My mouth goes dry.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
I put my hand at her waist.
Not lower.
Not tighter.
Just there.
She inhales, and I feel the breath move through her.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods.
“Words.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “I’m okay.”
So we dance.
Badly, at first.
She was right. She doesn’t dance so much as survive music with effort. But then Cornbread starts clapping off beat, because of course he does, and someone at the bar laughs, and Amelia looks so offended by the entire situation that she forgets to be scared.
Her hips loosen.
Her hand settles more fully in mine.
The red of her mouth curves.
When I turn her, she laughs.
God help me.
That laugh is worse than the lipstick.
The room changes too.
At first, they watch like gossip hounds.
Then they watch like maybe they are seeing something they are not supposed to admit touches them. A woman who came in pale and guarded now laughing in the middle of a bourbon bar with a biker who has never been accused of sweetness by anyone sober.
I hate them for seeing it.
I want them to see it.
Both.
Halfway through the song, she steps closer, not because she has to. Because she chooses.
Her body brushes mine.
My hand tightens at her waist before I can stop it.