Chapter 17
LARK
The venue is in the heart of Little Havana, and I can hear the music from a full block away. Live horns and percussion cut through the humid night air, the kind of music that demands attention, that pulls you toward it whether you want to go or not.
As we get closer on the motorcycle, I see people spilling out onto the sidewalk, drinks in hand, some of them dancing right there on the pavement like the party can’t be contained by walls.
The whole street feels alive, electric. Jack parks the bike and I pull off my helmet, immediately hit by the energy of it all.
The bass is so loud I can feel it vibrating through my chest, through my bones, through my entire body.
“What is this?” I ask, trying to take it all in. The lights, the people, the music pouring out the doors.
“La Casa de la Música,” Jack says, pulling off his own helmet. “You said you liked dancing, right? Back when we joked about going to a club in Berlin together?”
I blink at him, surprised. “I do love dancing. Though I’m not great at it, and I haven’t gone out in forever.” I tilt my head, studying his face. “I’m surprised you remembered that. It was such an offhanded comment. I didn’t think you’d pay attention to it.”
“I always pay attention when you talk,” he says, and his expression makes me forget how to breathe properly for a second.
I swallow and turn to take in the building.
It’s covered in colorful murals. Bright tropical flowers, dancing figures, abstract swirls of color that seem to move in the glow of the string lights crisscrossing overhead.
Jack takes my hand and pulls me through the crowd toward the entrance.
My palms are already a little sweaty, but whether it’s from the Miami heat or what he just said, I can’t tell.
Inside, the space opens up bigger than I expected.
Exposed red brick walls, a proper bar along one side packed with people ordering drinks and shouting to be heard, small tables scattered throughout where groups lean in close to talk over the music.
And at the center of it all, a stage where a full band is mid-set.
Guitar, bass, drums, congas, bongos, horns that shine under the stage lights, and a woman singing with a voice that raises goosebumps on my arms despite the oppressive heat.
The dance floor in front of the stage is packed. Hips moving, feet flying through complicated patterns, partners spinning and dipping like they’ve been doing this their whole lives. It’s mesmerizing and slightly intimidating.
The air is thick with humidity and rum and sweat and perfume all mixed together into something intoxicating, something that makes me want to move closer to Jack, that makes my inhibitions feel like they’re already dissolving.
“I love this,” I say, and I have to raise my voice to be heard over the music, over the crowd, over everything.
Jack’s grin widens, his eyes bright with excitement and something else I can’t quite name. “Just wait. It gets better.”
I don’t know how it could possibly get better than this, but I believe him.
Jack keeps his hand on the small of my back as we navigate through the crowd toward the bar.
Bodies press close on all sides, and I catch fragments of conversations in Spanish and English, laughter, someone shouting something that gets drowned out by the horns hitting a particularly loud crescendo.
The energy is intoxicating. I can feel the music in my chest, my whole body wanting to move.
We squeeze into a gap at the bar, and Jack leans down close so I can hear him. His breath is warm against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “What do you want to drink?”
“What are you getting?” I ask, practically shouting back.
“Old Fashioned. They make them strong here.”
“I’ll do the same,” I say. It’s a whiskey kind of night.
He catches the bartender’s attention, holding up two fingers. “Two Old Fashioneds!”
The bartender nods, a guy in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and forearms like he’s been slinging drinks for decades, and gets to work with the confidence of someone who could do this in his sleep, despite the chaos around him.
The bar is absolute madness, but there’s a rhythm to it.
Everyone swaying slightly to the music while they wait, nobody in a real rush because the night is still young and full of possibility and why hurry when everything is this good?
Jack pays when the drinks arrive, waving off my attempt to contribute, and I take a sip.
The whiskey hits immediately, burning a path down my throat and settling warm and pleasant in my stomach.
It’s strong and smooth and perfectly balanced, and it makes me feel bold in a way I haven’t felt in years.
Like I could do anything. Be anyone. Take risks.
“Good?” Jack asks, watching my face closely.
“Really good,” I confirm, taking another sip and feeling the warmth spread through my chest like liquid courage. “You weren’t kidding about strong.”
His eyes haven’t left my face, and the look in them makes my pulse kick up several notches. There’s something in his expression I haven’t seen before. Something darker. Hungrier.
The song ends to thunderous applause and cheers, and the band launches immediately into something new.
Faster, more upbeat, the kind of rhythm that makes it physically impossible to stand still.
Around us, people are already moving, heading back to the dance floor or dancing right where they’re standing at the bar.
Jack’s nodding his head to the beat, and I realize I’m doing the same thing without thinking about it. My hips are already moving slightly, my body responding to the music before my brain even processes it. The whiskey is making everything feel more intense, more alive.
“You want to dance?” he asks, and there’s something in his voice that makes the question feel like more than just an invitation to the dance floor.
I look toward all those people who clearly know what they’re doing, and feel a flutter of nervousness in my stomach. But then the woman on stage hits this incredible high note, and the crowd goes wild, and the whiskey is warm in my veins. Fuck it.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s dance.”
Jack’s grin is immediate and devastating. He downs the rest of his Old Fashioned in one long swallow that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is, and I do the same, feeling the burn all the way down, feeling it settle in my stomach like fire.Then he takes my hand and pulls me toward the dance floor.
We weave through bodies, squeezing past a couple executing some impossibly complicated spin that nearly takes out my shoulder. The dance floor is even more packed than it looked from the bar, everyone pressed close together, moving as one mass of rhythm and heat and pure joy.
Jack finds us a spot near the middle and turns to face me, his hands already reaching for me. “Fair warning, I’m not great at this.”
“That makes two of us,” I say, though I’m fully prepared to embarrass myself.
He reaches for my hand, placing his other hand on my waist with confidence that contradicts his words, and when the band shifts into the next song, he starts to move.
I immediately realize he’s lying through his teeth.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s confident, leading me through steps with the kind of ease that only comes from practice and natural rhythm.
“You’re a liar,” I accuse, laughing as he spins me out and pulls me back in smoothly. “You said you weren’t great at this.”
“I said I’m not great, not that I’m terrible,” he says as he leads me through another turn that makes my head spin pleasantly.
“And I like keeping you on your toes, remember? I had a girlfriend briefly when I was twenty who was obsessed with salsa dancing. So we went out a lot and I picked up a few things.”
“Thank her for me later,” I say, and I can hear the breathlessness in my own voice, and can feel my heart racing.
A guy who can actually dance is ridiculously, unfairly attractive.
And when that guy is Jack Midnight, with his hands on my waist and those green eyes locked on mine like I’m the only person in this entire packed room, and his body moving against mine with perfect rhythm?
I’m in way over my head. Drowning and not even trying to surface.
We keep moving, and gradually I start to relax into it. Stop thinking so hard about where my feet should go and just feel the music instead. The percussion vibrates through the floorboards, and the horns cut through everything, bright and joyful and demanding.
Jack spins me again, and this time I don’t stumble or hesitate. When he pulls me back in, I have to tilt my head all the way back to look up at him. He’s so tall, and solid, and warm, and the way he’s holding me makes me feel both completely safe and utterly reckless at the same time.
“You’re actually really good at this yourself,” he says, his voice warm with approval that makes pride bloom in my chest.
“That’s only because you’re a good lead,” I point out breathlessly, my words coming fast.
Around us, the other dancers are in their own worlds.
An older couple moving with the kind of synchronization that only comes from years together.
A group of friends laughing as they try to coordinate some complicated move.
A woman dancing solo with such pure joy on her face it makes me smile just watching her.
The song builds, tempo picking up, and Jack matches it perfectly. His hands tighten on my waist as he leads me through faster steps, more spins, and I’m laughing, breathless, feeling more alive than I have in years.
“Having fun?” Jack asks, his mouth close to my ear so I can actually hear him over the music and the crowd.
“So much fun,” I admit. When was the last time I felt like this? Completely present, completely in my body, completely free? I honestly can’t remember.