The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood #1)(31)
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.