The Darkest Part

by Trisha Wolfe

  He nods. “I know. And I’m going to answer for every one of my sins. But right now, I don’t give a fuck.” He grasps my ankles and pulls, flattening my back against the bed. My tee rides up, exposing my black boy shorts and stomach.

  My skin tingles as Holden slowly raises my leg, resting my ankle on his shoulder. He’s kneeling, using his other hand to angle himself above me. His eyes only release me when he turns his head to press a soft kiss to my calf.

  My breath catches in my throat.

  His hand skims my leg, his mouth trailing its path, the cool metal of his lip ring sending so many, too many shivers dancing across my skin.

  I’ve never felt so helpless, so immobile, and so hopeful that he doesn’t stop—if I don’t move, if I let him continue, can I pretend I’m not a willing participant? No. I can’t lie to myself. If I’m going to stop this, I have to now. Because as his mouth moves to my thigh, and his tongue just grazes my skin, I know I won’t be able to soon.

  “Holden—”

  “Say anything but stop,” he says, low, his voice husky with need.

  I swallow. “Please,” I get out.

  “Oh, I’m going to please you. You can bet your sweet ass.” And he sinks his teeth into the flesh just below my center, eliciting a soft moan from my throat.

  Against my will, my hands go to his hair and my fingers curl. His groan rumbles through me as he tugs my underwear down. My eyes open.

  “Stop.” It comes out soft and desperate, but it’s enough.

  He looks up at me from between my thighs. Leaning on his elbows, he grasps my hips with both hands. “You don’t have to do anything, Sam. Just let me make you come. That’s enough for me.” His eyes seek approval, and they reach right into my soul. His words and heated breath against my skin making this the most difficult thing. Ever.

  When I don’t deny him, Holden kisses the soft, sensitive skin along my pelvic area, right above my slit, and I gasp. The ache blooms, building into a pulsing pain. As his tongue flicks my skin, and his lip ring grazes me, the ache deepens. All I want is for him to enter me. Make the ache stop.

  I turn my head to the side, fist my hands in his hair, as he slips a finger inside while he takes me into his mouth. His tongue strokes, and then swirls. Holy fuck.

  “I knew you’d taste just as sweet,” he says. And I can’t help but smile. I haven’t felt desired in so long . . .

  He reaches the throbbing ache and pushes his finger in deeper. I arch my hips, wanting, needing more of him. My thighs tighten, pressing against his warm, hard shoulders, as his teeth graze my clit, and when he sucks me into his mouth, I nearly tumble over the edge.

  My eyes open and I glimpse the picture box. My heart freezes in my chest.

  “Holden, no.” I push against his head. “Please. We have to stop. I’m sorry. Stop.”

  With a forced, strained exhale, he removes himself from me and pushes away. The sudden cool air hitting my body sobers me even further.

  I pull myself into a ball, wrapping my arms around my legs. “I just can’t . . . Tyler—”

  Holden sits back on his heels, his chest heaving. “I know.” Then he’s off the bed, his erection straining against his boxers. I can’t help but look, notice the size . . . and a whole new wave of need seizes me. Stop.

  He steps into his jeans and yanks them up, then reaches over and grabs a pillow from his bed.

  I swallow hard. “Where are you going?”

  “To sleep in the truck.”

  “What—why?”

  His eyes flay me. “Because there’s no way in hell I’m getting any sleep here.”

  Guilt stabs my chest. “So this is my fault?”

  His hand pauses as he’s buttoning his jeans. Then he walks toward me and kneels, becoming level with me. “I’m not angry. Nothing is your fault.” He places his hands on either side of my face. “I just can’t be in the same room as you and not be with you. I need to calm down.”

  His voice is so earnest, and his eyes are so convincing, I nod. “All right.”

  He rests his lips against my forehead, brushing a light kiss, before he backs away and steps into his boots. After the door shuts behind him, the silence blankets me in humiliation.

  Sleep doesn’t come easy.

  HOLDEN

  Stretched out on the bench seat of my truck, willing my thoughts on anything other than Sam, I pound the back of my head into the lumpy pillow. It’s pointless. I can still taste her. Still feel her. Her sweet scent followed me into the cab and it’s swimming in the air. Tormenting me.

  I haven’t calmed down at all. My dick presses against my jeans painfully, and I push back, adjusting my rock hard erection against my stomach. That was a fun walk across the lobby. Hell.

  If I thought jerking off would help, I’d beat the fuck 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 fucked 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 br
eath 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 fucked 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.

  As we’re headed to the garage, Sam says, “We need to find a place for Tyler’s ashes. But I’m not sure where.”

  Hell. I actually forgot that part. Now I feel like an even bigger douche. This trip is supposed to be all about Tyler. Not scoring with the girl I lost to my brother back in high school. I need to get my shit together.

  “Right,” I say, glancing around, like somewhere special is going to materialize out of the concrete. Then it hits me. “What about the Hernando Desoto Bridge? We’re passing over it anyway, and Tyler had a thing for bridges when he was a kid.” I feel a smile stretch my lips. “He had a shit ton of them for his boxcars.”

  Sam’s face brightens. “Yeah. I remember that. Good call.” She smiles at me, and it’s free, unguarded. It almost feels like we’re back to normal. At least where we picked up at the beginning of the trip. It’s not where I want to be. But I’ll take it.

  I unlock the truck and slide in, reaching over to open her door. Sam pulls the map from the glove box and traces her finger over the route we’re about to take. “I can’t believe you remembered the name of that bridge off the top of your head.”

  Turning the ignition, I check my rearview. “I’ve looked at the map, and I have a photographic memory.” I tap my temple and glance over. And watch her jaw go slack. She stares down at the map, fiddles with her thumbnail, her cheeks reddening and giving away her embarrassment.

  My words smack me across the face as realization dawns. Facing forward, I grip the wheel. Shit. Fuck. I pull out of the parking space with more speed then I intend, then peel the tires as I gun it out of the garage.

  Trying to make her understand that picturing her half-naked isn’t a bad thing . . . I guess . . . probably isn’t smart right now. So I shut my mouth and drive. It shouldn’t be a bad thing. Not for her, anyway. But for me? I almost laugh.

  I used to think my awesome memory was a gift. Got me through a lot of tests I never studied for. But now it feels more like a curse. I can picture her perfect little hot body in my mind every time I close my eyes. And I want to tell her that, it’s not a pervy thing. That she’s beautiful and tantalizing and delicate. That I never knew I preferred a perfectly shaven girl—completely smooth; so fucking sexy—until I saw her. That now, I can’t ever imagine being with anyone else.

  Just knowing that she puts in that kind of attention to detail . . . oh, my shit. When I first laid my eyes on her, I didn’t think I could hold out. I wanted her right then. Had to know what she’d feel like around me. But I held back, wanting to bring her to the edge first, to make her want me as badly as I was craving her.

  But the look on her face just now says it all. I can’t tell her any of that.

  It goes into the lockbox.

  After a few minutes, we come up on the bridge, and Sam points out her window at a giant silver pyramid. “Wow. That’s gorgeous.” She glances at the map. “It’s the Pyramid Arena. Too bad we can’t check it out.”

  My chest tightens. “We’re not on a tight schedule or anything. We can go. If you really want.”

  She shakes her head. “No. It’s fine.” She looks at her lap and says even lower, “I’m over Memphis.”

  And she finishes me off. Dagger right to the heart. But what did I expect? After only a few days, the girl I’d fallen for way back when, who was engaged to my fucking brother, who I ignored every time we were around each other after I treated her like shit, would just be ready to hop into bed with me?

  I’m beyond delusional. Hell, I’m a guy. I guess a typical one.

  Whatever was going on between us at the club was like she said, the atmosphere. Grinding bodies everywhere. Alcohol. And back at the hotel? I took her off-guard. But I think one thing needs to be stated so that she’s not freaked out around me. So that she doesn’t resort to fearing me, the way she did when I first carried her to my truck.

  I don’t want her to look at me like that ever again.

  “Sam,” I say, my voice raspy. I clear my throat. “I won’t touch you again. I promise.”

  Her body tenses. From the corner of my vision, I watch as her shoulders and neck pull straight, her chin lifts a fraction. And I might actually be delusional, but a flicker of something akin to hurt flashes across her face. It hits my chest, so quickly, knocking the breath from my lungs.

  But just as quickly, she’s composed. “Thanks. And I won’t, like, wear sexy jean skirts again. I promise.”

  I bark a laugh. It escapes my mouth before I can rein it in. She laughs, too, and the tension-filled cab releases some of its pressure.

  I’m still smiling as I pull onto the bridge. And so is she.

  SAM

  Tyler’s picture box feels heavy in my hands. Weighted. Like all my shame has been added to the inside. I inhale a huge breath, taking in the mix of marshy river and city fuel smell as I walk the bridge toward the section overlooking the Mississippi River.

  The much needed tension breaker in the truck didn’t last long, unfortunately. Holden and I have to get past last night if we’re going to continue this journey. And I can’t let him take on all the responsibility himself. Not all of it, anyway. But it’s easier, for me, to pretend like it never happened.

  Besides, Tyler still hasn’t come back to me. And when he does (because he has to), I don’t want him popping up in the middle of an awkward moment or conversation between me and his brother.

  As far as I know, Tyler isn’t aware of what happened. For a moment last night, I forgot about everything—him, us, his death, this trip. And it was just that moment. Holden’s touch disconnected me from my painful reality, and I welcomed the escape. But if Tyler doesn’t know, then it can only mean he was in that darkness.

  I hate thinking of him there, trapped, while I was . . . No. I don’t want to think about that. I can’t believe I let myself get caught up in Holden all over again.

  Even though I feel like the crap that gets scraped off the bottom of a shoe, and I should be honest with T
yler, I just don’t think I can bear to have that conversation with him. Sure, Tyler kept kissing some girl from me. And I can pretend that last night was just a rebound for my hurt feelings. I can use it as my excuse . . . but it wouldn’t be the truth. Holden and I have a history. There’re feelings I’ve buried—emotions I thought I’d moved on from. Obviously, some of them lingered. The more time we spend together, the more they’re uncovered, resurfacing.

  It doesn’t matter, though. At least not right now. Here, standing in the tiny space between the cemented edge of the bridge and the three-lane highway, I’m all Tyler’s. The drama of the past few days disappears, and I feel his absence more prominently than ever.

  “I think here’s good,” Holden calls out. He stops ahead of me at the edge and braces a hand against one of the metal cables. His truck is parked a little ways back, the hazards flashing. Cars honk as they speed by, drivers pissed at the two idiots parked on the bridge.

  The wind whips my hair around my face as I stand next to him, the satin box getting heavier in my hands. “We need to block the wind,” I say. “And hurry. Someone might smack right into the back of your truck.” I toss my head, clearing the strands of hair from my eyes.

  “They’ve got time to move out of the way. People break down on bridges, right?” He smiles, but I can see a bit of worry lacing his blue irises. He loves his truck.

  He positions his back to the Mississippi and faces me. As he grasps the bottom of the box, he holds my gaze. I can feel his eyes studying me, analyzing every facial tick.

  I take another deep breath and focus on Tyler.

  I hope you like it here. I miss you.

  As I lift the lid, we turn together, letting the wind catch the ashes. Holden holds the box out for a few seconds as the breeze carries some of Tyler’s remains over the river. I quickly fasten the lid back over the box, cutting out the wind.

  Then we stare at the blue sky for a while. Just the whoosh of cars rushing by, the wind in our ears, the distant lapping of the river below.

  “I miss him,” Holden says, and a hard lump forms in my throat. It’s as if I somehow said my thoughts aloud, and he’s agreeing with me.