal one wrinkle?”
My spine goes rigid at the sound of a sweet voice drifting in from the door. I turn, wincing as tightness tugs at my neck, and lock eyes with the girl it belongs to.
Silky blond hair and a golden tan that doesn’t make sense in a blistering cold December. Her eyes are big and blue, filled with the type of innocence that only one girl on this coastline can truly claim.
Wren Harlow.
Grinding my teeth so my groan isn’t audible, I force a dead-eyed smile. Of all the people I’d want to walk through that door while I’m having a private meltdown, Wren would be pretty low on the list. It’s not because she’s not nice—quite the opposite, in fact. She’s too nice. So nice, she’s known on the Coast as the Good Samaritan. Not a single Friday or Saturday night passes in Cove where you wouldn’t find her trawling the strip and helping drunk people. She hands out Band-Aids and flip-flops to girls with aching feet. Hails cabs for the drunk and disorderly. She’s so sweet it hurts my teeth looking at her.
Her gaze trails from my head wound to my feet and back again. Maybe it’s the pain meds making me loopy, but I can’t help notice her nail polish is the exact shade of pink as her shirt dress.
I have a feeling she did that on purpose.
She blows a bubble. Pops it. “You thinking about something bad?”
Frowning, I bite back the urge to tell her it’s none of her business. Partly because I don’t need any more bad karma, and partly because Wren is the type of girl who’s probably never experienced even a dog barking at her, let alone a scruffy red-head going through an existential crisis.
“Maybe.”
“When I have bad thoughts, I try to distract myself.”
I rub the bridge of my nose, trying my hardest to keep my mouth shut. The last thing I need right now is an impromptu therapy session from a girl with a fast-pass to heaven.
“How? By cross-stitching your favorite Bible verses?” I mutter under my breath.
She sinks down on the foot of the bed, stretching her long, tight-clad legs across the floor tiles. “No, by going through the alphabet and thinking of a curse word for each letter.” Her blue gaze comes to mine as she blows another bubble. Pop. “For example, A is for asshole,” she says pointedly, a dark glint in her eye.
Despite the searing pain in my head and the sins weighing heavy on my chest, I can’t help but let out a gruff laugh.
“Touché.”
She grins, too, a beautiful smile that softens the planes of her face. She nods at the space above my eyebrow. “Looks nasty.”
“Feels it.”
“Want a candy bar?”
I blink. Before I can ask what she’s on about, she jumps up, ducks into the hallway, and returns with a cart. “I’ve got all the classics, plus potato chips and cans of soda.” She crouches down and squints at the bottom shelf. “I had some ham and cheese sandwiches too, but Billy in room eight took like four, even though they’ll be serving lunch in an hour.”
She returns to her full height and looks at me expectantly. When I don’t reply, she grabs two Hershey bars off the cart and tosses one into my lap. Holding the other between her teeth, she drags the armchair across the room and sets it beside my bed.
I stare down at the chocolate wedged between my thighs. “You work here?”
“Nope, just volunteering.”
Figures.
She flops down in the chair and swings her boots up to rest them on the end of the bed. “I work at The Rusty Anchor—been there for about a year now. What have you been up to, anyway? I haven’t seen you on the Coast in a while.”
I ignore her question because I’m still stuck on her job. “The port bar?”
“Uh-huh.” My gaze instinctively cuts to the sparkly pink bobble wrapped around her high ponytail and she laughs. “It’s not as bad as you think, really.”
Mm. The last time I stepped foot in The Rusty Anchor, I left with six splinters and salmonella from the chicken burger. I’d assume that if a girl like Wren stepped into The Rusty Anchor, she’d spontaneously combust from the sins that lived inside of it.
