Page 5 of Sinister

I’m positively parched for a drink. In fact, I could down several shots of that jungle juice doing the rounds.

Not caring to get back into the crowd yet, I’m content to watch from the sidelines for now. If I know anything about Daphne, it’s that she won’t forget my insults in a hurry. She’ll be waiting and watching for any chance to put me down.

Well, her and everyone else, I can’t help but tell myself bitterly. I’ve always been a bit of a loner, but lately, the incessant feeling of not belonging anywhere has dimmed my spirits.

Once more, I remind myself of Amelia’s words.

At least I have her.

But though the darkness lightens up, it doesn’t recede altogether.

So I do something stupid. I pour myself another shot, my fourth, and let the liquid sear its way down my throat.

With every gulp, I feel mellower as a soft, cottony haze settles over the sharp edges of my righteous fury, and the world seems like a less hurtful place.

For a while, I just drift through the throngs of guys and girls dancing in the halls and drinking in the living room and making out in the myriad corners around the house.

The alcohol seems to have numbed me to any hostile stares or whispers. This is what all the fuss is about, I guess. I could get used to this⁠—

Just then, I collide into something hard. And tall.

“Oh my God!” a deep, velvety voice exclaims while broad, sturdy hands gently hold my shoulders, steadying me. “Are you okay?”

I’m tipsy enough to appreciate the note of concern yet not drunk enough to ignore the fact that now my blouse is wet.

“I’m so sorry,” the same pleasant voice is rambling in earnest panic now. “I wasn’t looking where I was going, and I spilled my drink! Let me help you with that. It’s Petra, right?”

In that moment, I finally recognize the blue-eyed guy I’m speaking to.

“Yes, thasright, I mean.” I clear my throat and try to appear more sober. “That’s right. And you’re . . . Sinclair?” I slur.

“Sin Arnoult, at your service,” the tall—I should say “towering”—guy responds with a charming little half-bow.

And when he looks up next, something in his eyes makes my breath hitch in my throat.

2

PETRA

This can’t be happening, says the cynical voice in my head as I look up and my eyes lock with Sin’s. This is a moment straight out of a rom-com.

The heroine collides with the hero, literally and metaphorically.

If it’s your standard Hallmark suckfest, she’s either going to be a swooning, clumsy mess or a mildly disgruntled (but hot) woman whose entire schedule for the day is thrown off because of this annoying (but hot) man who decided to bump into her.

But I am neither. After my encounter with Daphne and Co., I don’t have the energy to be visibly vexed. And I also don’t fall over myself at the sight of blue-eyed guys with stylishly tousled hair.

Instead, I merely say, “Oh,” and keep staring at the rapidly expanding wet patch on my light-teal satin blouse. I had ‘borrowed’ this one from my mother’s enviable collection. She’ll probably hire a hitman to kill me; Mom doesn’t like to get her hands dirty.

“I’m so sorry!” Sin exclaims again, and though he sounds genuinely apologetic, I can see the lightest of smiles playing on his lips.

Despite the shots I have downed, some remaining shred of dignity forces me to regain my composure and muster up a wry smile. “Well, I guess I’m wearing your drink now. Do you always greet people this way?”

This makes him chuckle.

Hey, he’s got a nice laugh, I think, and then chide myself for getting sappy.

“Only the ones who stand in my way,” he says, leaning toward me so I can hear him over the music. “Here’s a radical idea. Maybe, just maybe, you can try watching where you’re going the next time?” he whispers in a low, gravelly voice that sends shivers down my spine.