The Darkest Part(97)

I won’t lie. At first I was uncertain. Not sure if I could actually live here. But after I knew how badly Sam had always wanted to attend NYU, I sucked up my doubt and made it happen.

Zipping up my coat, I shut out the biting cold, the key burning a hole in my pocket. I couldn’t give Sam what I wanted for her birthday, but I can for Christmas. A huge, cheesy grin spreads across my face as I turn the corner toward the apartment building.

Once we made it to the final destination on my brother’s map, we decided that staying there wasn’t for us. After we’d spread the last of his ashes along the coast of Santa Rosa Beach, we picked another spot—just ours—to unwind from the road trip. Lounging on the beach, the sun shimmering off her dark hair, Sam admitted that she still harbored the dream of going to school in New York and eventually owning her own art studio.

I couldn’t deny her that dream.

She didn’t believe I was serious. That I’d pack up my stuff in Atlanta and move with her. And I was freaked. Not knowing if I could even find a job. But once she was able to transfer to NYU on late submission acceptance, I got my shit in gear and had my boss call in a favor.

He was born and raised here, and was able to pull a few strings to land me a job at an auto body shop not far from the university. It’s strange walking to work instead of driving. I still have my truck—because there was no way I was giving that up—but it’s not a necessity here. And parking it in a garage and only driving on weekends will be worth everything and more when I see the look on Sam’s face.

In about one minute.

I cross the lobby and hit the elevator button for my floor, bouncing on my toes. Like a total kid. I’m that excited. This, along with the news we’d gotten from Amber about Tyler’s case, is the perfect ending to the worst year of our lives. Everything now is in direct contrast to the beginning of this year.

But it’s far from over.

My brother’s murderer was found guilty and convicted last month. The legal system is painfully slow, and moving here with Sam was the best thing I could’ve done—since I didn’t want to go to prison for murdering him. James was out on probation when new evidence put him away until his court date.

The redhead, Sadie, surprisingly provided that evidence. Apparently James’ Civic needed a new headlight, and instead of taking it to a shop to have it replaced, he’d ordered one from an online dealership. He never got rid of the old one, though. And Sadie turned it into the police.

They found trace amounts of my brother’s blood in the cracked headlight. It had been cleaned, but they were able to get enough to match it to Tyler’s DNA. And with the journal pages, the lawyer was able to prove it was no accident. James had deliberately met with Tyler that night for one outcome. It was premeditated, and the judge sentenced him to life without parole.

I know how these things work, though. I know that in just a few short years, James could be up for parole on good behavior and all that bullshit. But we’ll face anything else that comes our way.

Shaking my heavy thoughts from my head, I push in the apartment key and open the door.

And my heart thumps my chest hard, a dumbass smile sliding across my face.

Sam’s on her tiptoes, paintbrush extended above her head, working on her painting of the last stop of our road trip. She’s in her paint-covered smock . . . and nothing else. My eyes drift over her bare shoulders to the tightly cinched belt, and then down to the too-short bottom that reveals her sexy thighs and a hint of her sexy ass.

Her head whips around, her high ponytail following. The tip of it is covered in paint, and it leaves a slash of green across her collarbone and tatted stars. “You’re home early.”

I love it. I still love hearing her say home. As in our home. “Yeah, I had some things to handle, and I took the rest of the day off.”

Stepping out of my boots, I kick them near the door, then toss my coat over the couch along the wall. Above, a collage of framed paintings showcase black wiry trees. Sam and my paintings from high school.

I coast across the hardwood floor, drawn to her like a magnet.

She drops the paintbrush to the tarp and holds up her hands. “Wait. I’m covered in paint. You’ll get all—”

I strip off my jeans and yank my shirt over my head by the back of the collar. In under five seconds, I’m in my boxers—which I could give a damn about—and I’m pulling her against me. The chilly paint on her skin and smock touches my skin, and it only heightens my need to feel her.

She laughs, linking her arms around my neck. “I could get used to you coming home early.” Her eyes sparkle as they meet my gaze.