The Darkest Part(80)

She accepts my answer with a nod as we head down the hallway in search of our room. And I realize this is, hopefully, the first time on the trip I’ll actually sleep all night in a bed. I laugh out loud. I might be delirious.

Sam pauses before the door, the key card hovering over the metal reader, her eyebrows raised in question.

“Nothing,” I say, having a hard time wiping the smile from my face. “I’m just overjoyed to have a bed.”

Realization dawns, and her eyes go wide. “Oh, shit. You haven’t really slept much, have you?”

I shrug it off. “I don’t need a lot of sleep. But hell, I’ve never looked so forward to sleeping in a hotel bed before.”

As we enter the room, I’m stoked. One large king and a twin, and the comforters look clean and soft. I drop my bag, unconcerned where, and fall face first into the twin. It’s the first bed.

Sam’s laugh makes me smile into the bedspread. “You can have the big bed. I’m small.”

I don’t argue. She is tiny, and I’m going to stretch all of my six-foot two self out on that huge ass bed. Slogging over, I yank the comforter back and climb in, leaving my shoes on the floor.

Sam eyes me. “You’re not going to—?”

She halts as I hustle under the covers to get my jeans off and then toss them somewhere in the room. “Nope,” I say. “All done.” I look over and grin. “I’m a guy, you know. We don’t take much maintenance.” I crook a smile as I flip her excuse from last night around on her. And honestly, I’m too drained to care if she’s offended. I just want sleep. This is one night she doesn’t have to fear me making a move on her.

I’ve already got my lamp off and eyes closed when she returns from the bathroom. Despite sleep crying my name, I fight my eyes open to get a glimpse of her. And wish I hadn’t.

She’s in her too-short girl boxer things that I can just see beneath her tee. There’s nothing sensual about her night clothes, or there shouldn’t be. But she makes the simplest outfit look sexy as hell.

Running a hand down my face, I exhale. “Night, Sam,” I say as she slides in under her covers.

She lays facing me, her hair spread over the pillow. Her hand curled in front of her mouth. “Night, Holden. Sweet dreams.”

Her voice is so soft, and her words pierce my heart. If she ever discovers what demons haunt my dreams, she’d know just how much I craved sweet ones. With a deep breath, I inhale some of her sweet scent and commit to memory her beautiful face before I roll over and close my eyes, hoping it helps keep the nightmares at bay.



One of the reasons I have a “bed thing” is my dreams. Being comfortable, for whatever reason, means less nightmares. Less vivid ones, at least. I have to admit, despite the lumpy hotel bed, I didn’t wake once. And I’m refreshed and feel like we might actually complete this trip without falling apart.

Or, we might just be entering the eye of the storm.

Sam’s good at sweeping stuff under the rug. Every time we’ve fought, had to face an issue, she’s been the one to call the shots and chose to let it drop. Move on. Not deal with it. And really, for most guys, a girl like that is ideal.

But in Sam’s case, it’s not good. One day, the top is going to blow.

I’m not sure if I want that day to be during our trip or not. I’d rather it be when she’s close to home, feels safe. Protected. Then again, I’m about ready to have it out and force us to work through our shit. In the end, we’ll either be friends, or she’ll decide she’s done with me altogether.

These thoughts churn a hole in my brain as I sip my Starbucks on a bench in Central Riverside Park. We decided to have an easy, laidback day until we’re to meet up with Biker Melody and her people for the show.

Sam’s sitting in the grass near a pond, sketchpad on her lap. The mid-morning sunlight sets off the blue highlights in her black hair, and she looks so at peace, so beautiful, I have the sudden need to draw her.

I haven’t drawn anything on this trip. Which is odd for me. I’m always doodling or sketching anything that catches my eye. But I’ve been so wrapped up in Sam, in whatever is going on with her, me, us—that I just haven’t. And maybe that’s part of my problem. Drawing is my outlet, and I’ve been keeping everything locked up on the inside for days.

Pushing off the bench, I think it’s what I want more than anything. Well, almost. But right now, it’s more than a necessity. Like breathing.

As I settle down next to Sam, I peek at her drawing. Shades of black and gray blend into a landscape of the park and pond.