The Darkest Part(61)

I used to think my awesome memory was a gift. Got me through a lot of tests I never studied for. But now it feels more like a curse. I can picture her perfect little hot body in my mind every time I close my eyes. And I want to tell her that, it’s not a pervy thing. That she’s beautiful and tantalizing and delicate. That I never knew I preferred a perfectly shaven girl—completely smooth; so fucking sexy—until I saw her. That now, I can’t ever imagine being with anyone else.

Just knowing that she puts in that kind of attention to detail . . . oh, my shit. When I first laid my eyes on her, I didn’t think I could hold out. I wanted her right then. Had to know what she’d feel like around me. But I held back, wanting to bring her to the edge first, to make her want me as badly as I was craving her.

But the look on her face just now says it all. I can’t tell her any of that.

It goes into the lockbox.

After a few minutes, we come up on the bridge, and Sam points out her window at a giant silver pyramid. “Wow. That’s gorgeous.” She glances at the map. “It’s the Pyramid Arena. Too bad we can’t check it out.”

My chest tightens. “We’re not on a tight schedule or anything. We can go. If you really want.”

She shakes her head. “No. It’s fine.” She looks at her lap and says even lower, “I’m over Memphis.”

And she finishes me off. Dagger right to the heart. But what did I expect? After only a few days, the girl I’d fallen for way back when, who was engaged to my fucking brother, who I ignored every time we were around each other after I treated her like shit, would just be ready to hop into bed with me?

I’m beyond delusional. Hell, I’m a guy. I guess a typical one.

Whatever was going on between us at the club was like she said, the atmosphere. Grinding bodies everywhere. Alcohol. And back at the hotel? I took her off-guard. But I think one thing needs to be stated so that she’s not freaked out around me. So that she doesn’t resort to fearing me, the way she did when I first carried her to my truck.

I don’t want her to look at me like that ever again.

“Sam,” I say, my voice raspy. I clear my throat. “I won’t touch you again. I promise.”

Her body tenses. From the corner of my vision, I watch as her shoulders and neck pull straight, her chin lifts a fraction. And I might actually be delusional, but a flicker of something akin to hurt flashes across her face. It hits my chest, so quickly, knocking the breath from my lungs.

But just as quickly, she’s composed. “Thanks. And I won’t, like, wear sexy jean skirts again. I promise.”

I bark a laugh. It escapes my mouth before I can rein it in. She laughs, too, and the tension-filled cab releases some of its pressure.

I’m still smiling as I pull onto the bridge. And so is she.





Sam

Tyler’s picture box feels heavy in my hands. Weighted. Like all my shame has been added to the inside. I inhale a huge breath, taking in the mix of marshy river and city fuel smell as I walk the bridge toward the section overlooking the Mississippi River.

The much needed tension breaker in the truck didn’t last long, unfortunately. Holden and I have to get past last night if we’re going to continue this journey. And I can’t let him take on all the responsibility himself. Not all of it, anyway. But it’s easier, for me, to pretend like it never happened.

Besides, Tyler still hasn’t come back to me. And when he does (because he has to), I don’t want him popping up in the middle of an awkward moment or conversation between me and his brother.

As far as I know, Tyler isn’t aware of what happened. For a moment last night, I forgot about everything—him, us, his death, this trip. And it was just that moment. Holden’s touch disconnected me from my painful reality, and I welcomed the escape. But if Tyler doesn’t know, then it can only mean he was in that darkness.

I hate thinking of him there, trapped, while I was . . . No. I don’t want to think about that. I can’t believe I let myself get caught up in Holden all over again.

Even though I feel like the crap that gets scraped off the bottom of a shoe, and I should be honest with Tyler, I just don’t think I can bear to have that conversation with him. Sure, Tyler kept kissing some girl from me. And I can pretend that last night was just a rebound for my hurt feelings. I can use it as my excuse . . . but it wouldn’t be the truth. Holden and I have a history. There’re feelings I’ve buried—emotions I thought I’d moved on from. Obviously, some of them lingered. The more time we spend together, the more they’re uncovered, resurfacing.

It doesn’t matter, though. At least not right now. Here, standing in the tiny space between the cemented edge of the bridge and the three-lane highway, I’m all Tyler’s. The drama of the past few days disappears, and I feel his absence more prominently than ever.