Chapter 9
NINE
Emmett second-guessed his decision to allow him entrance the moment Lincoln frowned at him. “Are you okay?” he asked. “You look like you’re coming down with the flu.”
“Hangover.” The surprised way Lincoln’s eyebrows rose into sharp arches might have been amusing if his stomach wasn’t still a little sloshy. “Come in, please.” He moved out of the way so Lincoln could leave the sweltering heat for the air-conditioned house.
Lincoln stared around, taking in the decor, which was very Beatrice—an unsubtle mix of beach kitsch and rock and roll, with a surfboard on one wall, a lot of chrome in the kitchen visible through a wide doorway, and lots of bright colors, mixed with seashells and coral.
She even had several wind chimes hanging in the living room.
Emmett loved the quirkiness of it.
Lincoln leaned the oddly shaped black case against the side of the couch, then held up the box in his hands. “Beatrice thought I should bribe my way into your good graces, so you’ll forgive me for not calling or texting since Saturday.”
Emmett eyed the box, unsure how he felt about Beatrice conspiring with Lincoln behind his back. “What is it?”
“Doughnuts from the Fractured Prune.”
“Seriously?” Emmett plucked the box out of his hands a little rudely, too excited by the sugary treats to care. “They make, like, the best doughnuts on the planet.”
“I know. Beatrice said your favorite was the cherry glaze with mini chocolate chips.”
He peeked beneath the lid, his eyes going wide at the pile of sugary goodness. “You bought me a dozen?”
“I’m groveling here. Is it working?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Emmett smacked a kiss to Lincoln’s left cheek, an action as innocent as it was impulsive, and totally inappropriate considering it was for doughnuts. He ducked his head, cheeks getting hot. “Sorry.”
“No worries.” Lincoln’s easygoing grin underlined his words.
“Do you want one?” At Lincoln’s leer, he realized that that had sounded like asking if he wanted a kiss. “Um, a doughnut.”
“You don’t have to share.”
“I can’t eat a dozen.”
“Oh come on, I have faith in you.”
Emmett laughed, then put the box down on a nearby side table. “Thank you. Honest. You didn’t have to. I could have called you, too, and I didn’t.”
“I didn’t really give you a reason to. I walked away, and I shouldn’t have done that before telling you exactly how I feel.”
Don’t ask. Asking means telling, and if he tells you, then it’s real. I’ll have to lie, and I don’t ever want to lie to Lincoln.
He studied Lincoln’s pretty face and styled blond hair, his eyes still hidden behind sunglasses. A face he loved looking at, along with a lyrical voice, and a stunningly wonderful personality. A fighter who wasn’t going to give up on his musical dream, no matter what.
Lincoln wouldn’t hurt him.
“How do you feel?”
“I’m attracted to you, Emmett.”
Hearing the words made that thing inside of Emmett turn over and beg. It fractured part of his resistance, leaving him vulnerable to the rest of Lincoln’s words.
“I feel really good when I’m around you,” Lincoln continued.
“We have fun together. I think in some ways we fit really well. I think we could be really good together. But if you’re still questioning yourself, or if you’re not into me, tell me and I’ll back off.
No hard feelings. Still friends. But I need to know. ”
Emmett’s mouth went dry as the desert. Part of him silently screamed for joy hearing those kinds of lovely words from a boy that he both liked and trusted.
A smaller part—the part that still smelled the smoke and could sometimes still hear his little sister screaming—wanted to lock himself in his room and pretend it was all a nice dream.
That Lincoln didn’t really like or want him, because pretending was easier.
Pretending was safe.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there staring at Lincoln’s chest, not quite seeing the band name scrawled across the gray fabric.
“Well, you haven’t decked me yet,” Lincoln said. “That’s a good sign.”
Words clogged Emmett’s throat. So many words.
Secrets and confessions and all of the things that scared him.
All the things keeping him from reaching out and kissing Lincoln until they couldn’t see straight.
From hauling him down onto the couch so they could make out and touch and ignore the outside world for a while.
His dick and balls took an interest in that line of thinking, and he barely resisted adjusting himself. That would only make the problem more noticeable to Lincoln, who hadn’t stopped watching his face. Emmett forced himself to look up, but he couldn’t see—
Lincoln took off his sunglasses and tucked them into a pocket of his shorts. His blue eyes were so encouraging, so patient, that Emmett’s resolve melted. He saw a man who silently promised to be gentle with his heart, if Emmett chose to give it to him.
“I’m not questioning,” Emmett said. His voice sounded strange. Strangled and hoarse. He’d never said the words out loud before. Not to Eric, and certainly not to his family. “I know I’m gay.”
Instead of that hot, sick feeling he often got when he thought about his orientation, all he felt was a sense of rightness.
He knew who he was, and he could say it to Lincoln with ease, because Lincoln understood.
So did Aunt Beatrice, Van, and everyone who worked at Off Beat.
This wasn’t Baltimore County, where everyone knew his parents. He wasn’t Emilio Sharif anymore.
He was Emmett Westmore, and he very definitely had a crush on Lincoln.
Lincoln took a measured step toward him, closing the gap to a few inches of air. Air suddenly charged with tension that rippled across Emmett’s skin and settled deep in his belly. Instead of smiling or joking, Lincoln kept his intent gaze laser-focused on him. “Are you attracted to me, Emmett?”
“Yes.”
“Does that scare you?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me why?”
Emmett had no idea how to explain his fears to Lincoln when he could barely explain them to himself.
They were irrational. They didn’t make logical sense.
And yet he couldn’t shake a sense of dread over the idea of anything happening to Aunt Beatrice or Lincoln because Emmett couldn’t control his desires.
He sat on the edge of the couch, hands dangling loosely between his knees.
Lincoln joined him, close without actually touching.
“My family was very religious,” Emmett said.
He could give Lincoln a version of the truth.
“We were taught that homosexuality was a choice, and those who chose to live that way would never enter the gates of heaven. So when I began to have homosexual urges in high school, I ignored them. I did everything I could not to think about boys or to notice boys.”
“I can relate to that a little.” Lincoln’s voice was soft and soothing, a balm on Emmett’s exposed nerves.
“My parents put a lot of expectations on me to be successful, get married, carry on the family name. All that typical alpha male bullshit that fathers like to put on their sons. When I figured out for sure that I was gay, I expected disappointment, sure, but not the violence I got handed to me. Sometimes you have to make yourself happy, even if it hurts your parents.”
“I thought that, too, near the end. My senior year I was assigned a research project with an openly gay guy in my class. Eric.” Eric Barnes had been everything that Emilio Sharif could not be: open, comfortable with his sexuality, but still popular enough that he avoided too much public harassment.
“We spent a lot of time together, first at the library, and then at Eric’s house.
I don’t know how he knew, but one day he leaned across the table and kissed me on the mouth. ”
Lincoln’s eyebrows furrowed. “Were you okay with that?”
“I was surprised. I wanted to be angry, except it felt good. Not just kissing someone, but kissing a boy. I told him my parents could never know, and he said he understood. We spent the rest of the hour making out.” The genuinely good memory of that afternoon, Eric’s long, lean body pinning him to the dining room carpet, spread warmth through his belly.
“The project was due the next day, so it became difficult to find time to be together. We texted and used SnapChat a lot. I liked having a secret. It made me feel important, but I also hated lying to my parents. I hated how disappointed they’d be in me for being with a boy. ”
Lincoln’s warm hand covered his knee and squeezed.
Emmett didn’t hesitate in covering that hand with his own.
He also didn’t protest when Lincoln turned his hand so they could lace their fingers together.
Palm to palm. Heat from that touch speared him deep inside, and Emmett ignored the way his dick hardened.
From holding hands.
It wasn’t only that, though. It was from the fact that he trusted Lincoln. He was attracted to Lincoln. And Lincoln smelled amazing—a combination of sweat and cologne and sugar from the doughnut shop.
I want him.
“What happened with Eric?” Lincoln asked.
“During Christmas break, it got a little easier to sneak off together. We’d progressed to hand jobs and blow jobs, but I was the one holding back from going further.
I think part of my brain kept rationalizing that as long as we didn’t go full-on anal sex, that it didn’t count.
That I wasn’t going to hell for my choices. ”
“Hey.” Lincoln squeezed his hand. “If either one of us is going to hell, it’s not for who we choose to fuck. God made the gays, just like he made everyone else.”