The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood #1)(30)

I feel a hot tear roll down my cheek.

Holden places the top back over the rest of Tyler’s ashes, pulling the box from my trembling hands. His gaze is far away as he looks at the sunset-glittering lake, and I wonder what he’s saying to his brother. I wonder what secrets are between them—the ones I’ll never know.

And I wonder if Tyler is lost in his limbo right now.

I pray the buoyancy of the lake will call to him, lifting him out of the darkness.

As we walk toward Holden’s truck, night blankets the sky. He stuffs his hand in his pocket. “I could use a drink. You game?”

I haven’t had a beer or any other alcohol in over five months, since before Tyler died. My last being at a party where Leah talked me into downing Jell-O shots and then dancing with her on a table. I smile to myself. “All right. I’m game.”

Even though Holden claims he’s never been to Alabama before, he handles the roads like he’s lived here his whole life. He seems to know how to find everything, and I’m starting to be grateful that he talked (more like coerced) me into doing this together. I wouldn’t have been able to visit the lake traveling by train.

And as we pull into a shady-looking bar, the parking lot dim and the outdated brick building covered in graffiti, I know I never would’ve ended up here. “Uh, are you sure about this?”

He chuckles. “It’s fine. In Atlanta, I’ve gone to shows at some really seedy places, and the people are harmless. Looks can be deceiving. And a place like this, they’re less likely to card you.” He glances at me, a smirk tugging up one side of his mouth. He bites his lip ring before he continues. “You’re safe with me, anyway.”

Trying to ignore the tingling sensation that grabs my stomach, I open the door and hop out. A low boom from the music within vibrates the front door as we approach, and it doesn’t look like there’re any lights on in the place. Holden holds the door open for me, his arm stretched high above my head, and I walk in.

Holy shit. It’s an effin biker bar.

Tough-looking guys wearing leather jackets and wife beaters with tattoo-sleeved arms are hunched over a dark wood bar. A couple of girls with bandanas in their hair wearing short, formfitting skirts and jeggings so tight they should be outlawed, are dancing near a jukebox. Or grinding each other near a jukebox. And other dark-clad bikers are gathered in the back around pool tables.

Smoke clouds the air, rolling in waves under green plastic, low-hanging lamps. The scent of beer, cigarettes, and body odor crowds my nose.

“Holden,” I say, hoping he’ll catch the apprehension in my tone. “Did you know . . . ?”

He turns toward me and cocks an eyebrow. “That this was a biker bar?” I nod. “I saw the bikes parked along the side of the building. That’s how I figured out it was a bar.”

He’s obviously missed where I’m concerned about the “biker” part and not “bar.”

Placing his hand on my lower back, he guides me toward the high, wraparound bar top. The stools are low, and when I sit, my height makes me feel awkward. Unable to prop my elbows on the counter like Holden, I tuck my hands under my thighs, trying not to look anyone in the eyes.

The bartender slides a beer toward one of the bikers and then tosses his table rag over his shoulder before he nods at Holden. The guy’s huge, his muscled arms covered in tats.

“Two Jack and Cokes,” Holden says, dipping his fingers into his back jean pocket to pull out his wallet. Then he turns to me. “That’s okay, right?”

“Yeah. Sure.” I smile. Truth is, I’ve never been a big drinker; I wouldn’t know what to order. Tyler wasn’t either, and when we did go to parties, Leah mostly fed me shots despite Tyler’s pouting. They got along for the most part. But Tyler hated Drunk Leah.

Holden returns my smile with a gorgeous one of his own. “I didn’t want to get my ass kicked for ordering some fruity drink.” He winks.

And just like that, the tightness gripping my chest eases. I’m surprised when the bartender sets the drink in front of me without asking for my ID, and I try to act cool. Twenty-one cool. And once I down about half of my drink, the warm beginnings of a buzz helps ease the rest of the tension.

I eye Holden, because it’s safer to stare at him than anyone else, and mentally trace the outline of the tattoo peeking from beneath his T-shirt collar. In a truck, it’s hard not to notice the person next to you. And I’ve already memorized the tattoos on his arm. The band, a compass, and a beautiful bird that covers his elbow and wraps around to the middle of his forearm. It’s done in abstract. Which makes sense. Holden’s always loved abstract.

Before I realizes it’s left my mouth, I hear myself say, “What’s the tattoo of on your chest?”

His forearm flexes as he grips his tumbler. With a deliberate, slow movement, he sets the glass down on the bar. “Tribal art.”

I laugh. “Bullshit.” He’s an artist. There’s no way he sketched out some lame ass tribal tat to have permanently inked on his body. He’s such an amazingly talented artist, too. Not taking into account the beautiful work on his arm, with just the inspired black flames he designed for his truck (seriously, I’ve never seen a fire design look so real), I can only imagine what’s underneath his shirt. And with that thought, my face blazes, and I’m thankful for the dim lighting.