Chapter 6
SIX
Emmett did his best to watch Lincoln without being obvious about it, while they navigated the crowded streets back to the mini-golf parking lot.
Lincoln was trying so hard to pretend he was okay, and even with the sunglasses hiding his eyes, Emmett saw his pain in the way his lips pressed flat and his jaw flexed.
Sweat trickled from his temples in constant streams, and not all from the day’s heat.
He didn’t know how to help other than to make sure as few people jostled Lincoln as possible.
His entire focus became getting Lincoln to his car and out of the heat.
Out of the sun. Home so he could take a migraine pill and start to feel better.
He hated seeing Lincoln in pain on a deep, cellular level that he didn’t entirely understand.
Their conversations during lunch had been light and also deeply intimate. Very few people in his life now knew about the fire. Emmett avoided personal conversations about his family so he didn’t have to relive it. Remember the heat and the smoke and the screams.
The terror that had curled into his gut and lived there, a venomous creature poisoning his soul long after he got the news about his parents and sister.
An unfamiliar part of him had wanted to tell Lincoln everything, though, and that confused him.
Everything about Lincoln confused him, from his easygoing exterior charm to the anger lurking just beneath the surface.
How he could be at once confident and tentative.
Small things that made up the very attractive man Emmett really needed to stop obsessing over.
This friendship is a mistake. It’s only going to hurt us both.
Lincoln was openly gay, and once in a while, Emmett suspected he was flirting.
The whole “best thing in my mouth” line had definitely been flirting.
Emmett had had to bite back a flirty response, and he’d been so flustered he ended up nearly choking to death.
He couldn’t flirt back. He couldn’t be anything more to Lincoln than a friend.
And he would be the best friend he could manage.
The parking lot and Aunt Beatrice’s car finally appeared like a mirage in the desert. Lincoln was a sweaty, shivering mess by the time Emmett tucked him into the front passenger seat and got his seat belt in place. Lincoln immediately reclined the seat, hands clutching at his stomach.
Panic at his state made Emmett’s fingers tremble badly enough that he missed getting the key into the ignition twice.
Once he finally got the car started, he rolled down the windows and turned on the vents.
Warm air billowed out but it was better than the stifling, heated air currently inside the car.
Getting out of the lot and to a traffic light that would allow him to make a left took forever, but by the time he was back on the main drag, cold air was trickling from the vents.
Emmett aimed all of them toward Lincoln’s side of the car, then concentrated on traffic, bicyclists, and the occasional jaywalking pedestrian.
It took about fifteen minutes and a lot of red lights to finally pull onto Lincoln’s street.
He parked, then circled the car. Lincoln clung to him getting out, so Emmett wrapped an arm around his waist and let him lean.
He felt good there, warm and solid, and Emmett shoved those thoughts right out of his mind.
Concentrate.
The front door was, naturally, locked.
“Left pocket,” Lincoln said. “Keys.”
Right. Emmett used his free hand to dig into the pocket of Lincoln’s loose cargo shorts.
Two keys on a small ring. The first one didn’t fit.
The second opened the door, and a welcoming blast of cool air hit them full-on.
Emmett kicked the door closed behind them, then allowed Lincoln to lead him through an open living room with an attached kitchen, to a hallway. Second door down.
A double bed took up most of the space in the room, which didn’t really strike him as being very Lincoln—an odd thought, since he barely knew the man.
Emmett tugged the covers back so Lincoln could sit.
Lincoln kicked off his sandals, using the last of his energy to do so, because he pretty much melted into the bed.
So completely boneless that, for an instant, Emmett feared he’d passed out.
And then a soft moan drifted from his lips.
“What can I do?” Emmett asked.
“Pill. Bathroom. Blue bottle.” Each word seemed to cause Lincoln even more pain.
Emmett took a moment to draw the blackout curtains and dim the room to a murky dullness, instead of the previous brightness.
It took him two tries to find which door hid the bathroom.
Lincoln had three blue prescription bottles with his name on them on the bathroom sink.
Emmett studied the names, but they meant nothing to him.
Only one said “Take 1 tablet at onset of symptoms,” so he took a chance and shook a pill out of that bottle. He filled a rinse glass with water and carried it all back to the bedroom.
“Riza-trip-something?” He’d already forgotten the generic name on the label.
Lincoln grunted then gave him a thumbs-up.
Emmett scooted closer so he could give him the pill.
“Basin,” Lincoln said. His chest heaved. “Now.”
Uh-oh.
He didn’t know where they might keep a barf basin, so Emmett retrieved the bathroom wastebasket as quickly as he could.
Lincoln had already rolled onto his side, and Emmett held the can while Lincoln’s entire body shook and expelled his lunch.
Emmett tried not to flinch at the sight, sounds, or smell.
He’d nursed his baby sister through the stomach flu once, and it had lasted for three days.
It took longer than Emmett expected for Lincoln’s body to stop turning itself inside out. He finally collapsed back against the pillows, his flaming cheeks streaked with tears. Emmett’s heart twisted at the sight of someone he liked in so much pain.
He left the wastebasket in the bathroom and brought back two damp washcloths. One he used to clean the inside of Lincoln’s mouth. The other he wiped over his cheeks, chin, and forehead. Lincoln didn’t resist any of it. He barely seemed aware, too wrapped up in the agony of his migraine.
Emmett returned the washcloths to the bathroom, leaving them in the sink to be rinsed out later. Back in Lincoln’s room, he debated searching Lincoln’s phone for a contact he should call. Someone who could come take care of him better than Emmett. Someone who knew him.
Except he didn’t want to relinquish Lincoln’s care to a stranger—a stranger to Emmett.
He squatted by the bed near Lincoln’s head and brushed a lock of blond hair off his damp forehead. “Think you can take that pill now?” he whispered.
Without opening his eyes, Lincoln gave him a shaky thumbs-up. He parted his lips and poked out a slip of pink tongue. Emmett placed the tablet there. Lincoln withdrew and dry-swallowed.
“Can I call someone for you?”
Lincoln grunted. “You. Here.”
“You want me here?”
Another thumbs-up.
Emmett squeezed Lincoln’s wrist. “I’ll stay then.” He swore Lincoln smiled.
He sat on the floor and leaned against the nightstand, staying put until Lincoln’s breathing steadied and he’d fallen asleep. Emmett really wanted to call Aunt Beatrice for advice. There had to be something else he could do for Lincoln’s migraine.
Ice pack.
His father had gotten stress migraines sometimes, and Emmett remembered walking past the living room where he would be stretched out in his recliner, an ice pack over his eyes.
He got up and wandered into the kitchen.
The place was incredibly clean and organized.
On the wall near the refrigerator was a corkboard covered in printed photographs.
Groups of mostly guys, with one girl mixed into many shots.
He recognized several faces. Dominic Bounds.
Trey Cooper. The lead singer from XYZ, whose name was escaping him.
The girl must be the singer from Fading Daze.
So much love and camaraderie among the friends.
His heart panged with envy. Emmett had friends growing up, sure, but none that still talked to him. None that he’d created the kind of bond with that overcame any obstacle. None that had stood by him after the fire.
Not that he’d made a huge effort to keep in contact, either. Friendship swung both ways.
It made him all the more determined to hold tight to this new friendship with Lincoln. He felt safe around the other boy. Safe in a way he couldn’t explain and hadn’t experienced in far too long. Lincoln made walking down a crowded summer sidewalk less frightening. He made it all feel . . . okay.
Wood creaked and keys jangled. Emmett turned, nearly tripping over his own ankles. The front door swinging open made his muscles freeze and his blood go cold. A stranger. He was in a stranger’s home, and he had no idea how they were going to react to him being there.
A teenage girl walked inside and shut the door.
She made it three steps toward the kitchen before she spotted him.
Her shriek made Emmett’s pulse race. They stared at each other across the space of about six feet.
Her big brown eyes telegraphed a lot of things, and at the top of the list was definitely fear.
Emmett couldn’t think of a single thing to say. His brain had simply stopped working.
The girl’s fear shifted into determination.
Uh-oh.