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It’s like she’s a little sprite sent to torment me. Not that I need any help in that department. I knew what I was getting myself into when I signed up for this trip. I just thought . . . Shit. Fuck. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.
But I’m not a complete asshole. If I didn’t know Sam was suffering from delusions, I’d walk right up to her and take her into my arms, save her from herself, so she’s not in the middle of a biker bar dancing alone. Looking crazy.
But in her mind, if I try to move in on Tyler’s spot, she’ll probably punch me.
Bandana girl jerks her head in Sam’s direction, ordering me to “man up.”
Maybe getting punched by Sam is worth it.
Fuck it.
I jump off the stool and head straight to her. My heart thumps in my throat the whole way, pulsing with the beat of the music. The lyrics about love being vengeance that’s never free hit my chest hard. Now fate’s trying to torment me, too.
Sam’s eyes are closed, so I become brave and press the pads of my fingers to her narrow waist, slowly guiding her to me. Maybe if she just feels someone solid holding her, she can pretend, and the bystanders can stop staring at a girl losing her mind. I hate the thought of anyone judging her. I’m okay with her thinking I’m Tyler. With her pretending. Whatever she needs right now.
That’s what I told myself back at the hotel room.
But as her arms lock around my neck and she lays her head on my chest, a flurry of want swirls inside me—a thundering, self-destructive tornado. My hands shake as I rest them on the small of her back. So gently. Her petite body should feel wrong against mine, but it’s lined up perfectly. Every one of her curves seamlessly cast to me.
Her hand curls around the nape of my neck, her fingers twining in my hair, as her other hand caresses my back. A searing heat blooms between our bodies—I can feel every hot inch of her. I rest my chin on the top of her head, breathing in her sweet scent. My chest smo
lders. As her body moves against me, her hips working sexy as hell, my pants tighten and my groin begins to ache. Fucking torture.
I let her lead, rocking back and forth. And when she whispers Tyler’s name, I close my eyes. I can feel the pain radiating off her in waves. It mixes with my own grief, consuming and complete.
I decide I’m not that much of a masochist. This shit ends now.
Opening my eyes, I say, “Sam, it’s time to go.” Just loud enough for her to hear over the music.
Her head snaps back, and for the briefest moment, her eyes register that I’m not him. Shock and confusion churn in them. But then the haze of alcohol and her delusion covers them again, and she smiles. “I’m not ready yet, Tyler. We never get to dance.”
My gut twists. “Wave to your friends,” I tell her, not giving in. I spin her around to get a better hold of her, wrapping my arm around her waist.
She slackly fans her hand and slurs something to the bandana girls.
“Bye, baby girl,” Black Bandana says. Then she cocks her head at me. “Take care of her.”
I only nod before walking Sam out of the bar and into the parking lot. The night air bites into my skin through my thin T-shirt. I worry about the almost-passed-out girl in my arms until I realize the alcohol is probably keeping her warm. Propping her against the side of my truck, I keep one arm anchored around her chest, desperately trying to ignore the feel of her breasts.
After I lift her onto the seat, I buckle her in. Her head lolls to the side, and I smile. “Did you have fun, party girl?”
Her eyes try to focus on me, but they’re unseeing, unfocused. She nods sloppily.
I laugh. “Just don’t yack in the truck. Warn me first, okay?”
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.
