Tough-looking guys wearing leather jackets and wife beaters with tattoo-sleeved arms are hunched over a dark wood bar. A couple of girls with bandanas in their hair wearing short, formfitting skirts and jeggings so tight they should be outlawed, are dancing near a jukebox. Or grinding each other near a jukebox. And other dark-clad bikers are gathered in the back around pool tables.
Smoke clouds the air, rolling in waves under green plastic, low-hanging lamps. The scent of beer, cigarettes, and body odor crowds my nose.
“Holden,” I say, hoping he’ll catch the apprehension in my tone. “Did you know . . . ?”
He turns toward me and cocks an eyebrow. “That this was a biker bar?” I nod. “I saw the bikes parked along the side of the building. That’s how I figured out it was a bar.”
He’s obviously missed where I’m concerned about the “biker” part and not “bar.”
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Placing his hand on my lower back, he guides me toward the high, wraparound bar top. The stools are low, and when I sit, my height makes me feel awkward. Unable to prop my elbows on the counter like Holden, I tuck my hands under my thighs, trying not to look anyone in the eyes.
The bartender slides a beer toward one of the bikers and then tosses his table rag over his shoulder before he nods at Holden. The guy’s huge, his muscled arms covered in tats.
“Two Jack and Cokes,” Holden says, dipping his fingers into his back jean pocket to pull out his wallet. Then he turns to me. “That’s okay, right?”
“Yeah. Sure.” I smile. Truth is, I’ve never been a big drinker; I wouldn’t know what to order. Tyler wasn’t either, and when we did go to parties, Leah mostly fed me shots despite Tyler’s pouting. They got along for the most part. But Tyler hated Drunk Leah.
Holden returns my smile with a gorgeous one of his own. “I didn’t want to get my ass kicked for ordering some fruity drink.” He winks.
And just like that, the tightness gripping my chest eases. I’m surprised when the bartender sets the drink in front of me without asking for my ID, and I try to act cool. Twenty-one cool. And once I down about half of my drink, the warm beginnings of a buzz helps ease the rest of the tension.
I eye Holden, because it’s safer to stare at him than anyone else, and mentally trace the outline of the tattoo peeking from beneath his T-shirt collar. In a truck, it’s hard not to notice the person next to you. And I’ve already memorized the tattoos on his arm. The band, a compass, and a beautiful bird that covers his elbow and wraps around to the middle of his forearm. It’s done in abstract. Which makes sense. Holden’s always loved abstract.
Before I realizes it’s left my mouth, I hear myself say, “What’s the tattoo of on your chest?”
His forearm flexes as he grips his tumbler. With a deliberate, slow movement, he sets the glass down on the bar. “Tribal art.”
I laugh. “Bullshit.” He’s an artist. There’s no way he sketched out some lame ass tribal tat to have permanently inked on his body. He’s such an amazingly talented artist, too. Not taking into account the beautiful work on his arm, with just the inspired black flames he designed for his truck (seriously, I’ve never seen a fire design look so real), I can only imagine what’s underneath his shirt. And with that thought, my face blazes, and I’m thankful for the dim lighting.
Taking another swig of his drink, he shrugs. “Nothing special. I was young when I got it.”
Aggravation over his vagueness mixed with the alcohol coursing through my veins makes me bold. “I showed you mine . . .”
His body swivels toward me, his eyes hooded. “That’s not your only one.” His gaze travels over my shoulder and collarbone, and I can feel it. Like he’s physically reached out and touched me. As his eyes drifts lower, slowly scanning my body before meeting my mine again, he raises an eyebrow challengingly. “In fact. I’m willing to bet you have more.”
My mouth feels dry, and the warm buzz heating my body turns to lava. I look down at the empty glass and push back from the bar. “I need to use the bathroom.”
“I’ll walk you.”
He stands but I wave him back onto his seat. “I can find it.” His mouth parts, like he’s about to argue, and I add, “I got it, Holden.” His stare holds mine, unwavering, and something flashes in his eyes. But then he turns back toward the bar and lifts his chin to order another drink from the bartender.
I’m terrified to find out what the bathrooms in this rundown place look like, but I need a moment to regroup. I do have a couple more marks on my body—and I have no qualms over sharing the pink and black shaded stars with him. But the other, he’s not seeing any time soon.
Soon? I mentally scold myself. Just one heated look from Holden and I’m fourteen all over again. Get a grip. Besides, he’s just playing with me. Joking around. I’ve always read too much into his words and actions, looking for a deeper meaning. I remind myself that he’s shallow. I learned that the hard way in high school.
Today has been too long. Too much all at once. After reading Tyler’s first journal entries, the lake, having to say my first goodbye to him, and spending so much one-on-one time with the guy who broke my heart ages ago—it’s enough to push me over the edge.
When I find the bathroom near the back entrance, I push through the door and head straight to the sink. I cup my hands under the cold-running water and then splash my face. The cool sensation calms my overheated skin, and I exhale.
“Shit, girl,” a throaty feminine voice says. I lift up to see one of the biker girls from the jukebox behind me in the mirror. My stomach knots. Am I about to get my ass kicked? “I’d be all hot and bothered, too, if I came here with that fine hunk of meat.”
I watch as my brow creases in the mirror, then I turn around. “The guy I came here with?” She nods once, long and slow. I open my mouth to explain that I’m not with Holden, but stop. I’m not sure if on top of everything else I can stomach watching Holden get hit on by hot, leather skirt-wearing biker girls. “Yeah. He’s all right.”
She laughs. “Shit. I’d let him wear me like a hat.” She digs into her small purse and pulls out a baggy and a cut-down straw. Then she walks to the counter and runs a hand over the surface.
I’m fascinated watching her work, my feet bonded to the floor, as she empties some of the white contents of the bag onto the sink counter. She’s methodical. Confident. In control.