The Darkest Part (20 page)

“You always had a thing for Holden. And I was willing to wait. To be patient.” He smiles. It’s sad and heartbreaking. And I always thought, in the back of my mind, that he had to have known. I was just too much of a coward to confess any of it to him.

I take a step toward him. “I was meant to be with you.”

His smile stretches, pulling at my heartstrings. “Oh, I know,” he says assuredly, cocky as hell.

I can’t help it. I laugh.

“But,” he says, moving another fraction of an inch closer. “Tell me that you only loved me. That I was the
only
one you were meant to be with.”

“Tyler . . .” My voice breaks.

“You and Holden were so much alike. Even after we were together, I think you were still fighting it. Maybe more than me.”

“Dammit. Stop. I crushed on him when I was a kid. I
loved
you. You were always there for me, no matter what. You were my best friend. We shared everything. Holden—” I jerk my head sideways, annoyed I’m even having to explain this. Not sure I can.

“Is a douchebag?” Tyler offers.

I burst out laughing, and hear the key card enter with a
beep
before Holden walks into the room. He stops and stares at me, still in a fit of laughter. His eyebrows raise.

“Do I want to know?” he asks.

Tyler gives me a sad smile before fading away. I look down, and then up at Holden. “Your brother called you a douchebag.”

One of those rare, true smiles forms on Holden’s face. “He knew me.”

Holden

“Just water?” I ask Sam. Since being seated at a corner table in BB Kings, she’s been quiet. Distant. Even though I didn’t make a big thing about walking in on her, again, having a moment with her ghost version of my brother.

I’m learning to roll with the punches.

“Uh, yeah,” she says. “I think I drank enough last night. Still have a bit of a headache.”

“And this is how you party like a rock star?”

She sighs. “I’ll make up for it. Later.”

The waitress raises a pen to her pad, and I say over the bass-filled music, “One beer and a Coke. Keep the water coming.”

Sam smirks as the waitress bounces off. “Caffeine will help,” I tell her.

She rubs her temples. “A dose of pain meds would be better.”

“Want me to run and get you some?”

Her eyes finally find me, and the look on her face makes me uncomfortable. Like she’s trying to piece something together. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

She goes back to checking out the bar, and I go back to checking out her. She’s wearing a tight black shirt that hangs off her shoulders, a dark denim skirt—that nearly made my heart leap out of my chest when she walked out of the bathroom—and her hair is tied back in a low ponytail.

I sigh and turn my attention to the blues band on the small stage. The high ceiling and low rafters with silver piping running along the walls makes this place feel like an abandoned warehouse. The band’s doing a raw, moody cover of
You Rock Me
, and the lyrics are eating a hole right through me. Being with Sam here, now . . . I can almost forget about all the shit that’s happened up to this point. Almost forget knowing that, this thing that’s got her mind all jacked up, it might never get better.

But she’s so damn hot tonight. I
want
to forget.

Walking down Beale Street, trying to take in the sights and people, all I could do was stare at her. And I think she noticed. She’s uncomfortable now, shifting in her seat. Avoiding looking at me. I don’t know if she and the version of my brother in her head worked everything out, and that’s why she was laughing back at the hotel. Or if she’s really just jumping on the crazy train—

I only know that being around her these past few days is like reopening an old scar with a dull knife, and then dousing it with salt and vinegar. I haven’t allowed myself to be around her—
really
be around her— in years. And the memories I have of this girl, along with being across from her now, are making my heart race and my body heat. All I know for sure is that I want her back. The old Sam.

The one who couldn’t go a day without painting or drawing. Who didn’t care what others thought of her dark edginess, because she loved her scene and who she was. The one who, despite everything that was messed up about our hometown, saw right through the pretentiousness to the beauty of the island—made it somewhere I wanted to be.

I can’t have her, though. I couldn’t have her then, and I can’t now. She still belongs to Tyler. She’s making sure of that, too. By not dealing with his death in a healthy way, she’ll never heal and be able to be with anyone else.

She’s not meant for me, but I can hope that, by the end of this trip, she’s able to move on. Because she deserves to be happy. With whoever she can find that can do it for her.

The waitress sets our drinks down, pulling me out of my disturbing thoughts. “Your food order is coming right out.” She smiles, and I nod at her.

After we devour our barbeque, I toss my napkin on the empty plate. “All right,” I say. “Not that I don’t appreciate the blues, and not to disrespect my brother’s memory”—Sam looks up at me; her nose ring catches the flashing lights—“but I’m not feeling this place anymore.”

Her mouth parts, her face contorting like she’s about to argue. But then she smiles, the tiny dimple beside her mouth making an appearance. My chest tightens. “I would have totally told Tyler this place is lame.”

That’s my girl. “All right then. We’re out.” I hold out my hand, and she only thinks about it for a second before she allows me to help her up.

Beale Street reminds me of a smaller, cleaner, slightly less beaten down version of New Orleans. That’s not to say it’s not dirty. Or smelly. It is. The street is blocked off at both ends so that people can roam with abandon. The sides of the old, worn-down buildings are lit up with colorful, flashing signs, and music flows into the street from the bars and clubs.

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 fucking 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
.

Clutching my drink, I bring it to my mouth and gulp. I’m not the jealous type. I’ve never been serious about any of the girls I’ve dated. And maybe that’s why. But this feeling ripping through my chest . . . I don’t like it.

It makes me feel out of control. And I worked for a long time after high school to get myself under control. Even took Tai Chi for a year. Those fucking breathing techniques are doing shit now as I watch his hand slide up her thigh. Her
inner
-thigh.

Sam laughs as he tugs her leg into position, then presses up against her, guiding her body from behind.
I’m not pissed
. They’re just dancing. And as long as he doesn’t cross the line—I’m a guy; I know when the line is crossed—I’m cool.

The song changes abruptly, and the douchebag jumps up and down, pumping his fist in the air with the rest of the crowd. Twirling Sam around to face him, he pulls her close. Sam backs away, says something, and the guy nods.

He shows her a move—his foot doing some slick, twisting movement—and then he smiles at her. My chest loosens. Shit. I look around, trying to get perspective. Everyone is grinding and feeling each other up. It’s a club. I don’t get what the hell my deal is.

I look back at them as Sam’s feet actually pull off the move and laugh. She bounces, so excited, and glances at me. She points to herself and shakes her hips. If she acts any cuter tonight, I’m in trouble.

The asshat next to her doesn’t take the hint that she’s here with someone. He grasps her hips, bringing her body flush against his. The guy’s a lot taller than her—not as tall as me—and he gets lower to dance with her. Pelvis to pelvis.

And that crushing feeling is back with a spike of adrenaline to my bloodstream. I try to suppress it with deep breaths. But as I watch him grinding on her, all but dry humping, an image of me ripping his head off—dumb backward baseball cap and all—invades my mind. He spins Sam around to face him, and his hands roam over her arms. Shoulders. Back. Ass.