The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood #1)(47)

Sam points at something, and I watch a shirtless guy running down the middle of the street. He flips and tumbles and flips again, all the way down the stretch of pavement. We pass a group doing some kind of dance. Their movements limber and smooth, moving to the beat of the hip-hop music tumbling from a club.

I stop when I realize Sam’s no longer beside me. Wheeling around, I see her watching them. “What . . . you want to dance?” I ask, hoping like hell she says no. I mean, I can dance. Some. Just don’t want to in the middle of the street. Or to hip-hop.

“I think that’s what Tyler was talking about.” She nods to a kid as his hands weave through the air, his body following suit as his feet glide over the pavement.

“Juking,” I say, finally making the connection to what’s written on the map. I look up at the flashing sign that reads “Club 152” along the three-story building. Then read the poster taped to the glass. “Juking competition, second floor.”

Sam waggles her eyebrows. “Is this my dare or yours?”

I laugh. We decided that at each stop, one of us would fulfill Tyler’s wishes. No matter how out there. This one? It’s all hers. “I downloaded Talladega Nights and got us into the raceway.”

“Fine. Lame ass.” She pulls me along toward the club.

My chest loosens, the vise-like hold that’s been squeezing it since Mississippi finally releasing its death grip. I love seeing her like this. Daring. Sultry. Sane. As far as I can tell, she’s not hearing or seeing Tyler. Right now.

A bit of remorse hits me. I don’t want her not to love my brother. Or to give him up. Not at all. But I can’t believe Tyler would want to see her this way. That if he really could contact her, he would tell her to stop punishing herself.

I think as the big brother who always looked out for him, who always tried to give him everything and anything to make him happy, I have a right to that opinion. I’ve at least earned that much.

As we pass through the entryway, bass hits my chest with a rattling boom. A black light flickers in the small waiting room, and a huge black guy with muscles bulging from his tank asks for our IDs. He stamps both our hands—Sam’s with an underage sad face; mine with a legal smiley face—then we enter the club.

And it’s like every club I’ve ever been to anywhere. Dark. Crowded. Loud. A disco ball spins in the center of the high ceiling. A huge flat screen projects a rapper singing the song currently pumping over the sound system. Multicolored strobe lights swirl over the dancing throng.

I take the lead, holding on to Sam’s hand as we weave through the gyrating bodies. Finding a less crowded spot, I turn to her. “Want a drink?” I shout over the music.

She nods. Her eyes are taking in the club, her body stiff, her facial muscles tense. I doubt she’s been out at all—to a place like this—since before the funeral. And the anxiety of being around so many people at once, I’m sure is playing havoc on her nervous system.

Hesitant to leave her alone, I glance around. “Come with me.”

Without a fight this time, like when I tried to walk her to the bathroom—which was, admittedly, kind of creepy—she tags along behind me. The bar is surrounded by so many bodies, I can’t find where the drink line begins. But after about five minutes, we inch our way up to the bar top.

I order each of us two drinks from the chick bartender in a black halter. I don’t want to wait in this line again. She quickly checks my stamped hand, and I’m relieved Sam is behind me, out of sight. When the girl places my drinks on the bar, she winks. “Twenty dollars, baby.”

Sam appears by my side and, with her unstamped hand, lays twenty-five dollars on the counter. “Here ya go, hunny.”

My lips twitch, trying to fight back a smile. The bartender gives Sam a curt smile and picks up the money. As I take my drinks, I feel like any guy who has two girls getting rowdy over him. A god.

When we make our way back through the crowd to our spot, it’s no longer ours. Sam wiggles her tiny body through the throng and spots a free table. She points overhead, one drink sloshing.

I use my height to muscle through, clearing a path toward the table. I set my drinks down. “Shit. Catty much?” I say to her.

She shrugs, but offers nothing in her defense. I’d like to pretend she got a little jealous, but I’m not delusional. She’s wound tight, and that bartender presented an easy target.

Scooting my stool closer, I lean in toward her. “That juking thing is upstairs. Would you rather go up there?”

“I think that’s for, like, serious dancers.” She nods toward the dance floor. “There’s a few people pulling some moves out there.” Her attempt at lingo is cute. I smile. Before I can offer to take her out there, she continues. “I’m going to find someone to teach me.” She turns her drink up, draining most of it, and bounces off the stool.

I have no idea what’s gotten into her from when we first entered. Maybe it’s the dare; she’s always taken one on. Or maybe it’s her determination to do this for Tyler. I’m sure he put juking down as a joke, just f*cking around. Even so, whatever’s gotten into her, she moves through the crowd like a woman on a mission.

And my stomach clenches as she works her hips in front of some guy dancing, and he’s suddenly more than happy to teach her.

Son of a bitch.