AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Taking another sip, I relax a bit at this thought. She’ll never see these girls again, and she’s having fun. Something that she probably hasn’t had in a long time. A smile twitches at my lips as the girl with the pink bandana dips Sam, and she barrels out a laugh between a snort and a giggle.
“Hey, lover boy.” The raspy voice comes from the other girl in the group. The one wearing a black bandana and a tight, short skirt. I keep my eyes trained on her face, because her guy’s giving me “the look.”
Understood. I nod at him.
“Your girl’s a sad one, huh?” she asks, and I can see the remnants of her last bathroom trip on the tip of her nose. I don’t judge—the stuff’s just not for me. I’ve done my fair share, but I was more of a toker and pill popper than anything. And I haven’t touched anything since I got out of high school.
Clasping my tumbler, I shrug, and hope Sam’s not too fucked up to say no if offered. “She has her moments.”
The girl nods, like she gets what I’m saying. I’m sure she does. “You should cheer her up.” She smiles before taking the drinks the bartender sets in front her, and saunters off toward the jukebox.
Her words linger. I didn’t do this trip to try and make Sam not sad. I keep telling myself that I came because I didn’t want her to end up in a bad situation. Almost like the one she’s in now, but without someone looking out for her—me—the first reason why no guys are messing with her.
These girls are good people, despite what an outsider might think. And they wouldn’t hurt Sam. But if she didn’t have a guy sitting here staking his claim—all but pissing around her and marking my territory—then who knows what would happen.
Sam’s a smart girl, and probably only let her guard down because she knows I’m here. But grief is a mean bitch. On her own and far away from home, suffering from her disorder, it could get the best of her. And she might’ve regretted doing something she normally wouldn’t.
Or she might’ve ended up getting really hurt.
I push those thoughts aside. They’re irrelevant because I am here. And letting her blow off some steam isn’t a bad thing.
There’s nothing in me that wants to admit another possible reason for being here. It’s sick and selfish. It’s locked up way down there in the depths. In the dark part where no one ever looks. Where no one has the guts to look. Not even me.
I raise a hand at the bartender, cashing out. I give him a generous tip for Sam’s drinks, even though the bandana girls covered her, and also tell him to put fifty on their tab.
As I’m pushing away from the bar, I look up and see Sam dancing—by herself. Which isn’t that big a deal. Except her arms are outstretched as she sways, like she’s holding on to someone’s shoulders. And she’s mumbling to the air, smiling, laughing. The bandana girls are leaning against the far wall, watching her, their expressions curious but sympathetic.
Shit.
Limp Bizkit’s cover of Behind Blue Eyes is blasting from the sound system overhead, and Sam moves to the slow beat, lost in her own world. I could play this off like she’s just drunk. But I know what’s happening. I know who she thinks she’s dancing with. Something primal grips my insides, twisting me from the inside out.
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.
