“Stay away from that damn jukebox!” Old, crotchety Mr. Palmetto warns Hank Jr. “Don’t wanna hear more of your new age shit.”
I bite back a laugh because Hank Jr. is obsessed with '80s music—nothing close to “new age shit”—and gets so much shit for it each time he’s here. He normally plays a dozen or so songs when he brings a “lady friend” with him.
Bringing a woman here, in a bar that’s pretty anti-woman, is a no-no…for anyone other than Hank Jr.
If it were anyone else, they’d pull the plug on the jukebox and refuse to serve him alcohol, but Hank Jr. gets away with it since his father’s the current mayor.
Hank Jr. exchanges a few fist bumps as he ventures toward the jukebox. Even though dozens of warning glares must bore into his back as he feeds a dollar into the machine, he ignores them and punches in his selections.
As the first few notes of Heart’s “Alone” begin playing, he leads Serena to the dance floor. A pathetic-looking disco ball hangs from the center of the ceiling, more than a handful of the tiny mirrored squares missing.
An extended hand enters my vision, and I dart a glance at Daniel. “What?”
“Dance with me. That way, we can talk without a chance of anybody hearin’.”
I shoot him a hard glare. “I don’t dance.”
Not that what Hank Jr. and Serena are doing is dancing, exactly. Their hands glide over each other like heat-seeking missiles.
I give it ten minutes tops before they’re full-on sucking face and practically dry-humping on the dance floor and Benny has to holler for them to get a room.
But that’s not the point. Daniel elicits a strange reaction from me as it is, so I know it’s not the least bit wise to willingly touch him.
“It’s easy.” Green eyes sweep over my features with a calculated look. “You can keep it simple if you just plant your feet and sway from side to side.”
My hackles rise defensively. “I didn’t say I couldn’t dance. I said I don’t dance.”
Timmy, who obviously broke the seal since he’s already on a return trip to the bathroom, pipes up as he passes by. “Dance with the man, Mac,” he urges.
Stopping abruptly, he waves a hand in Daniel’s direction. “Drug dealers don’t got a long life-expectancy, so it could be his last dance.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I cover my face with my hands and let out a groan.
Voice like velvet-wrapped steel, Daniel’s words hold a trace of humor. “You heard the man. Wouldn’t want me to die without the experience of dancin’ with you, would you?”
Dropping my hands, I shoot him a withering look, my tone flat. “The odds are not in your favor.”
“C’mon, Mac,” Timmy protests. “Dance with the man.” Features suddenly going stern, he turns sharp eyes on Daniel and wags a finger at him like one might a small child. “But no hanky-panky.”
What is it with these men tonight? All of a sudden, I have overprotective father-wannabes?
He matches Timmy’s look head-on. “She’s safe with me.”
That’s all he says. But it doesn’t escape my notice that he didn’t specifically agree to the “no hanky-panky” part.
Daniel’s gaze veers to mine, dark ruthlessness infused with sensuality swirling in the depths. I wonder if he’s even aware of the magnetic pull he has on me.
“Well, then. Go on.” Timmy urges me with a motion of his hand before edging away toward the bathroom. “Dance with the man.” Evidently pleased with exerting his influence, he strides away to relieve himself.
Daniel’s large palm is extended to me, and I eye it suspiciously. “Dance with me, Mac.” His eyes flash with challenge. “Unless you’re too scared.”
I lift my chin a notch in defiance. “You’re starting to piss me off, Danny.”
Lines bracket each side of his mouth, illustrating his displeasure at my use of the nickname. “It’s Daniel. And likewise.”
I slap my palm in his, parting my lips to spout off another biting remark. But the instant our hands touch, I’m startled by a snap of electricity and pull back in surprise.
A crease forms between his brows as his eyes volley between his hand and mine. “Shit. That was some serious static electricity.”
I massage my palm. “No kidding.”
“Let’s try that again.”
He extends his hand to me, and I regard it warily. This time, I slowly ease my palm closer to his. Those tiny hairs on my arms stand on end the closer I get, and the air seems to crackle between us. Once I settle my hand in his, the lights in the bar flicker and the song currently playing on the jukebox skips.
It must be some electrical surge or something.
Daniel leads me to the dance floor, pulling me close and keeping hold of one hand while resting the other at my hip. My free hand gravitates to his shoulder that’s undeniably strong and muscled beneath the fabric of his shirt.
Being this close to him has me off-kilter and leaves me feeling as though I’ve touched a live wire and been infused with an electrical current.
More than that, though, is the oddest sensation of familiarity in his touch. It’s as though I somehow know him on a deeper level.
He lowers his head, his stubbled jaw raking a path from my temple to my ear as he brings his mouth to it, and a shiver travels through me. I wonder if he feels this, too, or if it’s all one sided. I wonder–
“Did you know or ever meet a woman named Emilia?”
18
DANIEL
“Did you know or ever meet a woman named Emilia?” My voice is a low rumble against the shell of her ear as we sway on the dance floor.
Being on the far edge of it, opposite the couple and away from the remainder of the bar patrons, affords us some privacy.
“No.” Mac gives a slight shake of her head. “Emilia was your sister?”
“Yeah.” With my lips still at the shell of her ear, I exhale softly without thinking, and she shivers again.
I can’t explain what the hell’s going on with me, but my entire body feels like I’ve just been plugged into an electrical outlet.
Christ. The fuck kind of shitty-ass brother am I, getting distracted by a woman and letting my dick lead the way?
Frustration and self-loathing threaten to suffocate me. I scan my surroundings once again for threats but don’t detect any. Behind the bar, Benny pulls two beers from the cooler and uncaps them, sliding them toward a guy who tosses down some cash.
Get your shit together, asshole. I force myself to focus and slide my phone from my pocket to pull up the only current photo I have of my sister. I grit my teeth to suppress the urge to wince at the image.
“Have you ever seen her?”
Mac studies the image on my phone carefully while I gauge her reaction. Not a single ounce of recognition flickers across her face.
When she lifts her gaze to mine and says, “No. I’ve never seen her before,” it sends what feels like two tons of disappointment plummeting down on my shoulders.
I pocket my phone without a word, without looking at the photo again, because Emilia’s haunted expression still fucks with me.