I made a derisive sound. “You wear cowboy boots about half the time,” I said. “Big whoop.”
“Hey, I’m from Texas,” he protested, and the conversation got even more trivial from there.
Stompin’ Sally’s was out in the middle of a field, and it was a big place. It had its own brand of fame. The parking lot was huge. A lot of pickup trucks, a lot of SUVs. Big garbage cans set at strategic intervals. Some lights, not quite enough. I spotted Jason’s truck two rows closer to the entrance, so we started in. Sam insisted on walking behind me to admire the way the skirt swayed, until I reached back with my hand and caught his, drawing him to my side. Xavier, Sally’s bouncer, was western from head to toe, including a white hat. He gave us a smile and wave as Sam paid our cover charge.
In the dim, noisy cavern of the dance hall, we finally tracked down Jason and Michele. Michele had gone the tight-jeans-and-tube-top route, and she looked delicious. Jason, his blond hair carefully combed and styled, hadn’t decided on the cowboy hat, but he was ready to dance. That’s one ability both Jason and I inherited from our mom and dad. We sat down at the table, watching the dancing, for a while until we’d each had a drink. There are a hundred versions of “Cotton-Eyed Joe,” and one of my favorites was playing. My feet began to itch to get out on the dance floor. Jason was getting that itch, too; I could tell by the way his knees were jiggling.
“Let’s dance,” I called to Sam. Though he was right next to me, a raised voice was necessary. Sam was looking a little worried as he eyed the dancers. “I’m not that good,” he called back. “Why don’t you and Jason take a turn while me and Michele admire you?” Michele, who was able to hear the gist of the exchange, smiled and pushed Jason, so my brother and I went out onto the dance floor. I saw Sam watching, smiling, and I felt truly happy. I knew it might be only for a moment, but I was willing to take it when I could get it.
Jason and I stomped and sashayed and moved smoothly through all the steps in good synchronization, beaming at each other. We started out side by side, me in the outer ring, Jason in the inner, and as we circled, we moved away from Sam and Michele’s table at the back of the big room, and closer to the door. When the inner circle rotated a bit, I looked to my left to see my new partner—and recognized the Reverend Steve Newlin.
The shock almost knocked me down, and I lunged away from him with no plan except to put distance between us. But someone stopped me. An iron grip caught my arm and pulled me toward the door. Johan Glassport was much stronger than he looked, and before I knew it, I was on my way out into the parking lot. “Help!” I yelled to the big bouncer, and Xavier’s eyes widened and he stepped forward, his hand extended to Glassport’s shoulder. Without slowing down, Glassport shoved a knife into the poor man and yanked it out, and I filled my lungs with air and screamed like a banshee. I drew plenty of attention, but too late. From behind me, Newlin shoved me out the door, and Glassport dragged me to the van waiting there, engine idling.
He pulled the side door open and shoved me inside, launching himself in on top of me. From the flurry of knees and elbows, I could tell Glassport had jumped into the van, too. We took off. I could hear yelling behind us and even a gunshot.
I was gasping for air and sanity. I looked around me, trying to orient myself. I was in a large van with two small passenger and driver doors at the front, a larger side door. The back seats had been removed to create an empty, carpeted space. Only the driver’s seat was occupied.
From my position sprawled on the floor, I tried to identify the driver. He half turned to look down at me. His face was like a nightmare, scarred and twisted. I could see his teeth, though he wasn’t smiling, and I saw shiny red patches on his cheeks. Someone had burned this guy, recently and severely. Only his long black hair seemed familiar.