The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood #1)(33)

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—f*ck. 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 *. 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 smolders. As her body moves against me, her hips working sexy as hell, my pants tighten and my groin begins to ache. Fucking torture.