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You rest in your big bed.”
Before he can offer another suggestion, I head to the bathroom and lock the door. Truth is, I need some time away. Holden’s intoxicating scent and the constant awareness of him and his annoyingly sexy habit of playing with his lip ring . . . it’s all driving me mad.
I keep trying to add kindling to the fire. Remind myself how much he hurt me before and pisses me off now, and what an asshole he still is. But it’s like trying to set the rain forest on fire using a magnifying glass. It’s exhausting. And the drive that was there before just isn’t anymore. Even after what he said on the highway. Being around him is making me desensitized to all the angry feelings I harbored in high school and even just days back.
Hell. Even just a little while ago.
I’m not sure what happened in the truck. Whether it was my pent up rage finally erupting after so many years of suppressing it. Or anger about what I almost let happen last night. Or the worst: outrage and self-loathing because I wanted it to happen. That I was willing to forgive and forget for just a moment in order to feel desired again—to feel desired by him again. But whatever it was, it took hold completely.
If Holden is Douchebag Superman, then I’m Super Bitch. And he’s becoming my kryptonite. I’m getting weaker the longer I’m around him. Unable to deny the feelings he’s stirring within me.
And that weakness frightens me.
Am I really angry or just afraid? Fear and anger are so closely related it’s hard to distinguish between the two. I’m not ready to fully analyze it just yet.
Once I’m suited up in my black and pink bikini (a little skull with a bow on my left boob), I throw on an oversized tee and wrap myself in a guest towel. When I exit, I find Holden asleep on the bed, his tatted forearm draped over his eyes.
His shoes have been kicked off haphazardly near the couch, and his silver Hurley buckle is undone, his pants riding low on his hips. A sliver of his stomach peeks out above his boxers (I’m not sure why he started wearing them when he wasn’t before), and it’s so ridiculously sexy, I stop breathing.
A trace of his tattoo teasingly reveals itself below his T-shirt. I’m tempted to walk over and push his tee up, just to get a quick glimpse. But I recover my senses before I do something stupid.
Swallowing my sigh, I force my feet to move away from the bed, then I leave the room before my brain can swallow me. As I ride the elevator to the lobby, I try to stop thinking about Holden. I need to stop.
But after what almost happened between us, especially after what almost happened, his disbelief that I’m truly seeing Tyler stings. It must be nice for him, being able to separate the emotional from the physical. His comment about my lack of “questioning” felt like a direct attack—like he’s thoroughly pissed off that I haven’t questioned my sanity.
I wonder what Dr. Hartman would say about my reaction. Probably something simple yet profound like I’m in denial and lashing out, instead of maturely and responsibly hearing the other person’s thoughts.
Piss on her.
Well, that worked. Thinking of my condescending psychiatrist does the trick nicely. But if I actually did do her lame exercises and tried to reason through my feelings, I might find that Holden’s logic isn’t so obtuse. Misguided and distrusting, but not so far out there.
Can I really be upset that, in his mind, at least, he’s only trying to help? And if last night was just a lapse—him falling into old habits and his sex drive overriding his senses—then why would he care if I’m mentally stable or not?
When the signs of a massive headache start banging against the front of my head, I bottle my thoughts. The inside pool is perfect: large and oblong and the water crystal blue. Floor-to-ceiling windows run along the stretch of the enclosed area. I can’t even remember finding my way in here, and I’m surprised to see I’m alone.
“Hi, Sam.”
I whirl around, my chest prickling with familiar warmth and anticipation.
I’m not alone anymore.
HOLDEN
Releasing a groan, I roll onto my side and reach for my phone, which isn’t on the nightstand. Then I remember . . . nothing really. I passed out.
Digging into my pocket, I pull out my phone and display the time: 5:21.
I’ve been asleep for almost an hour. And looking around as the afternoon light seeps in from between the heavy, striped curtains, I notice Sam hasn’t returned from her swim.
My first thought is to go find her. I move to get off the bed and pause, hunched over the edge, my feet planted on the carpeted floor. That’s the last thing I should do—go to the pool and watch her swim around in a skimpy bathing suit. I run a hand down my face, waking myself up further.
Instead, I tap out a text to her and hit send. If she’s ready to come back to the room, or go get some food, or roam downtown, she’ll text back. I really don’t care what we do tonight. I’d be just as happy to lose myself in TV and pass out again. I’m that tired.
Mentally, physically, and emotionally.
Yup. I sound like a chick. But being around Sam is doing that to me. It’s also draining. I can’t fault her completely, though. I’m doing a fucking fantastic job of sucking the life right out of myself. I’m sure she’s sick of dealing with me, and that’s why she needed to get away.
I push myself back against the wall and stare at the black flat screen, too crapped out to bother to turn it on. After about five minutes of creepily sitting in silence, I realize Sam hasn’t messaged me back.
