Whenever my anxiety would surge, I’d get distracted, so it wasn’t until the car ride that my nerves really started riding me.
It’s only a fifteen-minute drive to the bar, a route I take every day, but it all looks different tonight. Stark. Somehow more real, like the world’s in HD. When we pass the gas station across from Finnegan’s ice cream, I make myself look. There’s no man working the pumps. The bay doors of the garage are closed for the night.
I don’t blink, and I don’t let myself look away. Soon enough, it’s in the rearview.
I try to relax, but I can’t get comfortable. The jeans I had clean are tighter than my usual, and the button is digging into my middle.
“How you doin’ back there?” Fay-Lee calls as she pulls into the parking lot beside the bar. It’s well lit, and there are people hanging out and smoking, but I can’t lie. My pulse is racing, and I’m nauseous as hell.
“Good. Fine.”
Nevaeh flounces around to face me. “You’re freakin’ the fuck out, aren’t you?”
I bark a laugh, and it sounds crazy. “Yes. So much.”
“Me too.” Fay-Lee engages the parking brake, and my heart flips.
“Why are you freaking out?” Fuck. Is there something to worry about? I scan the parking lot, but I don’t see anything. Damn I wish I had my knife. Or the Beretta.
“If this goes south, Deb and Annie are gonna beat my ass.” Fay-Lee catches my eye in the rearview.
“And Shirlene, and Ernestine—” Nevaeh adds.
Fay-Lee shivers. “Ernestine ain’t nothin’ to fuck with.”
“Guys. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” I force myself to drag in a deep breath and push open the car door.
“I can’t believe she’s doing this,” Nevaeh stage whispers to Fay-Lee as they get out and take position on either side of me.
“I’m the Crista-charmer.” Fay-Lee walks toward the bar with way too much swagger for a girl on loose gravel in six-inch heels.
I let them pull me along between them, their elbows hooked in mine. It feels so strange. The touching. I’m not used to it. Only Annie and Mom think nothing of putting their hands on me. Everyone else keeps an extra half step away.
As we approach the propped-open door, heat and music and loud voices spill out. I know all about Sawdust on the Floor, of course. It’s a Petty’s Mill institution. Annie was sneaking in on a fake ID when she was in middle school. It’s everything I imagined.
There’s no literal sawdust, but almost. The floor is raw wood, and it creaks under your shoes. The place reeks of sour beer and sweat, but for some reason, the lights are crazy bright. The joint is huge, but still, it’s busting at the seams. Every bar stool is taken, and the tables around the dance floor are crowded with people of all ages, women sitting on their men’s laps, loud-talking and carrying on.
There’s a man in a black cowboy hat and silver bolo tie standing on a narrow stage, bellowing “rock right” and “bump hips” on a microphone, and five or six rows of dancers.
I scan every face, and I see Roosevelt, one of the prospects, and a couple girls from The White Van. There are several more familiar faces, and some stares, of course, but it’s okay.
I’m sweating, and my heart’s thumping, but it’s manageable. Normal-level freak out.
Fay-Lee guides me to a table with a few empty chairs, pushes me to sit, and waves Nevaeh off to get a pitcher. It’s all older couples at the table, and they strike up a conversation with Fay-Lee, leaving me to check the exit points and focus on my breathing.
Maybe Fay-Lee is some kind of miracle worker ‘cause I’m doing fine. I can see the rear exit down the hall to the bathrooms. It’s propped open to let a breeze in. The place is hot as hell. I should take off my hoodie. I finger the cuffs. No. Hoodie stays on.
The song ends and another, slower one begins. The dancers shift into a circle and pick partners. The man with the microphone falls silent. The couples sweep by where I sit, and I watch them awhile.
There are couples my parents’ age and older, some mooning at each other, some staring off into the distance, bored. Younger couples dance by, stiff and serious. Some guys cut up, twirling their girls out-of-step or copping a feel, while others keep their eyes on their feet. That’d be me, if I were out there.
A hollow longing fills my chest, edging out the nerves.
I kind of want to dance. I can’t, though. My boots are too heavy, and my body’s too lumpy and dumb.
“Say cheers!” Fay-Lee knocks me out of my funk by slinging her arm around my neck and posing for Nevaeh. She’s holding up a plastic cup of beer with a huge, frothy head. Girl can’t pour worth shit. “Do I look cute?”
Nevaeh considers. “You’re alright.”
“Then post it!”
“Posted.” Nevaeh taps her phone. “Five bucks your old man is here within the next five songs.”
“I’ll take that action.” Fay-Lee chugs the beer and then crinkles the cup. “Come on, Crista Holt. Let’s shake our sweet thangs.”
The dancers are forming lines again, and Fay-Lee grabs my arm and leans back like a cowboy trying to get a mule to budge. Bad news for her that I outweigh and out-stubborn her.
“Maybe later. I want to watch.”
Fay-Lee really leans into it. She’s at an almost thirty-degree angle.
“Seriously. Let me just watch for a while.”
Nevaeh intercedes, prying Fay-Lee off. “No means no, girlfriend. Come on. We’ll circle back for her once she’s got some liquid courage.”
Fay-Lee looks ready to sit back down, so I reach to pour myself a beer. “Go on. Show me how it’s done.”
“You’ll be okay here by yourself?”
I dart a quick glance to the elderly couples at our table. “I think I’ll be all right.”
“Girl, come on!” Nevaeh tugs Fay-Lee. “That man of yours is gonna be here to ruin our fun in no time. We need to seize the day!”
“You’ll be fine?”
“I’ll be right here.”
With one last nervous glance, Fay-Lee lets herself be dragged to the dance floor, and a minute later, she’s lost in laughing and shaking her ass. Fay-Lee dances really gracefully; she’s a fish in water on the dance floor. Nevaeh’s a trip. Every “rock right” and “bump hips” is damn near pornographic. Every man in the five lines behind her loses the beat each time the dude in the bolo tie calls a step that requires shaking your ass.
I sip my beer, and settle in to watch. It’s not bad. The vibe is different from the clubhouse. No one seems here to fight or fuck, and the drunken stumbles and spills all seem to end in laughter. A low thrum of hypervigilance keeps my muscles tight, and I’m constantly scanning faces, but I’m far from freaking out. The wide-open route to the back exit really helps, as do all the chill couples.
I pour myself a second beer, and the others at my table abandon me when “Louisiana Saturday Night” comes on. It’s clearly a popular tune with the senior set although Fay-Lee and Nevaeh are still going strong. Everything is mellow and fine when the mood in the place suddenly shifts hard.
There’s a rustling coming from the front, a kind of displacement wave of people backing up, accompanied by raised whispers. Then, the commotion is followed by a hush underscored by the shrieks and chatter of people further into the bar who haven’t yet noticed whatever just walked in.
Trouble. My mouth goes dry, and I push my chair back from the table.
I need to run.
But that’s stupid. There’s no reason to run. Yet. But I have a clear path if I need to. My heart eases out of my throat.
Then I see who it is, and it’s so hard not to laugh.
I guess I never see civilians react to Steel Bones. I’m always at the clubhouse or the other businesses where it’s nothing to see a bunch of brothers hanging out. Besides, I’ve known all the guys for years, some for my entire life.
So from where I sit, I’m seeing Heavy, Dizzy, Forty, Nickel, Creech, Wall, a few prospects, and—oh, shit�
�Scrap walk into a bar.
Everyone else must be seeing zombie Vikings descending on their peaceful village. People give the guys a wide berth, going to ridiculous lengths to give them space. The men avert their eyes. The women gawk or blush or stare anywhere else. The man in the bolo tie forgets to call the steps.
Heavy sees me and jerks his chin toward my table. The brothers follow—all but Dizzy who’s making a beeline for Fay-Lee—and there’s no elbowing through the crowd. The dancers literally peel off into another row to make room for the guys to pass.
I guess I understand it. Despite the hokey soundtrack, the moment has the feel of a scene from a movie where the mild-mannered hero gulps Oh shit. Not one of the brothers is shorter than six feet or less than two hundred-some pounds. There’s so much leather, beards, and body modification that your eyes don’t know what to take in first.
Creech’s tattooed head? Heavy’s wild and kinky black hair? The scars and burns that decorate Forty’s right arm, or the full sleeve that covers his left, including the demon cat devouring the human heart?
It’s a lot if it’s not your everyday.
“Crista.” Heavy inclines his head and then eyes the empty chairs at the table. “These taken?”
“They were, but I think they’re free now.”
The brothers all sit down with a collective creaking of cheap metal folding chairs, and that seems to thaw the frozen room. Chatter slowly returns to normal although we’re still the table everyone’s sneaking peeks at from the corner of their eyes.
A part of me relaxes, quits scanning the crowd.
Scrap takes the seat next to mine. He’s so close, I can smell his fabric softener. I swallow, but it sticks, and I cough. I take a deep sip of my beer.
Scrap grabs a plastic cup from the stack they gave us with the pitcher, pours himself a beer, and then he tops me off.
“Wash! Bush! Grab us—” Creech takes a second to count. “Eight pitchers.”
“They’re bottomless pitchers, man.” I’m just letting him know.
“We’ll see about that.” Creech mutters as if this is a personal challenge.
“You havin’ fun?” Scrap murmurs, resting his arm on the back of my chair. Oh my God. He’s even closer now. I force myself to breathe. He isn’t touching me. Not when I scooch a bit forward.
Scrap turns himself so his back is to his brothers. He’s totally focused on me. His knee is brushing my thigh. I can’t feel it through my jeans, but there’s a pressure.
My heart stutters.
“It looked like you girls were having a good time in the pic Dizzy showed us.”
I nod.
“You dance?”
I shake my head.
“You gonna talk to me, or you still mad I set you off in the storage room?”
My eyes fly up to his. His tone is light, and his expression matches. He’s not pissed. His blue eyes are so light against his dark gray shirt and black cut, you could see anything in them clear as day. They’re almost sparkling. He’s in a good mood.
“You didn’t set me off.”
“I was there, Crista.” He raises an eyebrow.
My face flushes. “I’m not mad, anyway.”
“Why aren’t you dancin’?” He changes the subject, and I can breathe a little easier.
“I don’t know the steps. I’ve never been here before.”
“Me neither.”
“No?” I’m surprised. There aren’t that many bars in Petty’s Mill.
“When it ain’t line dancing night or karaoke, it’s a pick-up bar. Before I went away, I wasn’t into picking up women.”
“Oh?” It comes out almost a squeak. I’m feeling really squirmy, which sucks, ‘cause if I move at all I’ll nudge into Scrap.
“I knew what I wanted. Didn’t need to go lookin’ for something else.”
He means me. When I was sixteen. And skinny. And a functional human. My stomach wobbles. Is that a good feeling? I can’t even tell.
I don’t know what to say, so I take a long sip of beer.
Scrap presses his leg more firmly against mine. It’d feel like crowding if he didn’t also lean back in his chair and move the arm that was around me to rest on the table. He shoots me that wry half-smile.
“I’ll do it, if you do it.”
“What?”
“Dance.” He jerks his head at the dance floor.
“No, thank you.” There’s no way I’m going to jiggle my awkward ass in front of Scrap Allenbach. Grapevine left. Grapevine right. I’ve embarrassed myself enough in front of him since he’s been back.
“You don’t want to ruin your friend’s good time, do you?”
What does he mean?
“Dizzy’s about to haul Fay-Lee home, and if you’re not dancing, that means Nevaeh will have to leave.”
“Why would she have to leave?”
Scrap’s smile widens. “You mean I finally know some gossip that one of ya’ll don’t?”
He jerks his chin at Forty who’s downright glowering in the corner, arms folded so tight his huge biceps are swollen into freakin’ cantaloupes.
“Him and Nevaeh hate each other. If Fay-Lee gets dragged home and you’re over here with him, she’ll bail.”
I check out Nevaeh. She’s still bumping and grinding like there’s dollar bills in it for her, but now that Scrap said something, I see her sneaking looks at Forty. The more uptight he gets, the bigger her smiles are for the guys beside her in the line.
I’m not sure where Dizzy got to with Fay-Lee. Nevaeh catches me watching her, though, and she waves me over. A song has ended, and there’s a general shuffling and movement on and off the floor.
Tiny bubbles flit and pop in my belly. That’s excitement. What I’m feeling is excitement. It’s so unfamiliar, but I kind of remember it from before.
I’m not going to dance, though. That’s crazy.
Scrap scrapes his chair back and stands, holding his hand out to me. I shake my head.
“You came this far, baby. Dance floor’s only a few feet further.”
I blame the baby. How serious and soft it was. How personal. It throws me, and before I can think, Scrap’s wrapped his big, rough hand around mine, and he’s leading me to Neveah. When she sees us coming, she hollers and jumps like a drunk cheerleader.
I don’t have time to panic before the music starts, and everyone starts slapping their thighs and clapping, and then my goodness, there’s so much step-twist-stomp-hold, and then there’s a turn, and more stomping, and more turning, and Neveah’s hollering, “Look at my feet! Look at my feet!”
I don’t know what she thinks I’m doing ‘cause if I stop looking at her feet for a second, I’m facing the wrong direction.
About halfway through I catch up enough to check out Scrap, and then I can’t stop grinning. I’ve never seen a man more intent on his business. He’s nailing each rock forward, each slide and touch. And by nailing I mean like a hammer does. This is less dancing and more stomping. The floor’s shaking, and I’m sure it’s ninety-five percent Scrap Allenbach.
I lose my place, and I guess he notices, ‘cause he loses his, too. We both stand there as the song ends, gasping, grinning like idiots.
“I kicked that thing’s fuckin’ ass.” Scrap slams down the last few steps, and before I can shove my hands in my hoodie pockets or ease away back to the table, he grabs me. “One more.”
“Now grab your girls, fellas.” The man in the bolo tie reaches down to hand up a silver-haired woman wearing a flouncy jean skirt. He sets down his mic and spins the woman into his arms.
Nevaeh grins at me and partners up with one of the guys she’s been flirting with.
I look at Scrap. His lip quirks up.
I should sit down. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” It’s loud as the music begins, and my voice is soft, but he hears me.
“Me neither. I won’t let it go bad.”
“You can’t help it.”
“Trust me.” He pulls me into his arms
, placing my hand on his shoulder. Then he checks the couples around us and puts his hand high on my back.
There’s no way I can move my feet.
A man’s touching me.
He’s touching me. Scrap Allenbach is touching me.
My heart races. I’m so hot, and my legs feel so damn weak.
Scrap moves forward, and I shuffle back. He’s not worried about the steps now; he’s not staring at anyone’s feet. His eyes are on me, and he’s slowly closing his arms until his chest grazes my cheek.
He’s swaying, and I’m swaying, too, held up by his hand on my back, and the heat and largeness of him at my front. He bends his head to my ear.
“You smell so fuckin’ good. Like strawberries.” His breath sends tiny shivers down my neck.
“It’s my bodywash.”
He sighs and straightens, and more of him is even closer now. He’s rearranged my arm, folding it up behind me into the small of my back, easing me tighter to him.
I should be panicking, but I’m out-of-body, lost in his smell and the warmth of his chest.
He lifts a hand to stroke my cheek. “Your skin is so fuckin’ soft.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m so used to my body and my brain going nuts, but they’re muffled here, in this weird place out-of-time, and all I can pay attention to is Scrap. How his breathing is quicker now than when he was stomping. How his muscles are tense, but his touch is so very, very light.
“It’s my bodywash,” I finally mumble into the leather of his cut.
“That’s some miraculous shit, ain’t it? They oughta bottle it.”
The giggle’s out before I realize it. “Was that a joke?”
“Not if you can’t tell it was.” And then he dips his head down and brushes his lips across mine. I suck in a breath, almost gasp on it. Almost. He kissed me. A second ago, he kissed me, and now I can’t even remember what it felt like.
“Scrap.” It sounds like a plea.
He kisses me again, lingering this time, and there’s more pressure, but not too much.
“I love it when you say my name,” he says against my lips. “That night I came home, and you said ‘hi, Scrap.’ Sweetest sound I ever heard.”
Scrap: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance Page 10