The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood #1)(52)

If I thought jerking off would help, I’d beat the f*ck out of it right now. But that won’t satisfy my need for her. If I thought marching up there and taking an ice-cold shower would douse the fire searing beneath my skin, I’d dive head first into the Mississippi. Okay. That’s extreme. Maybe. But a shower’s out of the question.

I can’t be anywhere near her right now.

I f*cked up.

And when she said Tyler’s name . . . shit. Did she see him? Right then? When I was going down on her? How messed up is that. It’s so messed up that I just can’t. My guilt meter tipped over somewhere around the time I started dancing with her at the club. I’m taxed out on guilt at the moment.

My self-loathing for trying to be with a mentally unstable girl puts me on the all-time top douchebag list. I just cleared the first spot, I’m sure. But it’s Sam. Fucking Sam. Sometimes I look at her and just see her. The girl I wanted more than anything. And other times . . . like just ten minutes ago . . . I’m reminded why I should’ve never gone on this trip.

I wouldn’t be surprised if she bought a plane ticket home tomorrow. And maybe that’s for the best. If she’s expecting an apology, I can’t give her one. I knew exactly what I was doing, and I knew exactly what I wanted.

But hell, she sure as shit wanted it, too. I close my eyes, remembering the feel of her as I slid my fingers inside. The warmth, tightness. Her smooth, soft lips . . .

Scrubbing my hands over my face, I loose a guttural roar into my palms.

I am a masochist.

Rolling onto my side, I give up the fight, letting my thoughts drift back to her. Wondering if she’s beating herself up as much as I’m kicking my own ass right now.



A tapping noise pulls me out of sleep. For a second, I think Sam and I must have gotten too tired to drive and pulled over, until last night comes back in a rush of hot and painful memories.

Shit.

The noise grows louder, and I look up. Sam’s on the other side of the driver’s side window. A cup of coffee in her hand.

My savior.

Pulling myself up by the steering wheel, I slide toward the door and roll down the window. She’s freshly showered, her wet hair falling over her shoulders, and a rosy blush tinges her makeup-free cheeks.

“I thought you might need this,” she says, passing the Starbucks cup through the window. “I’m sure sleeping in your truck makes for a crappy morning.”

Now that most of the blood has returned to my head—well, except the bit that’s sporting my morning wood—I can rationalize last night clearly. I don’t want her to punish herself. To think that she did anything wrong.

“Thanks,” I say, and take a sip. It’s hot and black and perfect. I stare into her eyes. “About last night—”

“Can we not?” The pleading in her voice throws me, and I open and close my mouth a couple of times. Stunned. “I mean. We’re both grownups. Shit happens. We had drinks, the club atmosphere was hot . . . and”—she shrugs—“I’d rather just keep going.”

My brow furrows. “You want to keep going?” I have to ask. For clarity. “On the trip?”

She nods, her lips pinched tightly together.

Fuck. Me.

I rake a hand through my hair and expel a heavy breath through my nose. Look through the windshield at the concrete wall. Think about running my head into it. “Okay.” She wants to keep going on the trip. Not keep going with what happened between us. Understood.

“All right,” she says. “You can shower up and pack your stuff, and I’ll go grab some food for the drive.”

I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. And instead, I watch her walk away. From me. It’s like . . . did we both experience the same thing last night? Did I have any effect on her at all? Not that I’m not grateful she isn’t upset, or angry, or worse than anything, hurt. But, it’s kind of a blow to my ego.

I don’t want her to feel like she betrayed my brother and beat herself up. I’m doing that enough for the both of us. But hell.

All those years ago, everything I felt for her—what I thought she felt for me—was that all in my head? She was young, sure. And I know she truly loved my brother. But last night, I thought I felt something. A connection. The way she was looking at me. And dancing. Shit. I don’t know.

And I won’t even let my mind go where it’s trying to go right now. Nope. Not going to happen. Thinking of Sam comparing me to Tyler in bed is sick on a whole new level. I curse my f*cked up brain for even wandering there.

Maybe there’s really nothing between us, on her part—and like she said, she just wants to finish the trip. I’m torturing myself for nothing.

Still, I’m crazy about her. And I don’t know if my sanity will hold out.

However, it’s not worth trying to figure out at eight in the morning in a parking garage in Memphis. So I suck up my wounded pride and hop out of the truck.

After I’m showered, shaved, dressed, and have taken care of business—figured I’d better release some of the stress, or else I’d be in for a long, painful drive—I grab my bag and meet Sam in the lobby. I did note that she didn’t return to the room. At all. So maybe I affected her some. If only slightly.

Either way, I’m ready to leave this city and its new, painful memories behind.