The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood #1)(59)
Hearing him drop his bag near the foot of the bed, I lift up onto my elbows. “This is freakin’ awesome.”
A devilishly beautiful smile slides across his face, and I have to look away. “There’s a pull-out,” he says. “You can have the bed.”
My eyes snap back to him and my brows draw together. “But I thought you had back issues. Didn’t you come here for the bed?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. I guess I didn’t think that through.”
My lips twitch. “You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch. I’m not an old fart with back problems.” I plunk back down into the comforter, enjoying the coolness of the white cotton material before I have to give it up.
He exhales heavily as he drops onto the couch. I hear his groan, and wonder just how exhausted he is. He’s driven the whole way here. The guilt that I’m offering nothing on this trip hits me again. “Hey,” I say, pushing myself off the bed. “I’m going to head down to the pool for a while. Think it might reenergize me. Want me to bring something up from the hotel restaurant on my way back? Probably cheaper than room service.”
His head turns my way. “You don’t want to keep to the agenda?” According to the map, Tyler and I were meant to see Outdoor World. Which, honestly, I have no idea why. He wasn’t the outdoorsy type.
I cross my arms over my chest. “I love Tyler, but there is nothing in me that wants to go hang out in a giant Bass Pro Shop.” I shake my head. “It might be time to admit that Tyler obviously had a whole other side of him I wasn’t aware of, or that he wanted to venture into new things . . .” I trail off, hoping the hurt over Tyler’s betrayal isn’t so obvious on my face. “Either way, I don’t feel obligated to do everything on the agenda.”
Holden has gone stone still. His hand paused on top of his head where he’d just been running it through his hair, his teeth locking his lip ring in place. Then like he’s coming out of a trance, he says, “I really don’t want to go to Outdoor World.”
I nod once, my lips tightening as I hold back a smile. “All right. Agreed.” I look around, stalling. “Then I say we relax for tonight. We’ve been on the road, going and doing, since we left.” I chuck my pack onto the bed and then dig out my bikini. “I’ll swim. You rest in your big bed.”
Before he can offer another suggestion, I head to the bathroom and lock the door. Truth is, I need some time away. Holden’s intoxicating scent and the constant awareness of him and his annoyingly sexy habit of playing with his lip ring . . . it’s all driving me mad.
I keep trying to add kindling to the fire. Remind myself how much he hurt me before and pisses me off now, and what an * he still is. But it’s like trying to set the rain forest on fire using a magnifying glass. It’s exhausting. And the drive that was there before just isn’t anymore. Even after what he said on the highway. Being around him is making me desensitized to all the angry feelings I harbored in high school and even just days back.
Hell. Even just a little while ago.
I’m not sure what happened in the truck. Whether it was my pent up rage finally erupting after so many years of suppressing it. Or anger about what I almost let happen last night. Or the worst: outrage and self-loathing because I wanted it to happen. That I was willing to forgive and forget for just a moment in order to feel desired again—to feel desired by him again. But whatever it was, it took hold completely.
If Holden is Douchebag Superman, then I’m Super Bitch. And he’s becoming my kryptonite. I’m getting weaker the longer I’m around him. Unable to deny the feelings he’s stirring within me.
And that weakness frightens me.
Am I really angry or just afraid? Fear and anger are so closely related it’s hard to distinguish between the two. I’m not ready to fully analyze it just yet.
Once I’m suited up in my black and pink bikini (a little skull with a bow on my left boob), I throw on an oversized tee and wrap myself in a guest towel. When I exit, I find Holden asleep on the bed, his tatted forearm draped over his eyes.
His shoes have been kicked off haphazardly near the couch, and his silver Hurley buckle is undone, his pants riding low on his hips. A sliver of his stomach peeks out above his boxers (I’m not sure why he started wearing them when he wasn’t before), and it’s so ridiculously sexy, I stop breathing.
A trace of his tattoo teasingly reveals itself below his T-shirt. I’m tempted to walk over and push his tee up, just to get a quick glimpse. But I recover my senses before I do something stupid.
Swallowing my sigh, I force my feet to move away from the bed, then I leave the room before my brain can swallow me. As I ride the elevator to the lobby, I try to stop thinking about Holden. I need to stop.
But after what almost happened between us, especially after what almost happened, his disbelief that I’m truly seeing Tyler stings. It must be nice for him, being able to separate the emotional from the physical. His comment about my lack of “questioning” felt like a direct attack—like he’s thoroughly pissed off that I haven’t questioned my sanity.
I wonder what Dr. Hartman would say about my reaction. Probably something simple yet profound like I’m in denial and lashing out, instead of maturely and responsibly hearing the other person’s thoughts.
Piss on her.