The Darkest Part(36)

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.

“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.