The Darkest Part(40)

I don’t unlace my Converse.

Mother fu—

Letting the door slam behind me, I turn and knock on Holden’s room door. After a minute, there’s still no answer. No noise of anyone stirring comes from the other side. I try my key card, unsuccessfully, of course, and then bang on his door. Loudly.

I hear a deep groan, then the door squeaks open. Holden looks worse than me. His clothes are rumpled, and his hair is bedhead messy, sticking up in every direction (which I can’t help but notice looks devil-may-care sexy). Dark half-moons hollow out the skin beneath his eyes.

“Where’s Tyler?” When it leaves my mouth, I instantly regret my wording. But he knows what I mean. I can’t keep tiptoeing around him. We both loved Tyler, both struggling with his death. Only I have a mission to complete.

He sighs, stretching his long arm up, and his hand grips the top of the doorframe. A sliver of his toned stomach peeks from beneath his tee, and his low-slung jeans reveal that he’s wearing nothing underneath. But the glimpse of ink on his waist diverts my attention from anything sexual.

It’s all black and shaded gray, thick, and . . . He drops his arm and pulls his shirt straight. “It’s early,” he says, his voice husky.

I shake my head, clearing it from thoughts of his tattoo. “Holden, where’s Tyler’s ashes?” My voice comes out as desperate as I feel. I don’t care.

He rubs his eyes groggily. “The box is in the truck.” He leaves the door open as he walks away, an open invitation for me to follow.

I do, closing the door behind me, as he flops down on the bed. He covers his eyes with his forearm, and my gaze sweeps the tattoos decorating his arm—colorful and beautiful. Not wanting to be on the same bed as him again after the way it twisted me up last night, I take a seat at the desk. “How could you leave him out there?”

“You were too drunk to walk on your own,” he says. “I thought it was better than accidently spilling the ashes.”

“All right.” I wring my hands. “Can I have your keys?”

He pushes himself into a sitting position, pressing his back against the headboard. His eyes hard on me.

My head yanks back. “Did I do something to piss you off last night?”

He shakes his head tersely, as if he’s battling something within himself. Stopping himself from saying whatever it is he wants to say.

“Just spit it out,” I say. “What did I do?”

“Nothing,” he says. “You had a blast last night. I had a blast. We both had a blast.” He bounds up and heads for the bathroom. “Go get ready. We check out in an hour.”

His biting tone digs under my skin. I think about last night, trying to jog my memory. I danced with Melody and Darla, and downed shots. Lots of shots. And then a faint memory of dancing with . . . Tyler.

My face prickles with heat, and I wonder what those people must have thought—how crazy I must have looked. But honestly? Most of me doesn’t give a shit. I’ll never see them again. And I was so happy that Tyler finally came back, that he was able to materialize.

This is Tyler’s trip. Our trip. The least I can do is dance with him. He never liked to dance when he was alive, and when he waved me onto the floor, I know it was because we’ll never get the chance again.

But that shouldn’t have been enough to anger Holden. Unless it embarrassed him. Considering Holden’s never been one to care about what others think, I doubt that. Only, I have no other explanation for why he’s being so crass.

“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you,” I call out. “I’ll try to keep my crazy to a minimum for the rest of the trip.”

“Stop.”

One word. But it’s enough to fire me up. “Stop what?”

“Stop playing the victim. I hate that.”

Something snaps in my head, a loud click that forces me from the chair and onto my feet. The sound of running water halts, and Holden steps into the room. He starts tossing clothes into his bag. He won’t look at me.

“I’m not playing the victim,” I say, my words slow, deliberate. “I know you lost Tyler, too. I know this trip is hard for you . . . as much as it is for me, but—”

“But what?” He cuts me off as he looks up from his task. His eyes are hard and cool. Icy blue.

“But this trip is more than just . . .” Unable to finish, to explain, I hang my head.

He laughs. And the sound triggers a frantic response in me. I’m reminded that no matter what he suffered at the hands of his bastard father, no matter how considerate he’s been lately, he’s still the same asshole that treated me like shit five years ago. I stomp toward him, look him in his frosty eyes.