Page 32 of Pocketful of Shame

No, I couldn’t.

Because it wasn’t enough.

Chapter Nine

Romi

When I woke the following morning, I felt like a freight train had mowed me down in my sleep. Everything hurt and my mind was reeling. All night long, I'd tossed and turned, reliving a childhood nightmare until the sun came up. Plagued with images of a locked door and a little boy trapped behind it, I slowly sat up and wiped the sleep from my eyes.

"Morning."

Sketch's familiar voice filled my ears and I swung sideways to find him leaning against the windowsill, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. His hair was in complete disarray and I swear I'd never seen anything more beautiful.

"So, Pres is gone," he said, turning to face me and waving a piece of paper in front of him. "And the fucker took my truck."

My mouth fell open. "What?"

Looking pissed, Sketch glared down at the note in his hand and began to read."Dear lovebirds – jokes. I've put a lot of thought into it and decided that I have to go back home. I think I know where the journal might be. It's a hunch, but one I can't ignore. I'll be a couple of days tops. Lay low and stay put – well, I guess that's a moot point considering I'm borrowing your truck. Don’t worry, buddy, I'll take good care of your wheels. Please try not to kill each other while I'm gone. I'm reluctantly fond of you both and need your pea brains to save my hide. Love Pres. PS– "Sketch rolled his eyes before muttering, "Condoms. Rose. Condoms."

I flushed bright pink and Sketch roughly cleared his throat.

"Why didn't he take us with him?" I asked, keeping my eyes on his face and not his perfectly defined chest and stomach. "

"It's Presley," Sketch grumbled, balling up the note and tossing it in the trash can. "Why does he do half the shit he does?"

"So, we're stuck here until he comes back?"

"Looks like it," he deadpanned.

Great.I swallowed deeply.

"Did you have a nightmare?" he asked then, catching me by surprise.

Shrugging, I laughed humorlessly. "My whole life is a living nightmare, Sketch."

"That's not what I meant." Leaning back, he folded his arms across his broad chest. "You were tossing around in your sleep."

"Was I?"

He nodded. "Is it the crying?" He looked me dead in the eyes. "Do you still hear it?"

"Do you?" I breathed, heart hammering furiously, as I mentally recanted the nightmares Sketch used to tell me about when we were kids. The ones where he was surrounded by wailing women. He used to sketch these really graphic drawings when he was little that were absolutely freaking terrifying, and I spent half my life trying not to think about them. His dreams always seemed so much worse than mine, but he was never affected by them. He never cowered under his bed or screamed at the top of his lungs like I had. No, even as a small child, he was brave and fearless. Meanwhile, I was a nervous wreck, seeking comfort from the boy next door because of the monsters in my subconscious.

Sketch stared at me for the longest moment before shaking his head. "No."

"Lucky you," I replied, staring down at my hands.

"It ain't real, Ro," I heard him say, reciting the same words he'd told me a thousand times. "You know that."

"Maybe," I mumbled, trailing off as my mind kept taking me back to that night, to that specific moment in time, to that memory. "Can I tell you something?"

"Always."

"Something else happened to me that night." I swallowed deeply before whispering, "Something I don’t understand."

Frowning, he unfolded his arms and pushed off the wall, coming to sit on the edge of my bed. "What kind of something?"

"Chris said –" My survival instincts fought hard to overpower my mouth, to keep me safe, but I poured the words out, needing to put it out there. Needing him to help me make sense of the crazy. Even though we had nothing resolved and I was simmering with resentment, I needed him right now. "Chris said that I already knew."

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