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Later, I’ll question his words. But right now, I lie beside him, our hands phantom linked as one, and accept the comfort his spirit brings.
HOLDEN
Sam’s late. I look around the cemetery, tapping the crowbar against my leg, feeling like I’m being punked. Maybe she changed her mind. Shit, I hope so.
I battled with what I’m about to do all night, tossing and turning, the stupid motel bedsprings digging into my spine. I can’t believe I agreed to steal my brother’s ashes for her. But looking into her sad eyes, desperation and heartache written all over her face—I couldn’t deny her anything.
My father should’ve been more reasonable. If he cared at all about what Tyler probably wanted, he’d have given them to her himself. Hell, he should’ve offered to fly her around the country so she could spread his ashes.
But the family mausoleum is all he cares about. He spent a fortune on it so we could have this grave site that makes us look more important than we are. I sure as shit won’t be buried in it. I almost laugh. As if he’d extend an invitation now.
Birds chirp, tree branches rustle, and the muscles between my shoulder blades tense. Besides the sounds of nature, it’s quiet here. Too quiet. No one visiting this early. Even so, we probably should’ve planned this for night. Keep it real, like the grave robbers we are.
I mentally go down the list of my criminal record, wondering how this will impact me. Most of my offenses are sealed in my juvenile file, but I had one misdemeanor on my adult: vehicular negligence, reduced from vehicular manslaughter. And from there, my lawyer got the charges dropped completely.
The judge didn’t even give me probation for the accident that caused my mother’s death. I guess if they were going to charge anyone, it would’ve been the deer. But he escaped. Allegedly. Still, I’m sure if I’m caught pulling this shit now, he’ll question his ruling. Maybe he’ll be harder on me this time around.
Bringing out my phone, I start to Google “punishment for grave robbing” when I hear someone clear their throat. I look up and see Sam.
My heart vaults in my chest, and I swallow. She’s beautiful. Her hair has been recently dyed; no more blond roots. A heavy fall of long black layers covers one shoulder, and a wide streak of turquoise has been added to the middle of her bangs, which are now trimmed just above her eyes. The neck of her tee reveals a glimpse of tatted stars. She’s wearing her tiny diamond nose ring again, and her tight T-shirt and skinny jeans reveal all her curves.
Fuck.
“You look good,” I say, pushing my phone into my pocket.
I swear I see her blush, just the slightest tinge of pink dusting her cheeks. “Uh, thanks. I thought it’d be better to look somewhat decent if I’m going to travel. Well”—she looks herself over, smiling—“my decent, anyway.”
My mouth stretches into a grin. The fact that we’re smiling in such a sad environment doesn’t go unnoticed. But for two people who’ve had life kick the shit out of them, I suppose this place is as comfortable as any.
Sam’s gaze finds the mausoleum, and her smile falls. She hikes her backpack higher on her shoulder and starts toward it.
I step in front of her, and she looks up. “Are you sure?” I ask. I want her to change her mind. I want her not to be suffering from whatever it is she’s suffering from. Delusions, voices, psychosis, are what the gossips are saying. I want them to be wrong. But I can’t help wondering whose voice is telling her to do this.
I don’t want to admit whose I think it is.
Her gloss-coated lips press together, and she nods. “I am. It’s what he wanted.”
A small sense of relief washes over me that she at least used the past tense this time. I can work with that. “All right.” I step aside. “Let’s become felons.”
Breaking into a mausoleum is a lot harder than I thought. I guess it would’ve been easier to walk into my dad’s house and just steal the damn key. But I don’t ever want to go back in there—not ever.
With a groan, the wooden door gives and flies open. The crowbar slips, and the sharp edge catches my palm. The tool clatters to the granite floor. “Shit.” Holding my hand, I squeeze my wrist as red oozes past the surface of the broken skin.
“Damn, are you all right?” Sam lowers her head to inspect the wound, holding her hair back.
I pump my hand a couple of times. “Yeah. I’ll wrap it later.”
“Oh,” she says, swinging her black backpack in front of her. Then she digs through and pulls out a tiny shirt. One of hers.
“No. It’s fine.”
“Stop. It’s just a shirt.” She reaches for my hand. “Let me see.”
As her fingers graze the top of my hand and around the edges of my palm, I try to keep my thoughts pure. I’m standing next to my brother’s freakin’ ashes, for shit’s sake. But Sam’s delicate touch triggers heat, want, feeling. And something painful.
“I’ll do it,” I say, taking the tee from her hands.
She releases it and steps back, as if she’s ashamed of her own actions. Or maybe she just remembered that she hates me. Either way, I finish dressing the cut with the tiny scrap of white tee while she looks around, as if making sure we’re still alone. Then she steps into the granite enclosure.
