The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood #1)(34)

I let her lead, rocking back and forth. And when she whispers Tyler’s name, I close my eyes. I can feel the pain radiating off her in waves. It mixes with my own grief, consuming and complete.

I decide I’m not that much of a masochist. This shit ends now.

Opening my eyes, I say, “Sam, it’s time to go.” Just loud enough for her to hear over the music.

Her head snaps back, and for the briefest moment, her eyes register that I’m not him. Shock and confusion churn in them. But then the haze of alcohol and her delusion covers them again, and she smiles. “I’m not ready yet, Tyler. We never get to dance.”

My gut twists. “Wave to your friends,” I tell her, not giving in. I spin her around to get a better hold of her, wrapping my arm around her waist.

She slackly fans her hand and slurs something to the bandana girls.

“Bye, baby girl,” Black Bandana says. Then she cocks her head at me. “Take care of her.”

I only nod before walking Sam out of the bar and into the parking lot. The night air bites into my skin through my thin T-shirt. I worry about the almost-passed-out girl in my arms until I realize the alcohol is probably keeping her warm. Propping her against the side of my truck, I keep one arm anchored around her chest, desperately trying to ignore the feel of her breasts.

After I lift her onto the seat, I buckle her in. Her head lolls to the side, and I smile. “Did you have fun, party girl?”

Her eyes try to focus on me, but they’re unseeing, unfocused. She nods sloppily.

I laugh. “Just don’t yack in the truck. Warn me first, okay?”

No response. She’s assed out already.

Somehow I manage to get her through the hotel lobby and into the elevator without causing a scene, but when we make it to the second floor, she’s falling and stumbling. With a groan, I reach down and scoop her up, then carry her the rest of the way to her room.

I curse as I have to dig into her back pocket for the key card. Touching her ass isn’t making this any easier. Once I get her comfortable, I’ll go back for the box. I left it in the truck, not wanting to chance dropping it while trying to take care of her.

Laying her down on the bed, I prop the pillow up and roll her onto her side, so she’s not on her back. In case she does have to toss her stomach. I consider that for a moment, and grab the tin trashcan, place it beside the bed.

Then I just stare at her. Her breathing’s evened out, her black hair falling in her face. I gently brush it behind her ear. With a heavy sigh, I unlace her shoes and slip those off . . . and think about removing her jeans, too. But I’m not that big of a creeper. I know she’ll flip out come morning.

Before I leave, I fill one of the cups in the bathroom with tap water and set it on the nightstand. Just in case she wakes up. She’s going to be dehydrated and feel like smashed *s.

Glancing around, I look for anything else I need to do. And realize I’m stalling. “Fuck,” I breathe out. I’m the biggest * who ever lived.

Sam mumbles something in her sleep. Kneeling beside the bed, I say, “Sam, you should drink some water.”

She wipes at her face harshly as her eyes flutter open. I smile. She’s an adorable drunk.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

I feel my face screw up. “About what? What do you have to be sorry for?”

Taking a shuddering breath, she blinks. Her eyes are red and glassy. “I’m so sorry for what your dad did to you.”

My heart freezes in my chest, and I’m cemented to the floor. My eyes lock on to hers. “Tyler told you.” It’s not a question. I just have to say it aloud. For it to be real.

She nods against the pillow, and I close my eyes for a moment as a heavy, strained breath whooshes from my mouth. “Goodnight, Sam.” Her eyes shut again, and it’s not long before she’s asleep.

This time, I sit in the chair across from the bed, unable to make myself leave. My mind is reeling, and I know if I go back to my room, I’m going to break something. I keep watch over her, pretending I’m not livid. Not losing my shit.

When the sun lights the curtains, casting the room in that strange gloom you only see in hotel rooms, I quietly leave.

My head hits the pillow hard. A f*cking hotel bed has never felt so good.





Sam

A sharp throb radiating from my toenails to the roots of my hair propels me out of bed. The ache behind my eyes builds as the light bleeding through the crack in the curtain brightens. The sun is the devil.

Leaning over the side of the bed, I wrap my arms around my stomach, praying whatever’s inside doesn’t come up. I don’t remember drinking that much last night, but my mouth tastes like I cleaned out the bar.

I know I didn’t smoke (at least I don’t think), but for some reason, I also taste like an ashtray. Maybe from just breathing the smoke in the small bar. I curse under my breath and push myself off the bed.

Leaving the bathroom light off, I turn on the faucet and splash cold water on my face, then quickly brush my teeth. It helps, but only marginally. I can still taste the fruity concoction of Pink Panty Pull-down on my tongue. Luckily, the drink didn’t have its desired effect, and I’m still in both my boy shorts and jeans.

A frightening thought makes my eyes go wide. What the hell happened with Holden last night? And then another. Where are Tyler’s ashes?