The Darkest Part(38)

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—fuck. 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 asshole. 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.

I let her lead, rocking back and forth. And when she whispers Tyler’s name, I close my eyes. I can feel the pain radiating off her in waves. It mixes with my own grief, consuming and complete.

I decide I’m not that much of a masochist. This shit ends now.

Opening my eyes, I say, “Sam, it’s time to go.” Just loud enough for her to hear over the music.

Her head snaps back, and for the briefest moment, her eyes register that I’m not him. Shock and confusion churn in them. But then the haze of alcohol and her delusion covers them again, and she smiles. “I’m not ready yet, Tyler. We never get to dance.”

My gut twists. “Wave to your friends,” I tell her, not giving in. I spin her around to get a better hold of her, wrapping my arm around her waist.