The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood #1)(32)
“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.
I tip my head back and take the shot like a champ.
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 f*cked 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.