The Darkest Part (30 page)

As we enter the room, I’m stoked. One large king and a twin, and the comforters look clean and soft. I drop my bag, unconcerned where, and fall face first into the twin. It’s the first bed.

Sam’s laugh makes me smile into the bedspread. “You can have the big bed. I’m small.”

I don’t argue. She is tiny, and I’m going to stretch all of my six-foot two self out on that huge ass bed. Slogging over, I yank the comforter back and climb in, leaving my shoes on the floor.

Sam eyes me. “You’re not going to—?”

She halts as I hustle under the covers to get my jeans off and then toss them somewhere in the room. “Nope,” I say. “All done.” I look over and grin. “I’m a guy, you know. We don’t take much maintenance.” I crook a smile as I flip her excuse from last night around on her. And honestly, I’m too drained to care if she’s offended. I just want sleep. This is one night she doesn’t have to fear me making a move on her.

I’ve already got my lamp off and eyes closed when she returns from the bathroom. Despite sleep crying my name, I fight my eyes open to get a glimpse of her. And wish I hadn’t.

She’s in her too-short girl boxer things that I can just see beneath her tee. There’s nothing sensual about her night clothes, or there shouldn’t be. But she makes the simplest outfit look sexy as hell.

Running a hand down my face, I exhale. “Night, Sam,” I say as she slides in under her covers.

She lays facing me, her hair spread over the pillow. Her hand curled in front of her mouth. “Night, Holden. Sweet dreams.”

Her voice is so soft, and her words pierce my heart. If she ever discovers what demons haunt my dreams, she’d know just how much I craved sweet ones. With a deep breath, I inhale some of her sweet scent and commit to memory her beautiful face before I roll over and close my eyes, hoping it helps keep the nightmares at bay.

One of the reasons I have a “bed thing” is my dreams. Being comfortable, for whatever reason, means less nightmares. Less vivid ones, at least. I have to admit, despite the lumpy hotel bed, I didn’t wake once. And I’m refreshed and feel like we might actually complete this trip without falling apart.

Or, we might just be entering the eye of the storm.

Sam’s good at sweeping stuff under the rug. Every time we’ve fought, had to face an issue, she’s been the one to call the shots and chose to let it drop. Move on. Not deal with it. And really, for most guys, a girl like that is ideal.

But in Sam’s case, it’s not good. One day, the top is going to blow.

I’m not sure if I want that day to be during our trip or not. I’d rather it be when she’s close to home, feels safe. Protected. Then again, I’m about ready to have it out and force us to work through our shit. In the end, we’ll either be friends, or she’ll decide she’s done with me altogether.

These thoughts churn a hole in my brain as I sip my Starbucks on a bench in Central Riverside Park. We decided to have an easy, laidback day until we’re to meet up with Biker Melody and her people for the show.

Sam’s sitting in the grass near a pond, sketchpad on her lap. The mid-morning sunlight sets off the blue highlights in her black hair, and she looks so at peace, so beautiful, I have the sudden need to draw
her
.

I haven’t drawn anything on this trip. Which is odd for me. I’m always doodling or sketching anything that catches my eye. But I’ve been so wrapped up in Sam, in whatever is going on with her, me,
us
—that I just haven’t. And maybe that’s part of my problem. Drawing is my outlet, and I’ve been keeping everything locked up on the inside for days.

Pushing off the bench, I think it’s what I want more than anything. Well, almost. But right now, it’s more than a necessity. Like breathing.

As I settle down next to Sam, I peek at her drawing. Shades of black and gray blend into a landscape of the park and pond.

“You wanna share your supplies?” I ask her.

She mock sighs. “I’m usually pretty stingy”—she blocks the sun from her face with her hand as she glances at me—“but I’ll make an exception. For you.” She rummages through her pack and pulls out another pad and a container of charcoal, pencils, and paints. “Use whatever.”

“All right.” I choose a pencil, only because I don’t feel like having smudged up fingers. “You know, they make holders.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” she says, looking back at her sketch. “I don’t mind getting a little messy. It’s worth it to capture just what I want.” She looks up and smiles, almost to herself. “I’d always wanted my own studio, and used to picture myself covered in paint from working all day.”

The vigor in her words floods me with so much want for this girl. I suppress my need to touch her, and instead grip my pencil tighter. My thoughts drift back to the old oak, remembering her smudged cheek. Although it was a turbulent moment, I couldn’t help my pulse slamming against my veins as I wiped the mark from her face. Even at her worst, Sam is gorgeous, passionate. And the need to touch her thrums through me. All the time.

Her words suddenly hit me, and I look at her. “Used to? You don’t want your own studio anymore?”

She shrugs, but it’s jittery. “Maybe one day.”

Letting the subject drop, because I don’t want to push her, we fall into companionable silence as we draw. Her with her landscape, me with the new design I’d been working on right before I left Atlanta. And it feels right. Despite the immense fuckupery that is this trip, it’s like when we were kids, and we could draw together without the need to talk. It’s easy and just . . . right.

I flip the page in my pad and start a new drawing.

“Can I ask you a question?” Sam says, and my hand stills. My breath stops in my chest.

“Of course. Though, technically, you just did,” I say, hoping to break some of the tension her words created. But I’m sure she can hear the hesitancy in my voice.

She’s facing me now, her legs crossed, and she sits back on her palms. Completely stoic in spite of my lame attempt. “I don’t want to fight or argue, or anything. But I’ve been thinking.” She pauses, and I force myself to hold her gaze, even as panic grips me. “What’s your reasoning? I mean, why are you completely convinced Tyler isn’t here? You believe it without a doubt.” She tilts her head. “I guess I want to know why
you
don’t question that it could be possible.”

Mirroring her position, I flip my pad closed and lean back on my hands. It’s a fair question. I asked her to think about the possibility of my brother only being in her mind, and it makes sense for her to turn the tables on me. Before I answer, I think long and hard, instead of just spitting out what I think is obvious. That’s not fair to her.

“I have questioned it.” Her eyes widen, just slightly. “Some of the things you’ve said, things that you couldn’t possibly know . . . I won’t lie. I have moments of doubt.” Her forehead creases, and she glances down, some worry or other emotion crossing her face. When she looks at me again, her mouth parts, and I wait for her to speak. I hold my breath, waiting. And when it becomes clear she won’t, “But, the reason I can push that doubt aside is because I believe Tyler’s in a good place, Sam. I believe it with everything in me.”

Her eyes squint. “Like heaven?”

I shrug one shoulder. “I don’t know if I believe in heaven, but I trust, after everything my brother went through in life, that whoever is in charge up there wouldn’t make him suffer now.” I press my lips together and think how to word my next sentence. “And being trapped here, a wandering soul or whatever, becoming lost in darkness. No. I refuse to accept that. In life, he was lost in that darkness, and I won’t accept he’s not at peace now. I feel it here.” I tap my chest, over my heart. “He’s where he needs to be. It’s all the proof I need.”

Sam’s eyes are unblinking, intent, as she stares at me. “You must think I’m the cruelest person . . . That I’m trying to keep Tyler bound—”

“No.” I sit forward and take her hand. “No. Don’t go there. I know you would never try to keep him here. Look at what you’re doing. You’re traveling across the fucking country, dealing with
me
”—a smile breaks across her face—“just to help Tyler. If he was here? If I believed beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was? I’d be happy he chose to stick close to you. You’ve always taken care of him.”

Her eyes pinch in confusion. “It was the other way around, Holden.
He
took care of
me
.”

“You don’t even know, do you?” I smile and lace my fingers through hers. “Sam, you’re what helped him through his darkness. You were his heaven on earth. And you’re
still
looking out for him, even in death.”

She blinks, and a tear trails her cheek. She sucks in a shuddering breath. And with a forceful shake of her head, she breaks. “I wish I believed that. I wish I believed Tyler was in a better place. I wish I could set him free. Oh, God . . . I want to believe that so badly.” Her shoulders begin to tremble, and I can feel her walls, whatever psychosis is trapping her mind just—for this split second—come down.

She wants to believe
. It’s a fucking start. And as her sobs take her, I can’t help myself. I’m on my knees and crushing her to my chest, holding her with everything in me—clinging to hope and prayer and her—while I try to offer whatever comfort she can find in me.

Sam folds into me, and I let her work out her cry. I hold her for a long time, just listening to her hitched breaths, until they become calm and slow. And when she’s done, I keep holding her. I’m scared to let her go. I don’t want to. I don’t want to lose her to her own darkness.

Sam

“I should’ve known.” I stare at the seedy-looking little bar tucked into a pocket of Wichita that no one probably knows exists. It’s so out of the way, but somehow right in the middle of everything.

Holden chuckles. “You were expecting a concert hall or something?”

“Or something,” I mutter as my phone beeps. I pull it from my back pocket and open a message from Melody. “They’re inside.”

“Come on.” Holden takes my hand, and it feels natural. I don’t fight it. “I’ll protect you from the hyper biker chicks.” He says it as a joke, but there’s a hint of threat in his voice. And I know if anyone did try to mess with me, he would protect me.

We walk into the Milk Bar (that’s the name, for real), and I think about my
Clockwork Orange
poster. This bar
does
remind me of the one in the movie. It’s dark and loud, and white mannequins are positioned around the room. Lights from the tiny stage dance around the overcrowded room and along the low ceiling. Tall speakers on either side of a three-foot high stage blast out screeching guitars, heavy drums, and distorted vocals. Along the back wall, a giant poster advertising “Hottest Topless Bar in Wichita” proudly displays another neighborhood club.

I have to admit, I was freaked out at first, but I suddenly want to whip out my sketchpad and capture everything.

Holden continues to hold my hand as he leads us to a table near the stage. “She can find us here,” he shouts over the music. I take a seat, and Holden lifts his chin. “You want a beer?”

“Yeah,” I shout back. He hurries off, and I’m surprised he’s left me alone. But I figure he doesn’t feel any real danger from this crowd. As I glance around, I notice a lot of them are teens.

A row has formed right in front of the stage, waiting for the band to start. Dark-clad bodies, leather, pale faces, and wild, multi-colored hair are everywhere. I don’t feel out of place at all, unlike the biker bar we went to in Talladega. Here, there’s a mix from just about every scene.

Sinking into my seat, I let the music drown out the thoughts trying to break through. I haven’t thought too much on what happened at the park. Truth is, I feel like I needed that cry, and Holden hasn’t spoken of it since. But his words stuck with me. Even now, here, as I’m actually looking forward to this show and hanging with Melody and Darla, his words are in the back of my mind, lingering and coiling.

When Tyler first told me he was getting trapped in that dark limbo, I felt so selfish for needing him. Wanting him to stay with me. I just couldn’t imagine my life without
us
. Then today when Holden voiced why he believed it wasn’t possible, my selfishness felt like a stab right through my heart.