As we get closer on the motorcycle, I see people spilling out onto the sidewalk, drinks in hand, some of them dancing right there on the pavement like the party can’t be contained by walls. The whole street feels alive, electric. Jack parks the bike and I pull off my helmet, immediately hit by the energy of it all. The bass is so loud I can feel it vibrating through my chest, through my bones, through my entire body.
“What is this?” I ask, trying to take it all in. The lights, the people, the music pouring out the doors.
“La Casa de la Música,” Jack says, pulling off his own helmet. “You said you liked dancing, right? Back when we joked about going to a club in Berlin together?”
I blink at him, surprised. “Idolove dancing. Though I’m not great at it, and I haven’t gone out in forever.” I tilt my head, studying his face. “I’m surprised you remembered that. It wassuch an offhanded comment. I didn’t think you’d pay attention to it.”
“I always pay attention when you talk,” he says, and his expression makes me forget how to breathe properly for a second.
I swallow and turn to take in the building. It’s covered in colorful murals. Bright tropical flowers, dancing figures, abstract swirls of color that seem to move in the glow of the string lights crisscrossing overhead. Jack takes my hand and pulls me through the crowd toward the entrance. My palms are already a little sweaty, but whether it’s from the Miami heat or what he just said, I can’t tell.
Inside, the space opens up bigger than I expected. Exposed red brick walls, a proper bar along one side packed with people ordering drinks and shouting to be heard, small tables scattered throughout where groups lean in close to talk over the music. And at the center of it all, a stage where a full band is mid-set. Guitar, bass, drums, congas, bongos, horns that shine under the stage lights, and a woman singing with a voice that raises goosebumps on my arms despite the oppressive heat.
The dance floor in front of the stage is packed. Hips moving, feet flying through complicated patterns, partners spinning and dipping like they’ve been doing this their whole lives. It’s mesmerizing and slightly intimidating.
The air is thick with humidity and rum and sweat and perfume all mixed together into something intoxicating, something that makes me want to move closer to Jack, that makes my inhibitions feel like they’re already dissolving.
“I love this,” I say, and I have to raise my voice to be heard over the music, over the crowd, over everything.
Jack’s grin widens, his eyes bright with excitement and something else I can’t quite name. “Just wait. It gets better.”
I don’t know how it could possibly get better than this, but I believe him.
Jack keeps his hand on the small of my back as we navigate through the crowd toward the bar. Bodies press close on all sides, and I catch fragments of conversations in Spanish and English, laughter, someone shouting something that gets drowned out by the horns hitting a particularly loud crescendo. The energy is intoxicating. I can feel the music in my chest, my whole body wanting to move.
We squeeze into a gap at the bar, and Jack leans down close so I can hear him. His breath is warm against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “What do you want to drink?”
“What are you getting?” I ask, practically shouting back.
“Old Fashioned. They make them strong here.”
“I’ll do the same,” I say. It’s a whiskey kind of night.
He catches the bartender’s attention, holding up two fingers. “Two Old Fashioneds!”
The bartender nods, a guy in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and forearms like he’s been slinging drinks for decades, and gets to work with the confidence of someone who could do this in his sleep, despite the chaos around him. The bar is absolute madness, but there’s a rhythm to it. Everyone swaying slightly to the music while they wait, nobody in a real rush because the night is still young and full of possibility and why hurry when everything is this good?
Jack pays when the drinks arrive, waving off my attempt to contribute, and I take a sip. The whiskey hits immediately, burning a path down my throat and settling warm and pleasant in my stomach. It’s strong and smooth and perfectly balanced, and it makes me feel bold in a way I haven’t felt in years. Like I could do anything. Be anyone. Take risks.
“Good?” Jack asks, watching my face closely.
“Really good,” I confirm, taking another sip and feeling the warmth spread through my chest like liquid courage. “You weren’t kidding about strong.”
His eyes haven’t left my face, and the look in them makes my pulse kick up several notches. There’s something in his expression I haven’t seen before. Something darker. Hungrier.
The song ends to thunderous applause and cheers, and the band launches immediately into something new. Faster, more upbeat, the kind of rhythm that makes it physically impossible to stand still. Around us, people are already moving, heading back to the dance floor or dancing right where they’re standing at the bar.
Jack’s nodding his head to the beat, and I realize I’m doing the same thing without thinking about it. My hips are already moving slightly, my body responding to the music before my brain even processes it. The whiskey is making everything feel more intense, more alive.
“You want to dance?” he asks, and there’s something in his voice that makes the question feel like more than just an invitation to the dance floor.
I look toward all those people who clearly know what they’re doing, and feel a flutter of nervousness in my stomach. But then the woman on stage hits this incredible high note, and the crowd goes wild, and the whiskey is warm in my veins.Fuck it.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s dance.”
Jack’s grin is immediate and devastating. He downs the rest of his Old Fashioned in one long swallow that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is, and I do the same, feeling the burn all the way down, feeling it settle in my stomach like fire.Then he takes my hand and pulls me toward the dance floor.
We weave through bodies, squeezing past a couple executing some impossibly complicated spin that nearly takes out my shoulder. The dance floor is even more packed than it lookedfrom the bar, everyone pressed close together, moving as one mass of rhythm and heat and pure joy.
