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 fucking 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?
I lunge into the room and search under the clothes tossed on the dresser. Not here. My heart-rate speeds, my pulse hammers against my veins. I quickly pull my hair back with the band around my wrist, then step into my shoes . . . that have been unlaced.
I don’t unlace my Converse.
Mother fu—
Letting the door slam behind me, I turn and knock on Holden’s room door. After a minute, there’s still no answer. No noise of anyone stirring comes from the other side. I try my key card, unsuccessfully, of course, and then bang on his door. Loudly.
I hear a deep groan, then the door squeaks open. Holden looks worse than me. His clothes are rumpled, and his hair is bedhead messy, sticking up in every direction (which I can’t help but notice looks devil-may-care sexy). Dark half-moons hollow out the skin beneath his eyes.
“Where’s Tyler?” When it leaves my mouth, I instantly regret my wording. But he knows what I mean. I can’t keep tiptoeing around him. We both loved Tyler, both struggling with his death. Only I have a mission to complete.
He sighs, stretching his long arm up, and his hand grips the top of the doorframe. A sliver of his toned stomach peeks from beneath his tee, and his low-slung jeans reveal that he’s wearing nothing underneath. But the glimpse of ink on his waist diverts my attention from anything sexual.
It’s all black and shaded gray, thick, and . . . He drops his arm and pulls his shirt straight. “It’s early,” he says, his voice husky.
I shake my head, clearing it from thoughts of his tattoo. “Holden, where’s Tyler’s ashes?” My voice comes out as desperate as I feel. I don’t care.
He rubs his eyes groggily. “The box is in the truck.” He leaves the door open as he walks away, an open invitation for me to follow.
I do, closing the door behind me, as he flops down on the bed. He covers his eyes with his forearm, and my gaze sweeps the tattoos decorating his arm—colorful and beautiful. Not wanting to be on the same bed as him again after the way it twisted me up last night, I take a seat at the desk. “How could you leave him out there?”
“You were too drunk to walk on your own,” he says. “I thought it was better than accidently spilling the ashes.”
“All right.” I wring my hands. “Can I have your keys?”
He pushes himself into a sitting position, pressing his back against the headboard. His eyes hard on me.