Page 34 of Pocketful of Shame

"I never remembered," he replied, blue eyes flicking to mine. "Until now."

My breath hitched. "Sketch, do you think…"

"No." He shook his head, shutting me down. "Absolutely not."

"But that's more than just a coincidence, right?" I gaped at him, eyes wide. "Having the same dream? This isn't normal, right?"

"Fuck if I know." Standing up, he shrugged and moved for the bathroom. "I need to grab a shower."

"Yeah, okay." Flustered, I tucked my disheveled hair behind my ears and stared after him, still privately reeling.

"Oh, and Ro?" he said, standing in the adjoining bathroom doorway.

"Yeah, Sketch?"

"The floor wasn’t moving."

My eyes widened. "What?"

"In the dream," he replied quietly. "The floor wasn’t moving. We were on a boat."

Chapter Ten

Sketch

Quinton Presley didn’t need to worry about the apparent danger stalking us, because I was going to kill him myself. Slowly. Painfully. With my bare hands. "What the hell were you thinking?" I demanded when I finally got through to his cell later that night. All damn day, I'd been leaving messages on the tool's voicemail, waiting for him to call me back. "Leaving me here alone with her?" I growled, so damn mad I could taste it. "You fucked me, Pres," I told him, clenching the burner phone I'd snagged in Houston so hard my knuckles turned white. "You screwed me over real good, asshole."

He laughed down the line. "I heard a song on the radio earlier – reminded me of you two. It was one of Dylan Schneider's –"

"Presley!" I barked, tightening my hold on my cell. "I don’t give a damn about any songs. I need you to come back right now. I'm not fucking around here, dammit. You can't play me like this."

"How bad could one kiss hurt."

"Excuse me?" I spluttered.

"That's the name of the song on the radio that reminded me of you," he explained, still chuckling. "It's kinda fitting, huh?"

"Shut up and come back," I ordered, ignoring his jibe. "I don’t care where you are. Turn the damn truck around and get back here."

"No can do, buddy," he said breezily. "I'm in our hometown as we speak. I'll be back in a day or two so just hang tight and try not to lose your shit."

"Goddammit, Pres," I bit out, pressing my forehead against the exterior wall of the motel. Romi was asleep now, back in a room I wasn’t sure was safe for me to enter. I couldn’t handle my feelings for her. Not a damn thing had been resolved and I felt like I was going to explode if he didn’t get his ass back and fast. "What am I supposed to do with her?"

"I don’t know, Sketch. Play cards. Scrabble. Pick her damn brain. Resolve your differences," he offered, sounding amused. "You're a resourceful guy. You'll figure something out."

"She doesn’t have anyclothes," I growled into the phone. "Something you fucking promised me you'd pick up for her and convenientlydidn’t. I had to give her some of my clothes – she's drowning in them, by the way. Not to mention the fact that she can't even get in and out of the shower by herself and I can't do it, Pres. I can't fucking help her get naked, dammit, and I can't leave her on her own to go buy her shit. I'm feeding her pizza, asshole. That's what she's gonna have to survive on because it's the only damn place in this shithole town that delivers."

"Breathe," he instructed. "You sound like you're having a panic attack."

"Because Iam!" I bit out.

"What's wrong, dude?" he teased. "Scared of a little girl?"

Like you wouldn't believe."I don’t like being kept in the dark," I replied. "I've had enough of that." A whole lifetime's worth. "If you were going looking for the journal, that should have been a joint decision. You can't just break off and go rogue, fucker. What if something happens to you?"

"Aw, Sketch," he feign-gushed. "Didn’t realize you cared so much."

I rolled my eyes. "I don’t. I need your brain. That's it."

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