17. Lincoln
17
Lincoln
Deep brown eyes look up at me from her place on her knees, watery from the pressure against the nerves in the back of her throat. Her tears don’t deter her as her head bobs up and down, sucking my cock like it’s a French delicacy, and she’s a little food critic, hungry for a taste.
I thread my fingers through her long hair, pulling it back over her shoulder so that I have an unobstructed view of how well the siren on her knees is deep-throating me. It’s a view that I never want to end unless it’s replaced by her above me, under me, or in front of me, ass perched in the air.
“Fuck, cierń, your mouth feels fucking perfect,” I mutter, letting my fingers drift over her sharp jawline and hollowed cheeks. My praise ignites her, encouraging her to go faster. I grunt an expletive, tightening my hold on her face and hair as I help guide her along my cock.
“That’s it, cierń. Fuck, baby. I’m coming. If you don’t want it, pull off.” My harsh breath follows my words, the telltale zaps of pleasure shooting up my spine until my cum shoots down Seraphina’s throat, painting the walls of her esophagus.
I close my eyes, dropping my head back against the couch as her mouth releases me, letting her tongue lap me up and swallow the remnants of my orgasm. Her tongue dips to the base of my cock, tracing a vein that forces a shudder from my body. “Fuck, Seraphina.” I reach for her, attempting to pull her up to my lips for a kiss.
But no sooner do the words leave my mouth than the vision is shattered.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
My eyes pop open, and three things hit me simultaneously.
First, it’s dark out, not even four in the morning, judging by the shadows in the room and the dark sky beyond the window.
Secondly, my body is uncovered. The boxers I kept on when I crashed on the couch are the only thing separating my balls and dick from the room, while the blankets I draped over myself are haphazardly tossed to the floor.
And, finally, the person sitting at the end of the couch, dressed in a pale-blue slip, isn’t Seraphina, but Gemma. A very angry, very irate Gemma.
“What the fuck are you doing, Gemma?” I sigh, my tone more resigned than angry. I reach for the blanket on the floor and pull it over my lap and erection as I sit up and lean against the armrest. “Why are you out here?”
“You mean, why is your girlfriend in the house we share, checking on her boyfriend when he’s moaning like a porn star on our couch? Or do you mean why is my boyfriend dreaming about some whore named ‘Seraphina’ now, hmm?”
“I was sleeping, Gemma.”
“So you cheat on me in your sleep?”
Shaking my head at her logic, I bend my knees and move my legs off the couch, turning my body so that my profile is to her. “What are you doing out here, Gemma?”
“Do not turn this on me. I came out to ask you to come to bed and have makeup sex. You’re the asshole who was dreaming about another woman while I was concerned for our relationship. H-how do you think that makes me feel?” her voice stutters, though I’m unsure if it’s from sadness or wounded pride.
Is it sad that I can’t discern the emotions of my girlfriend? Abso-fucking-lutely.
“Gem, fuck.” Running a hand over my face, I shake my head. I don’t know how to feel right now, but I know that the emotions cascading through my veins are predominantly anger, annoyance, and animosity. Swallowing down the rush of emotions, I keep my voice light, attempting to keep irritation from my voice. “I’m sorry, I didn’t do it consciously. But we both know this isn’t working, Gemma. Before whatever dream I just had, before last night, we knew it, but we ignored it. We are not working.” I look at my hands in my lap as I continue, “For four months, it’s been fighting, making up, days apart. How much longer can we keep doing this? How much longer can I spend on the couch? How much longer can you spend unhappy, trying to use your body to make up for the fights and the arguments we have? It’s not working, Gem.”
“We were fine until you saw her tonight.” She snarls the accusation. I don’t have to guess who she’s speaking about since I just muttered Seraphina’s name while asleep, pretending to fuck her throat when I was probably just pumping air. Unshed tears shine in Gemma’s eyes, and I frown at her recollection of the evening.
“This has nothing to do with Sera. We have not been okay for a long time. You are so deeply unhappy with my job, my hours, my schedule, and my friends, and there’s nothing I can do to change that. I’m not willing to give up my career. I’m not willing to walk away from my friends, so what’s the solution, Gemma? We stay miserable, living together and having brief moments of happiness, or do we move on?
“Because I can tell you now, I don’t want this. It’s not healthy, and it’s not sustainable.”
Gemma stares at me, the sadness in her eyes morphing to anger as she processes my words. “You’re saying you don’t want me. Be a fucking man and say what you think, Lincoln. Don’t be such a goddamn coward that you hide behind the ‘doing the right thing’ bullshit. God,” she scoffs, unfolding her legs and standing up from the couch. “You’re so goddamn pathetic. I just came out here to apologize, but instead, I had to listen to you call out another woman’s name in your sleep, and yet you’re the one trying to end things with me? Are you fucking dumb? Guys like you”—she waves her hand at me, her face contorting with rage—“do not get women like me. You should be worshipping me. Instead, you act like I kicked your dog because I offered you my mouth on a silver platter—ugh!” She breaks off, stomping to the kitchen.
Wide-eyed, I follow her retreat, curious about what shit she’s about to throw now since that tends to be her outlet when she’s mad. I’ve replaced no less than three sets of dishes, a ceramic serving bowl, and two mirrors from her temper tantrums.
“Gemma, what the fuck are you doing with the knife block?” Surging to my feet, I let the blanket fall from my lap and rush over to Gemma, who just grabbed the fucking knife block from the counter and aimed it at my head.
“Get your fucking hands off of me,” she yells as I reach for the knife block poised above her head. She may be tall at five foot ten, but I have a few inches and the desire not to die on my side.
Wrenching the heavy wooden block and sharp knives from her hold, I cradle them against my chest, turning slightly so that she can’t easily reach for them again. “Gemma, you need to go to the bedroom and sleep off this rage. We’ll talk in the morning.” There’s no reasoning with her in this state, not when she seemingly wants to fucking kill me.
“Stop deciding everything, you bastard. I didn’t say we’re over.”
I raise a brow, looking from her to the set of knives in my hand. “Did you or did you not just try to fucking throw ten pounds of heavy, sharp objects at my head?”
Her face contorts once again, a foot stomp sounding against the floor. “We’re speaking in the morning, Lincoln. You will not leave me. I say when we’re over, not you. Got it?”
Closing my eyes against the mounting frustration, I sigh in defeat. “Go to bed, Gemma. We’re not doing this now.”
She stands there for a moment, a beautiful, angry, half-naked goddess intent on seeking vengeance. I want to be excited about her temper, enthralled by her inability to walk away from me.
But I’m not; I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired of this pattern of yelling and fucking and separating. I know I fucked up by succumbing to a damn dream about the woman I haven’t seen in a long fucking time, but just like I told Gemma, this isn’t about Seraphina. No, it’s about how taxing this relationship has become, how I’ve become a version of myself I fucking hate.
Seemingly accepting my temporary white flag, Gemma nods, her face smoothing to the beautiful mask I know well. “Okay, Linc. We’ll talk in the morning.” Her footsteps are unhurried as she saunters over to me, and though I refuse to watch her approach, I don’t doubt that her slim hips are probably swaying to the beat playing in her mind.
“I love you, Lincoln. I’m sorry,” she whispers as she stops before me. I turn my head, looking into her face. I’m surprised to see a smile on her lips, as though we just had a pleasant conversation about the weather. You’d never know that the last twenty minutes happened if it wasn’t for the angry glint in her eyes or the taut lines around her mouth.
She leans up and attempts to drag her lips against mine, but I turn my head, facing the wall so that her lips meet my jaw. “Don’t, Gemma. Don’t touch me right now.”
“God,” she screeches, walking past me and shoving me with her shoulder in the process. I don’t relax until the bedroom door slams shut and a heavy thunk sounds from the inside of the room, no doubt a shoe, a bag, or a lamp being thrown.
Depositing the knife block on the counter, I contemplate if I should lie down with it in case Gemma comes out of the room and decides to stab me.
“Don’t be fucking paranoid,” I mutter to myself, walking away from the block and thoughts of Gemma as one of those women on Snapped . I pick up the blanket on the floor on my way back, tossing it over my shoulder like a damn life preserver.
—
I slept like shit. And when I say “slept,” I mean I stayed awake the rest of the night and tried to figure out what happened in the last eight hours.
I have to be at the restaurant early today, and I can’t help but take comfort in the fact that I’m covering an earlier shift for Diana and will have an excuse to leave this apartment. Picking up my phone, I note the early hour: six thirty in the morning. Even though I have to be in the kitchen at eleven, I still have over three hours before I need to leave.
Sitting up, I hunch my back, leaning my elbows against my knees, and stare down at the floor. I hate this. I fucking hate that I hurt Gemma last night, that we continue to hurt each other, but she seems content to stay in the same toxic cycle. I hate that I saw Seraphina last night and asked her about Mitch, and the anger that descended over her eyes made me want to grab her and carry her out of the restaurant. I hate that the only thing I want to do is avoid my apartment, run away from my girlfriend, and not confront our shit head-on.
Looking over my shoulder, I weigh my options: wake Gemma early and have the conversation we need to have now or wait until she gets up. With the way things ended with her last night, I know that our next conversation is not going to be a pleasant one. If I know anything about Gemma after our two-year relationship, it’s that she’ll either wait until right before I need to go to have the blowup, or she’ll stay locked in that room all morning, forcing me to show up to the restaurant in my clothes from yesterday. Either way, I’ll look like shit and feel like shit. I don’t doubt that both of those things will probably make her feel better after last night.
“Fuck,” I mumble, running a hand over my face. I settle my fingers against my jaw and swipe up on my phone screen to unlock it. Scrolling through my tiles, I find the one labeled social media and open the Instagram app, resolved to lose myself in an hour of mindless, pointless reels. Call it God, coincidence, or karma, but the moment the app comes alive, a carousel of pictures from last night pops up. Looking at the username, I scowl at Ava’s handle, knowing that I’m about to sift through a barrage of photos, hoping to get a glimpse of Seraphina.
When we first became friends, she had all the commonly used social media accounts, and I followed and friended her on each one. Though she didn’t post frequently, every time she did, I would look at her pictures, words, and thoughts and try to figure out what exactly was going through her head.
When she posted a video of her playing field hockey for her high school team, face mask and mouthguard on full display, did she want people to know she was more than just a beautiful face and smart brain?
When she posted the photo of her and her douche-nozzle ex-boyfriend, complete with a fake smile and dull eyes, did she think her internet “friends” assumed she was happy?
When we stopped talking, I had these little glimpses into her life, and it hurt like a bitch, but at least I was able to see she was somewhat happy. Living a life that didn’t include me but seemed to fulfill her.
And then, she deleted every trace of herself from the internet—tried to, anyway. Ava and Bianca still included Seraphina in their carousels and family posts, but there were no tags and no profile available for the middle Gregori sister. It pissed me off at first, not because I couldn’t keep tabs on Seraphina and ensure she was some bullshit semblance of happy, but because it felt like she was taking a protective measure.
It makes my comment about Mitch last night even more fucked up because I know he did something to her. I just don’t know what. And right now, with how the last two days are panning out, I doubt I ever will.
Sliding my fingers over the pictures, I look through the ten carefully curated photos, and my motions halt at a picture of the three Gregori sisters posed in front of Grey and Ava’s apartment building. There’s nothing sexual, offensive, or otherwise controversial about the photo, but for some reason, my jaw clenches, and I can’t help the desire that blooms inside of me.
Grey’s positioned behind Ava, hugging her around her neck and pressing his body to her back. On one side is Bianca, with a vibrant smile and a tiny orange dress hanging from her body. And then there’s Seraphina.
Despite Bianca looking like a damn traffic cone, my eyes drift to Seraphina instantly.
Though Seraphina’s body is highlighted in the picture, it’s not the main thing that draws my attention. While Bianca and Ava wear excited, happy expressions, Seraphina’s close-lipped smile and tilted head are aloof. My eyes stay on her face, taking in her dark-brown eyes, her high cheekbones, and the small dimple on her chin. It’s easy to say she’s beautiful; objectively, she is.
But it’s more than that. She’s intelligent, quiet yet witty, driven. She’s more than her face, more than her body, and somehow, her expression perfectly captures her inner beauty.
“Fuck,” I mutter again, dropping my phone to the couch and running a hand over my face. “This isn’t going to end well.”
“Why? Are you going to make me cry again today?” The sound of Gemma’s voice has me straightening immediately.
“What are you doing up?” In the the years I’ve been with Gemma, I’ve never seen her wake up before nine. Her presence in the living room at six thirty is unnerving and, quite frankly, weird as hell.
“You called me another woman’s name last night, and suddenly, I’m not even allowed to be in an apartment we’ve shared for the last year and a half?”
Clenching my jaw, I close my eyes, calling on every vestige of patience lurking inside me. “That’s not fucking fair, Gemma. I was sleeping; I didn’t know you were there. I wasn’t conscious.”
“And that’s supposed to make it better? I’m your girlfriend. Who else would you be dreaming about?”
Keeping my voice low and my tone as soft as my anger can, I bite out a reply, “I was sleeping. We had just fought, and you stomped to our room. I wasn’t expecting anyone or anything while I was asleep on our goddamn couch, Gem. I didn’t ask, nor did I want you to wake me up with sex or anything else you had planned.”
The look she gives me is scathing, a nonverbal rebuke of my reaction during the early morning hours. “You cheated on me in your mind. I don’t think I can forgive that, Lincoln. And now you’re trying to gaslight me.”
“I’m not trying to gaslight you, Gemma. I’m not discounting your feelings or trying to confuse or manipulate you. Listen.” I breathe out a heavy sigh. “I don’t want to fight with you. I understand you’re upset, and I get it; I’m sorry. But we’re in a fucked-up merry-go-round of bullshit, and we need to step off this ride.”
“What are you saying right now? I came out here last night to suck your cock and say sorry, and you’ve twisted this around to somehow blame me?”
“Gemma, I was fucking unconscious. And I’m not blaming you. I’m pointing out the situation we’re in.”
“Most men would be happy if their girlfriends woke them up with a blowjob. You’re acting so fucking dumb right now. Would you listen to yourself?”
My fingers flex against the blanket I’m holding in my lap, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to fling the fabric aside, get up, and walk out of this room. “I don’t know what you want me to tell you. What, that I’m not like most men? I have no idea how other people would react. I know how I’d react and how I did react.”
“Well, asshole, most men would appreciate me. Maybe I should find one of them!” she shouts, her voice bouncing around the apartment.
I nod my head, and my shoulders relax for the first time in our conversation. “Gemma…” I pause, looking up at her baby-blue eyes, filled with so much anger and resentment, and drop my voice. “You should look for someone else. I’m done, Gem. This relationship, this conversation, the arguments over my job… I’m done. I don’t want to do this anymore.” Sucking in a breath, I drop my voice, willing it to remain calm. “Do you have a place to stay?” I may want her out of my life, but I’m not a monster casting her out into the streets. If anything, I’ll fucking go, even though it’s my apartment. I open my mouth to offer that when her voice assaults me.
“Fuck you, fuck this shithole of an apartment, and fuck your friends. God, what was I thinking getting involved with a chef?” With a shake of her head, she marches into the bedroom, and I hear the closet doors flinging open against the wall. I’d wince if I gave a shit about the dents and scratches she’s undoubtedly making. As it stands, I’m just relieved that she’s getting her shit and—seemingly—getting out.
The volume of her voice carries from the bedroom. “You’re going to regret this, Lincoln. You are going to fucking gag when you see me with the next guy I’m with. And you know what? I’ll fucking marry him just to spite you.”
I don’t respond. She’s not looking for my words, simply looking for a punching bag to throw shit at. And I’m her preferred target.
“And you know the photographer, Leonard? Well, I fucked him in Turks and Caicos,” she shouts from the bedroom, banging a drawer closed on her admission. “And it was a hell of a lot better than you.”
I wince at her confession, not because I’m heartbroken by her statement, but because Leonard is fifty-five and has a penchant for eating red onions with his breakfast. I first met him almost eight years ago when I was still a model, and I remember nearly gagging from the smell of his breath when he’d correct my body placement.
Heavy footsteps alert me to her approach, and I turn my head to watch her wheel a suitcase and duffle bag into the living room. “I’ll be back for the rest of my things this afternoon; you better not touch a single thing, Lincoln, or I swear to you, I’ll key that precious car of yours.” I nod because what is she expecting me to do? Wear her lingerie around my apartment?
“And for the fucking record, I am the best goddamn thing that has ever happened to you. When you realize it a week from now, don’t come crawling back to me, expecting me to want you or your crooked cock ever again.” Gritting my teeth, I stare straight ahead, not giving her the satisfaction of another argument. Between last night and now, I’ve said everything I needed to and have no more words, no more air, for Gemma.
“Such a fucking man, you won’t even look at me as I leave. Fucking asshole,” she seethes, walking past the couch and toward the front door.
The earlier concern I had for her dissipates. Right now, I want her gone, and I don’t care where she goes, though I’m sure one of her many friends will be more than willing to take her in.
The door slams behind Gemma, leaving a silence that’s absolutely foreign to this apartment. Giving her a few minutes to make sure she doesn’t return, I breathe a sigh of relief at the knowledge that she’s not coming back, at least not while I’m here. I stand from the couch and cross the room, locking the knob and the deadbolt for extra precaution before making my way to my bedroom.
Gemma wasn’t in there long packing her shit, but she’s a tornado. Part of me is scared to walk into the bedroom and adjoining bathroom because I don’t know what the fuck I’ll find. Stepping gingerly over the threshold, I take stock of the thrown comforter, pillows, and clothes, seeing that it’s messy but not destroyed. Keeping my eyes alert, I let my gaze travel all over the room before stepping into the bathroom.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I scoff, taking in the retribution she seemed fit to dole out. My bodywash and shampoo bottles are on the floor, their contents emptied on the tiles. On the shower doors and the bathroom mirror are messages written in bright pink lipstick, Gemma’s favorite color.
Tiny dicked weasel
Cheating asshole
As far as revenge goes, it’s light but a pain in the ass. “Fucking Gemma,” I murmur as I head back to my kitchen to get shit to clean off the lies Gemma stamped on the glass.