Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
According to Sammi, at the Skylight, everybody belonged. The creaky barstools had lopsided cushions. Behind the dartboard, Polaroids captured years of Best Night Evers—sweaty and smiling faces, arms linked after more than a few rounds.
Sometimes, the draft beer was a little warm, but nobody complained because the bartenders never charged after the first one.
Under the namesake skylight, throngs of women in tight jeans corkscrewed their hips as a seductive army.
Their heeled boots tapped on battered hardwood to Alan Jackson’s “Chattahoochee.”
Brinton, however, wanted to crawl under a rock.
In a few breaths, Jamie had smothered every ounce of her glimmering optimism. He didn’t trust her. Therefore, telling his story was pointless, because he’d re-entered into a shitty deal with his father.
It was yet another lie he’d told. But why would he lie to her? Had she been wrong to trust him?
She decided right then: tonight would be her last in Iris. This article had drained more from her than she had to give.
Could she get a new job writing appointment reminder emails at Shay’s clinic? Brinton considered how many vagina euphemisms she’d have to memorize and sighed wistfully.
She needed a stiff drink. Were Long Island iced teas still cool?
The sting of a bare hand swatting her ass launched Brinton back into the present. Incensed, she spun around, instantly regretting not bringing her beloved combat boots.
Luckily, the homicidal rage behind her eyes cooled at the sight of Sammi. She was a honky-tonk angel in white denim shorts, a sleeveless black top cinched at her narrow waist, and cherry-red cowboy boots that matched her lipstick.
“Hey, sugar,” Sammi called out. Her high ponytail whipping in time with the Danielle Bradbery song blaring overhead. “You look as good as sweet tea in a drought. I bet it’s five seconds before somebody drags you onto the floor.”
They embraced tightly like old friends—Brinton had slowly warmed to the idea that they were—but her enthusiasm was short lived.
While the Skylight was a place for the Everyman, Brinton was a Black woman. As she surveyed the room, as far as she could tell, she was the only one present.
Bewildered eyes had casually clocked her as she walked through the club. There was a framed Confederate flag over the DJ booth, for God’s sake. Brinton’s smile flattened.
A fiery lash of panic hit her at once. Was she moments from being called a slur? Or worse, being physically hurt?
“What’s wrong?” Sammi asked, clocking the pretense etched across Brinton’s face.
“Nothing,” Brinton answered. Silently, she admonished herself for lying. Sammi had gone out of her way to make her feel welcomed.
However, being the only person who looked like her in a room meant being forced to shoulder unprovoked expectations the moment she opened her mouth. Judgements that sank her like boulders, grounding her so she didn’t feel too empowered to speak up or levitate above the status quo.
And standing in that room, full of peering eyes, beneath that flag, felt equally suffocating.
Brinton’s father’s mantra slipped into her mind: Swallow what hurts and move on.
Sammi’s eyes softened as she stepped closer, a bulldozer to the walls Brinton intended to erect around her heart.
“Hey, you can trust me.”
Selfishly, Brinton wanted that too. But trusting someone still felt foreign. So did having friends. Sammi’s eyes gleamed so earnestly that Brinton wanted to believe her. She sucked in a deep breath and dared to try.
“I’m worried that it’s not exactly safe for people like me to be…here,” Brinton confessed, the words tumbling out in a single rush. She pointed to the telltale flag.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Sammi said, voice wavering. “I can’t make up for the ugly in the world or the valid pain you feel, but I swear, I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Brinton started to pick at another sore patch on her thumb, but stopped herself. “Not to be all bleeding heart, but outside of my sister, I’ve never had anyone look out for me.”
Sammi took Brinton’s hands in hers and squeezed. “In this town, we look out for each other. If someone breathes too loudly near you, you tell me, got it?”
Brinton squeezed back.
Sammi nodded. “Now, let’s get you lit like a firefly on the Fourth of July.” Dragging Brinton by the hand, she led the way to the crowded bar, which parted like the Red Sea.
“First thing to know ’round here is how to shoot whiskey,” Sammi said, a spirited twinkle in her eye.
A bartender with a dark, slicked-back man-bun, tight black T-shirt, and footballs for shoulders appeared at the counter. He grinned wide. “What can I get y’all?”
“Two shots of Jack, please,” Sammi said lightly. “And let’s keep them coming all night.” She handed him a hundred-dollar bill from her tiny red purse, but he shook his head.
“You ladies are far too pretty to be paying for your drinks.”
Sammi shrugged, pleased with the proposition. “Well, if you’re gonna twist my arm about it.”
Man-Bun winked, then swiftly slid the shots before them. When they tipped them back, Brinton gasped at the burning sensation engulfing her throat. Sammi grinned like it was heaven’s nectar.
“Second thing to know is how to line dance,” Sammi said, swishing her hips in time to “Austin” by Dasha.
Brinton could feel the liquor’s warmth in her marrow, but she wasn’t crazy. The choreographed poetry happening on that dance floor was an entirely different level of dancing. What if she looked stupid? What if Jamie saw her and laughed?
“I can’t do that,” Brinton shouted over the music.
“You know the Electric Slide?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Then you can line dance.”
Sammi leaned over the bar, immediately catching Man-Bun’s attention.
“Honey, we need a couple more shots.”
Another shot and many songs later, Brinton and Sammi were deep in the crowd. Brinton was a quick study, picking up the steps and howling gleefully as she kicked, spun, and two-stepped.
When she fumbled, the women around her cheered her on anyway, and the men hooted and hollered each time all the girls swiveled their hips in unison.
Apparently, Brinton was a line dancer now.
Her body hummed as the final notes of Luke Bryan’s “Country Girl (Shake It For Me)” faded. An equally winded Sammi draped her arm around Brinton’s shoulders and squeezed.
“Let’s cool off a bit,” she said, leading them to a roped-off VIP section at the back of the club.
The bouncer, whose full beard deserved an honorary spot in ZZ Top, nodded as he lifted the velvet rope. A hostess with short, auburn pigtails led them to a leather booth in the corner.
At their table, ice-cold water bottles, tequila, and all the fixings filled a fancy metal cooler.
“You were willing to pay that bartender a hundred bucks when you could have gotten bottle service for free?” Brinton asked.
“I only come back here to rest my feet,” Sammi explained. “It’s usually full of slimy A&R guys from the labels. The main bar—and the dance floor—are way more my speed,” she said.
Despite Sammi’s perfectly curated exterior, she didn’t actively seek the others’ approval. Brinton admired that.
The VIP crowd was a decidedly stuffy, less friendly mix of middle-aged men and their bored, twenty-something dates, who passed the time by snapping equally indifferent thirst traps on their phones.
“So, havin’ fun yet?” Sammi asked, flopping dramatically into the booth.
Brinton gulped down her water, relieved not to be crying in a grimy bar bathroom stall right now. “I think I really needed this tonight.”
She had prepared for the worst—looking like a fool on the dance floor or being accosted by people who meant her harm—but the exact opposite had happened. It didn’t take away from Jamie’s stinging betrayal, but it was a welcome distraction.
Sammi’s emerald eyes flashed as she set down her water bottle. “That’s what I wanna hear.”
Brinton sank into the plush cushion and scanned the bar at the exact moment Jamie looked up from his untouched beer, meeting her eyes. Alone in a booth at the other side of the VIP section, he looked miserable as he peeled the label from his beer bottle.
She could go talk to him, but he’d effectively pushed her away, like Eli and every other guy she’d dared believe in.
So, that was that.
Sammi followed Brinton’s gaze and exhaled dramatically. “What’d he do now?”
“We’re not on the same page.”
Brinton was used to metabolizing her feelings, sharp and punishing like vinegar. But now, with what felt like a trusted friend, she was hungry for closure.
Sammi’s smile softened into something more solemn as she pressed her hand on top of Brinton’s. “I’m going out on a limb to share this, but I really like you. It wouldn’t sit right with me if I didn’t.”
They exchanged knowing glances across the table.
“Don’t worry. This stays off the record,” Brinton said, nodding. It was the least she could do.
Sammi exhaled, a rare shadow of trepidation in her eyes. “For as successful as Jamie is, his personal life don’t come with much freedom. Given that you’ve met his father, I don’t have to explain why. And I worry that sometimes, he’s carrying too much on his shoulders.”
“I don’t think I can help with that,” Brinton said flatly.
“I disagree. I think you’ve been a welcome relief for him. He won’t talk to me about it, but his spirit seems…lighter.”
Brinton’s gut lurched as the realization sank in.
Even as she’d slowly gotten to know Jamie, she had taken for granted that despite the fame and women and whiskey, he was a person who hurt like anyone else.
Perhaps then, she owed it to him to at least explain himself?
Otherwise, the unspoken ease between them meant nothing.
Damn, she wanted it to mean something.
“I’ll talk to him,” Brinton said through a half smile.
He’d convinced her to trust him, and in the process, she was starting to trust herself.
She didn’t want to give that up either.Sammi drained the rest of her water bottle, then screwed the top off the tequila.
“This article is gonna be one for the books.”
She arranged two shot glasses in front of her and poured the chilled potion into each. Sammi passed Brinton a lime wedge and nudged the shot toward her.
“Cheers,” Sammi trilled, clinking her glass against Brinton’s.
Brinton tipped it back. It was smokey and smooth, not unlike a certain man she couldn’t extricate from her mind.
Sammi slid out from her side of the booth. “This is where I leave you, young grasshopper,” she said.
She nodded toward the bar, where Man-Bun smiled back at her.
“I thought you wouldn’t leave me to fend for myself?” Brinton asked, feigned outrage painted on thick.
Sammi craned her neck, scanning the room. “Oh, I’m not leaving you to fend for yourself. Let’s not pretend Jamie hasn’t been making eyes since you sat down. I’m sure he’s bound to come find you and apologize for whatever charming thing he said earlier.”
That would be ideal, but would it happen? Brinton peered longingly at his empty booth. What if he had gone home? Or worse, what if he went home with someone?
Kendall’s frighteningly symmetrical face flashed behind Brinton’s eyes. Her heart plummeted into her boots. She was catastrophizing, her anxious mind’s favorite pastime.
While, at home, Brinton couldn’t stop herself from spiraling, she desperately wanted to stay in the moment now. To enjoy herself, as Shay had preached.
Sammi blew Brinton a kiss before spinning on her heels. “Have fun, text me if you need anything, and for all that is holy, don’t puke on him again.”
Brinton smirked, kicking her boots onto the bouncy leather seat. She would take advantage of this VIP section, even if she sat there mindlessly scrolling on her phone like the other women in her company.
She snapped a photo of the cornucopia of untouched booze and pulled up her text thread with Shay.
Brinton: Too much?
Shay replied a few seconds later.
Shay: NEVER ENOUGH, BOOKIE
Brinton snorted at her good fortune. This night had almost shaped up too well. For a woman expecting to be crushed when the other shoe dropped, she felt content to simply be, at least until she could figure out what to say to Jamie.
Wherever the hell he was.
“Can I join you?” asked a voice she didn’t recognize a few moments later.