by Trisha Wolfe
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 assholes.
Glancing around, I look for anything else I need to do. And realize I’m stalling. “Fuck,” I breathe out. I’m the biggest pussy 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 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.
My head yanks back. “Did I do something to piss you off last night?”
He shakes his head tersely, as if he’s battling something within himself. Stopping himself from saying whatever it is he wants to say.
“Just spit it out,” I say. “What did I do?”
“Nothing,” he says. “You had a blast last night. I had a blast. We both had a blast.” He bounds up and heads for the bathroom. “Go get ready. We check out in an hour.”
His biting tone digs under my skin. I think about last night, trying to jog my memory. I danced with Melody and Darla, and downed shots. Lots of shots. And then a faint memory of dancing with . . . Tyler.
My face prickles with heat, and I wonder what those people must have thought—how crazy I must have looked. But honestly? Most of me doesn’t give a shit. I’ll never see them again. And I was so happy that Tyler finally came back, that he was able to materialize.
This is Tyler’s trip. Our trip. The least I can do is dance with him. He never liked to dance when he was alive, and when he waved me onto the floor, I know it was because we’ll never get the chance again.
But that shouldn’t have been enough to anger Holden. Unless it embarrassed him. Considering Holden’s never been one to care about what others think, I doubt that. Only, I have no other explanation for why he’s being so crass.
“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you,” I call out. “I’ll try to keep my crazy to a minimum for the rest of the trip.”
“Stop.”
One word. But it’s enough to fire me up. “Stop what?”
“Stop playing the victim. I hate that.”
Something snaps in my head, a loud click that forces me from the chair and onto my feet. The sound of running water halts, and Holden steps into the room. He starts tossing clothes into his bag. He won’t look at me.
“I’m not playing t
he victim,” I say, my words slow, deliberate. “I know you lost Tyler, too. I know this trip is hard for you . . . as much as it is for me, but—”
“But what?” He cuts me off as he looks up from his task. His eyes are hard and cool. Icy blue.
“But this trip is more than just . . .” Unable to finish, to explain, I hang my head.
He laughs. And the sound triggers a frantic response in me. I’m reminded that no matter what he suffered at the hands of his bastard father, no matter how considerate he’s been lately, he’s still the same asshole that treated me like shit five years ago. I stomp toward him, look him in his frosty eyes.
“This is all a joke to you?” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. My breaths are short and heavy.
Holden’s gaze travels over me, so slowly, as if he’s trying to figure out something. His eyes come back to rest on mine. “No joke. I admit, when you first told me you wanted to steal some of my brother’s ashes, I did think you were a bit crazy.” He pinches his fingers close together, indicating the amount of my craziness. “But then, I don’t know. It seemed right. Like Tyler would’ve wanted it. And I wanted to do something for him.” He exhales audibly. “But this isn’t about his memory for you, is it, Sam? In fact, you haven’t even come to terms that Tyler is a memory yet.”
Anger wells in my chest. “Just because you heard some gossip bullshit on the island, don’t think that you have one clue about me.” I narrow my eyes. “Tread lightly, Holden.”
He rolls his shoulders back, bringing him to his full height. I have to angle my head back to look into his face. “Does Tyler talk to you?” he asks. “Do you see him now?”
His questions knock me off balance. I take in a couple of slow breaths, gathering my bearings. “And so what if I do? Are you telling me that it’s impossible?”
He presses his hands to his face, digging his fingers into his eye sockets. Then he drops them with a frustrated noise that rumbles from the back of his throat. “How the fuck did you know about our dad?”
And that question levels me. Shit. Shit shit shit. My dumb, drunk ass. I close my eyes, trying not to see his livid expression. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Tell me!” My eyes snap open and I flinch at his outburst. Holden’s chest heaves, his jaw flexed. “When did Tyler tell you?”
I step back, shaking my head. “Why does it matter when? ”
He advances, invading my personal space. “Because I’ve worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to have a drunk, silly college girl letting shit like that slip when she’s wasted. Or some crazy chick spouting it off during therapy sessions.”
I don’t think. Reflexively, my hand flies out. But he’s faster, clamping his hand around my wrist before my palm meets his face. We’re locked together, my arm trembling, his body rigid.
He tosses my arm aside. “Trip’s over. I’m taking you home.” He turns his back to me and stuffs his computer into his bag.
“I don’t want to go back. I can’t go back.” My voice is weak, low. And the shame of blurting his secret—a secret that hurts him to the core—is eating away at my anger. “I promise, I’ve never breathed a word about . . . that . . . to anyone. I would never—” I shake my head. “I don’t know why I fucked up last night and said anything, other than I was stupid drunk. But I remember now when I said it. And it was because you were there. So close. And you were looking at me, and I saw my own pain reflected in your eyes. And shit, Holden.” I inhale a breath. “I just wanted you to know . . .”
At some point during my babbling, he stopped packing. His back is stiff and straight, his gaze away from me, on something else. The wall. The beach painting hanging above the headboard. I can see the tension in the corded muscles of his neck.
“You just wanted me to know what?” he asks. His voice is so soft, hollow. It cracks a seam down my heart.
With a determined breath, I suck up my pride. “I just wanted you to know that I was sorry I never knew the truth. Back then. That maybe if I had, then I might’ve understood your anger. You pushing me away. And I never would have let you.”
I see the moment my words hit him. His body loses its rigidness, and his shoulders slump. But he doesn’t face me. “I’m sorry I called you a silly college girl.”
I shrug, even though he can’t see me, and I’m thankful he doesn’t say anything about what I just said—because I’m not ready. “Sometimes I am.” I note that he doesn’t retract calling me crazy.
“No,” he says. “I shouldn’t have. And I’m sorry . . . for a lot of other things. I wish I could give you the explanation.” Before I can let him off the hook, telling him its ancient history, he continues. “We need to be at the speedway in less than an hour. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
And just like that, he throws up a wall between us. Locking me out.
Stuffing my hands under my arms, I don’t say anything else as I walk toward the door. There’s so much more that needs to be said. Like whether or not he’s going to confront his father. Has he ever confronted him? Whether or not he ever plans to press charges. I wonder if there’s a statute of limitation on child abuse. Why he’s so angry that I know now. What difference does it make when I discovered the truth?
And why he said “give you the explanation” instead of “an explanation?” I didn’t miss that. I just don’t know how to connect the dots. Yet.
But none of this is said. I’m not sure it ever will be. He’s got some deep-seeded anger, a past that haunts him, and I don’t think I’m strong enough to wrestle his ghosts.
Not while I’m dancing with mine.
HOLDEN
On the drive to the speedway, the tension in the truck could’ve strangled me. I think we said about two words between each of us. If Sam never really talks to me again, I wouldn’t blame her. I flew off the handle back at the hotel. I never fly off the handle. Not anymore.
I can blame it on lack of sleep. Or a hangover. Or grief over Tyler and my mother. Any number of things I can pluck out of the air and say that’s why I lost my shit.
But Sam would see through my crap. I can’t be truthful with her on this front, but I’d like to try not lying to her, either. I’m sick of lying of to her. But since I can’t be honest, then I just need to keep my fucking mouth shut.
Right now, as we walk up the bleachers of the Talladega Superspeedway, the sun glinting off the tops of race cars, her smile stretching ear-to-ear despite my asshole behavior, I’m having a hard time doing just that.
At some point, I’m going to have to man up and talk to her. Make her understand that she holds knowledge that could impact people’s lives—but I need to sort my shit out first. I need to find out how much she knows without giving away anything she doesn’t. Because shit. I can’t believe Tyler told her. How much else did he let her in on?
I guess I could always get her drunk, fish for answers . . . but I think I’m at my douchebag limit for the day. I was caught off-guard earlier by my emotions, and fuck emotions. I swear this girl is turning me into the biggest pussy.
With that thought, I settle onto a seat next to Sam and let the purr of powerful engines thrum through me. For the offseason, there are a lot of tourists. The stands aren’t packed, but crowded enough. As the drivers rev their engines, Sam turns toward me, her mouth parted and eyes wide, like she’s going to say something. I hold my breath expectantly.
She presses her lips together and turns her attention back to the racetrack.
Damn it. Whatever progress we’ve made, however small, we’ve taken two steps back. I didn’t think we’d become best friends by the end of this trip, and I definitely didn’t think she’d forgive and forget the shit I said in high school, but I thought, maybe, we could start fresh. She could get to know the real me away from Hilton Hell, and I might have a reason to go back there sometimes.
Now that Tyler’s case has been swept under the rug, I don’t have any reason to return to my hometown other than to visit the cemete
ry. And even though I wanted to believe I was happy staying away from there . . . from her . . . I’ve been a ticking time bomb. You can’t ignore your past.
Even if I couldn’t admit it to myself before, I was hoping she could be part of some new future where I wouldn’t have to keep running. Diving into that bottomless dark pit, I realize that now—I can own it. It’s why I’m on this trip. Sure, to keep her safe. I couldn’t deal if anything happened to her that I could’ve prevented. But it goes deeper—I wanted to be close to her again. I’ve been lying to myself thinking it’s for any other reason.
Funny how we believe our own lies.
That couldn’t be truer in Sam’s case.
After this morning, I don’t think I can fix this. I should’ve stuck to my guns and taken her home. This is only day two. Day fucking two, and we’re already about to crack. She’s off her rocker, and I’m losing my shit all over again for a girl who doesn’t belong to me. I wonder what Tyler would think about us on this trip together.
“Tyler would love this,” Sam says, like she read my mind. Not sure that’d be her response if she really had, though.
I take a swig from my water bottle; my throat dry and scratchy. “He would. Though I think he’d love seeing them actually race more, this is pretty cool.” I try for a smile, but it feels fake on my face. I think she knows.
“He had a different set of days mapped out,” she adds. “Timed to events he wanted to see. But I couldn’t wait to take this trip.”
I feel my forehead crease, and I’m glad I’m wearing my shades to hide my eyes. “Why now, Sam?”
She exhales softly. “You’ll think I’m crazy . . . crazier.” She returns her gaze to the cars, and my heart lurches. I should apologize for calling her that. But I don’t want to condone what she’s doing to herself. Whatever guilt she’s harboring over Tyler’s death, it’s not hers to own. She needs to know this one truth: I won’t play the fool so she can have her fantasy.
The cars are now zooming around the racetrack, doing practice runs. I grip the water bottle in my hand, and with a forced shrug, I say, “You were dancing by yourself last night, and not on purpose. I think that ship has sailed.”
