by Trisha Wolfe
Taking another swig of his drink, he shrugs. “Nothing special. I was young when I got it.”
Aggravation over his vagueness mixed with the alcohol coursing through my veins makes me bold. “I showed you mine . . .”
His body swivels toward me, his eyes hooded. “That’s not your only one.” His gaze travels over my shoulder and collarbone, and I can feel it. Like he’s physically reached out and touched me. As his eyes drifts lower, slowly scanning my body before meeting my mine again, he raises an eyebrow challengingly. “In fact. I’m willing to bet you have more.”
My mouth feels dry, and the warm buzz heating my body turns to lava. I look down at the empty glass and push back from the bar. “I need to use the bathroom.”
“I’ll walk you.”
He stands but I wave him back onto his seat. “I can find it.” His mouth parts, like he’s about to argue, and I add, “I got it, Holden.” His stare holds mine, unwavering, and something flashes in his eyes. But then he turns back toward the bar and lifts his chin to order another drink from the bartender.
I’m terrified to find out what the bathrooms in this rundown place look like, but I need a moment to regroup. I do have a couple more marks on my body—and I have no qualms over sharing the pink and black shaded stars with him. But the other, he’s not seeing any time soon.
Soon? I mentally scold myself. Just one heated look from Holden and I’m fourteen all over again. Get a grip. Besides, he’s just playing with me. Joking around. I’ve always read too much into his words and actions, looking for a deeper meaning. I remind myself that he’s shallow. I learned that the hard way in high school.
Today has been too long. Too much all at once. After reading Tyler’s first journal entries, the lake, having to say my first goodbye to him, and spending so much one-on-one time with the guy who broke my heart ages ago—it’s enough to push me over the edge.
When I find the bathroom near the back entrance, I push through the door and head straight to the sink. I cup my hands under the cold-running water and then splash my face. The cool sensation calms my overheated skin, and I exhale.
“Shit, girl,” a throaty feminine voice says. I lift up to see one of the biker girls from the jukebox behind me in the mirror. My stomach knots. Am I about to get my ass kicked? “I’d be all hot and bothered, too, if I came here with that fine hunk of meat.”
I watch as my brow creases in the mirror, then I turn around. “The guy I came here with?” She nods once, long and slow. I open my mouth to explain that I’m not with Holden, but stop. I’m not sure if on top of everything else I can stomach watching Holden get hit on by hot, leather skirt-wearing biker girls. “Yeah. He’s all right.”
She laughs. “Shit. I’d let him wear me like a hat.” She digs into her small purse and pulls out a baggy and a cut-down straw. Then she walks to the counter and runs a hand over the surface.
I’m fascinated watching her work, my feet bonded to the floor, as she empties some of the white contents of the bag onto the sink counter. She’s methodical. Confident. In control.
After she cuts out a couple of lines, she looks over at me. “You want a rail? Might help calm your nerves.”
I shake my head. “I’m good. But thanks.”
She shrugs and puts her face to the counter, then snorts. I cringe a bit, wondering how bad it burns. She comes up holding her nose with one hand and sniffs, fanning her face with the other.
“Woo,” she says, and laughs. She’s not really intimidating, not like how I first thought when we entered the bar. And I have no idea why I’m so captivated by her. She’s just so self-assured and sexy, and her attitude screams she doesn’t give a shit.
She doesn’t make stupid small talk like you hear on the island—the first question always being, You live here? Locals always wonder that. Something about the status of actually living on Hilton Head that (they think) gives them weight over the tourists. Second being, What’s your name? Like anyone is going to remember or care to remember who they meet once at bar.
As she packs away her junk, she looks at me in the mirror. “Come on, girl. Let me get you a shot. You look like you need one.”
Tilting my head to the side, I consider how I must look to her, then shrug. “I sure as shit do.”
She laughs and laces her arm through mine as we leave the bathroom. Before we’re back at the bar, she does tell me her name. Although I’m not sure if Melody is her real name or not (it’s not very tough for a biker chick), I give her mine.
“Three Pink Panty Pull-downs, Rob,” she tells the bartender, leaning her torso against the counter top. She’s a few inches taller than me, and the corset shirt-thing she’s wearing smashes her cleavage over the top of the bar.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Holden watching me. His brow is furrowed and his eyes squinted, but he doesn’t motion or call me over, or stand to approach. Just watches as Melody’s friend comes bouncing up behind us.
“Did you order mine?” the girl asks, bumping her hip into Melody’s. “Oh! I love your hair. What color is that?” She runs her black nails through my bangs. Normally this would weird me out—this invasion of personal space. But I guess it’s vacation mentality. And I already like these girls. They kind of remind me of Leah . . . and I miss her. A twinge of guilt flutters in my stomach at avoiding her.
“It’s Atomic Turquoise,” I say. “Manic Panic.”
“Oh, that’s old school. I love it.”
“This is Darla. Don’t be fooled by her girly exterior”—Melody fans a hand down Darla’s body: skin-tight jeggings, hot-pink halter, matching bandana—“she’s catty as hell when she’s drunk.”
Darla balks. “Bitch, really. That skank had it coming.” She snakes an arm around a guy seated at the bar, his head bowed over his beer bottle. He seems to be used to Darla hanging on him. “Derick’s worth it.” She kisses his stubbled cheek and runs her hand through his short, spiky hair.
Derick turns his head and kisses Darla long and deep. My own mouth goes dry at their intimate contact. So that I don’t seem uncomfortable, I don’t look away. But my heart pangs with loneliness. I haven’t been around anyone—people, couples, anyone other than my mom and my shrink—for a while. And before, Tyler and I were having intimacy issues and . . . I forgot what love looks like.
Rob, the scary-looking bartender, sets three shot glasses with pink liquid down on the counter. “Bottoms up,” he says with a wink.
The innuendo isn’t lost on me. I pick up my shot, but Melody covers the top of my glass with her hand. “Oh, no, girl. We do these right. Girl power way.” She nods with one eye closed, her glossy lips puckered. It should look stupid, but she pulls it off.
I can’t help but laugh as she lowers her head over her shot glass and wraps her lips around the rim. She waves her hands over her head, beckoning Darla and me to do the same.
What the hell.
Holding my hair back, I climb onto a barstool and lower myself over my shot glass. I will not peek at Holden. Melody swats my butt (I assume she does the same to Darla), and all three of us turn up our shots. The glass clinks against my teeth, and I almost choke, but I relax my throat and let the sweet, fruity mix slide down.
Darla “woos” and grabs my and Melody’s arms, pulling us toward the small dance area near the jukebox. She starts shaking her hips to the Black Veiled Brides booming over the sound system and then grips mine, encouraging me to join her.
As I try to match her rhythm (I’m a pretty good dancer; when I’m buzzed, I don’t care even if I’m not), I toss my head over my shoulder and glimpse Holden. Both his elbows are propped on the bar, his hands balled and resting in front of his mouth. His guarded eyes follow me.
Melody hands me another shot. “I’m going to get you right for your guy.” She winks.
Taking the offered drink, I don’t correct her. Already, my day is starting to fade away, becoming a hazy, intoxicated memory. And for the moment, I want the bliss of not knowing. Not thinking.
HOLDEN
I’m still on my second drink, sipping it slowly. I only wanted a couple to take the edge off. But as my gaze travels over Sam’s limber, swaying body, her movements getting looser and bolder after four shots . . . I think she needed it more than me.
The chicks she’s with are harmless, but I keep a close watch, anyway. Make sure their biker guys don’t touch Sam. I don’t like to fight, haven’t really since high school, but I’m not opposed to tearing some guy’s head off who thinks he’s taking her home in her condition.
So far, there’s been nothing to worry about. A few of the guys from the poolroom have stumbled in to order drinks, looked Sam over appreciatively, and then went back to their game. One reason’s because of the two hard-looking guys sitting at the bar. Those girls dancing with Sam are theirs, and I have a feeling it’s a known fact that no one messes with them. Sam’s covered in that clause by default, since she’s now with them.
Taking another sip, I relax a bit at this thought. She’ll never see these girls again, and she’s having fun. Something that she probably hasn’t had in a long time. A smile twitches at my lips as the girl with the pink bandana dips Sam, and she barrels out a laugh between a snort and a giggle.
“Hey, lover boy.” The raspy voice comes from the other girl in the group. The one wearing a black bandana and a tight, short skirt. I keep my eyes trained on her face, because her guy’s giving me “the look.”
Understood. I nod at him.
“Your girl’s a sad one, huh?” she asks, and I can see the remnants of her last bathroom trip on the tip of her nose. I don’t judge—the stuff’s just not for me. I’ve done my fair share, but I was more of a toker and pill popper than anything. And I haven’t touched anything since I got out of high school.
Clasping my tumbler, I shrug, and hope Sam’s not too fucked up to say no if offered. “She has her moments.”
The girl nods, like she gets what I’m saying. I’m sure she does. “You should cheer her up.” She smiles before taking the drinks the bartender sets in front her, and saunters off toward the jukebox.
Her words linger. I didn’t do this trip to try and make Sam not sad. I keep telling myself that I came because I didn’t want her to end up in a bad situation. Almost like the one she’s in now, but without someone looking out for her—me—the first reason why no guys are messing with her.
These girls are good people, despite what an outsider might think. And they wouldn’t hurt Sam. But if she didn’t have a guy sitting here staking his claim—all but pissing around her and marking my territory—then who knows what would happen.
Sam’s a smart girl, and probably only let her guard down because she knows I’m here. But grief is a mean bitch. On her own and far away from home, suffering from her disorder, it could get the best of her. And she might’ve regretted doing something she normally wouldn’t.
Or she might’ve ended up getting really hurt.
I push those thoughts aside. They’re irrelevant because I am here. And letting her blow off some steam isn’t a bad thing.
There’s nothing in me that wants to admit another possible reason for being here. It’s sick and selfish. It’s locked up way down there in the depths. In the dark part where no one ever looks. Where no one has the guts to look. Not even me.
I raise a hand at the bartender, cashing out. I give him a generous tip for Sam’s drinks, even though the bandana girls covered her, and also tell him to put fifty on their tab.
As I’m pushing away from the bar, I look up and see Sam dancing—by herself. Which isn’t that big a deal. Except her arms are outstretched as she sways, like she’s holding on to someone’s shoulders. And she’s mumbling to the air, smiling, laughing. The bandana girls are leaning against the far wall, watching her, their expressions curious but sympathetic.
Shit.
Limp Bizkit’s cover of Behind Blue Eyes is blasting from the sound system overhead, and Sam moves to the slow beat, lost in her own world. I could play this off like she’s just drunk. But I know what’s happening. I know who she thinks she’s dancing with. Something primal grips my insides, twisting me from the inside out.
I pull out the barstool and plunk back down, then run my hand through my hair, fisting at the roots. I wave over the bartender and order a shot of straight Jack. He pours it in front of me and holds his hand up when I try to pay.
I guess he thinks I need it. Glancing over at Sam, her arms still outstretched, her head cocked like it’s resting on a shoulder—fuck. I guess I do. I throw my head back and down the shot. It burns a blazing trail down my chest, biting. Satisfying.
Black bandana girl makes her way toward me. I look at the pool tables.
“She’s really messed up, huh?” she says.
And what do I say to that? She didn’t say it in a condescending way. Her voice is filled with empathy and honesty. She’s not judging Sam. Just curious. And she’s right.
“Her boyfriend died.” I don’t know why I tell her, and I don’t reveal that her boyfriend was my brother. And I sure as shit don’t say that Sam’s not in mourning, that she actually believes she’s dancing with him now.
In the back of my mind, I’m trying to believe—trying to convince myself—that she’s just in mourning. I’m good at lying to myself.
The girl watches Sam, her lips pursed into frown. “That’s so sad.”
I nod.
She twists toward me. “You should dance with her.”
I freeze, my blood ice. “No.”
Her thin eyebrows pull together. “She’s over there dancing by herself. Man up.”
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I grit out, “It’s complicated.”
When I look at her again, a knowing smile splits her face. “Yeah . . . what’s not?” Her eyebrows lift. “Is she worth it?” She doesn’t hang around to hear my response. Just works her way back toward her friend along the wall. And I wonder why she doesn’t dance with Sam herself if she’s so concerned.
It’s like she’s a little sprite sent to torment me. Not that I need any help in that department. I knew what I was getting myself into when I signed up for this trip. I just thought . . . Shit. Fuck. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.
But I’m not a complete asshole. If I didn’t know Sam was suffering from delusions, I’d walk right up to her and take her into my arms, save her from herself, so she’s not in the middle of a biker bar dancing alone. Looking crazy.
But in her mind, if I try to move in on Tyler’s spot, she’ll probably punch me.
Bandana girl jerks her head in Sam’s direction, ordering me to “man up.”
Maybe getting punched by Sam is worth it.
Fuck it.
I jump off the stool and head straight to her. My heart thumps in my throat the whole way, pulsing with the beat of the music. The lyrics about love being vengeance that’s never free hit my chest hard. Now fate’s trying to torment me, too.
Sam’s eyes are closed, so I become brave and press the pads of my fingers to her narrow waist, slowly guiding her to me. Maybe if she just feels someone solid holding her, she can pretend, and the bystanders can stop staring at a girl losing her mind. I hate the thought of anyone judging her. I’m okay with her thinking I’m Tyler. With her pretending. Whatever she needs right now.
That’s what I told myself back at the hotel room.
But as her arms lock around my neck and she lays her head on my chest, a flurry of want swirls inside me—a thundering, self-destructive tornado. My hands shake as I rest them on the small of her back. So gently. Her petite body should feel wrong against mine, but it’s lined up perfectly. Every one of her curves seamlessly cast to me.
Her hand curls around the nape of my neck, her fingers twining in my hair, as her other hand caresses my back. A searing heat blooms between our bodies—I can feel every hot inch of her. I rest my chin on the top of her head, breathing in her sweet scent. My chest smo
lders. As her body moves against me, her hips working sexy as hell, my pants tighten and my groin begins to ache. Fucking torture.
I let her lead, rocking back and forth. And when she whispers Tyler’s name, I close my eyes. I can feel the pain radiating off her in waves. It mixes with my own grief, consuming and complete.
I decide I’m not that much of a masochist. This shit ends now.
Opening my eyes, I say, “Sam, it’s time to go.” Just loud enough for her to hear over the music.
Her head snaps back, and for the briefest moment, her eyes register that I’m not him. Shock and confusion churn in them. But then the haze of alcohol and her delusion covers them again, and she smiles. “I’m not ready yet, Tyler. We never get to dance.”
My gut twists. “Wave to your friends,” I tell her, not giving in. I spin her around to get a better hold of her, wrapping my arm around her waist.
She slackly fans her hand and slurs something to the bandana girls.
“Bye, baby girl,” Black Bandana says. Then she cocks her head at me. “Take care of her.”
I only nod before walking Sam out of the bar and into the parking lot. The night air bites into my skin through my thin T-shirt. I worry about the almost-passed-out girl in my arms until I realize the alcohol is probably keeping her warm. Propping her against the side of my truck, I keep one arm anchored around her chest, desperately trying to ignore the feel of her breasts.
After I lift her onto the seat, I buckle her in. Her head lolls to the side, and I smile. “Did you have fun, party girl?”
Her eyes try to focus on me, but they’re unseeing, unfocused. She nods sloppily.
I laugh. “Just don’t yack in the truck. Warn me first, okay?”
