Chapter 10
Ten
Lincoln stepped into the church and didn’t immediately burst into flames. He supposed the near death by fire last night must have counted for something.
“The tips of your hair aren’t ablaze,” Carter said, as if reading his mind.
“The amount of product in yours, you’d be first.”
Truth be told, Carter looked like a movie star this morning, eyes bright and skin tan with a sharp suit on and his curls slicked back, ready for some red-carpet occasion.
Or rather, white carpet in this case. All of which made Lincoln extra snippy.
He was supposed to be pissed at Carter, not lusting after him.
Which only reminded Lincoln of the private problem he’d had to deal with in the shower earlier.
After a restless four hours of sleep haunted by dreams of near-kisses and where those near-misses might have led, he’d woken up hard as a rock.
And while relief in the shower had solved the physical issue, it hadn’t solved the emotional one—in which he both loathed and lusted after his partner.
If, as a result, he’d been a little harsh on Carter this morning about picking up all the shit he’d left strewn around the house, it couldn’t be helped.
Carter smirked, as if he knew about the ongoing war between Lincoln’s head and dick. Lincoln lifted a hand to flip him off, and Carter muffed it before Lincoln could extend his middle finger. “Church,” he chided.
“Fuck—”
Lincoln was cut off by the plague of locusts descending. “Carter! Lincoln!” Susanne greeted them. “What a surprise!”
“We didn’t expect you,” Jennifer said, “especially after last night. The whole town is talking about it.”
“Especially after that,” Carter said, “this was the place we needed to be.”
Lincoln squeezed his hand. Hard. Then instantly regretted it, Carter’s wince and the scratchiness of his bandaged hand reminding Lincoln of his roughed-up knuckles. “Shit, I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Carter said through a grimace.
Lincoln skated his thumb over Carter’s knuckles, apologizing with actions as well as his words, hoping together they’d be more believable. He’d been such a grump this morning, he couldn’t blame Carter if he didn’t.
Green eyes flickered to him, a gentleness there Lincoln didn’t deserve. Hand still in his, Carter stepped behind him and looped an arm around his front, pulling him back against his chest.
“How are you two?” Lydia asked, joining her friends.
“Little worse for wear,” Carter said. “But alive. Thankful for that.”
“Do they have any idea who did this?” Susanne asked.
“Larry’s looking into it, but if you see anyone who looks like they might have done this”—Carter flashed a bandaged hand—“be sure to let him know.”
“Of course,” Susanne said. “Everyone will be on the lookout.”
For the attacker or for them? Every pair of eyes in the church seemed to be on them. They needed to move this along. “Like Carter said, we’re just glad to be alive.”
“And you’re okay too?” Jennifer asked.
He could tell by her smile that the ask was genuine, and he returned it, as warmly as he could muster, the heat at his back helping. “Yes, thank you.”
“No hand injuries?”
He lifted his hands as much as Carter’s arm around him would allow. “I’m good, thanks.”
“Excellent.” Jennifer’s smile grew wider, but then it dimmed, and she looked around them as if something was missing. “But he didn’t bring his guitar, Suz.”
Oh, so that was why she was so concerned about his hands. Genuine, my ass. “Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I think we’ve had enough excitement and attention. We just want to blend in.”
Carter squeezed him tighter. “Aww, come on, honey. Shouldn’t we sing His praises today? And you can play more than just the guitar.”
He’d swing back a heel, right into Carter’s balls, if all those eyes weren’t on them still.
“Can you play piano?” Lydia asked.
“He can,” Carter said.
“How—” He tried to wrestle free to no avail. Even with a sore shoulder, Carter had a good twenty pounds on him.
And then Carter mortifyingly began dragging him backward. “Give me just a second, ladies,” Carter said. “Let me see if I can talk him around.”
Lincoln let Carter lead him into the lobby vestibule.
It was only right he spare the townsfolk from the blistering rebuke he was about to unload.
Carter released him and Lincoln let loose.
“Talk me around?” He put a hand to Carter’s chest and shoved him back against the wall.
“Swear to God, if I had my gun on me, I’d show you talked around. ”
Carter raised his hands. “Okay, apologies on that one.”
“And for setting me up.”
“I didn’t set you up.”
“Bullshit.” Lincoln stepped closer, making sure Carter could clearly see his glare, could hear the fury in his voice. “How do you know I play more than guitar?”
“Because I googled Lincoln Monroe and found articles about an amazing musical prodigy from Los Angeles. And then all those mentions dry up after you graduated from LA County High School for the Arts.”
Because after years of tossing his guts before every show, he and his body had decided enough was enough.
Just the mention now of his Fame High days was enough to stoke the stomach upset he’d been ignoring in favor of his anger.
Fuck, he was going to toss his coffee-for-breakfast right here in the church.
Then he’d burn for sure. He shoved Carter aside and pressed both hands and his forehead against the cold stone wall, trying to force down the rising bile and beat back the suffocating heat of impending sickness.
“Fuck,” Carter cursed beside him. He laid a hand on the small of Lincoln’s back, then slid it up to rub over his shoulders. “I’m sorry, L, truly. I didn’t realize it was this bad. You don’t have to do this.”
“But I should.” Lincoln turned and fell back against the wall, eyes closed, head tilted back, as he struggled to rein in his insides.
“Up front, from the chancel, I’ll have a view of the entire congregation, and you can scout while I play.
There’s a whole FBI team set up at the hospital waiting for us to bring them a suspect.
” Beverley had texted them that morning with the contact information for the Richmond team providing support out of a closed area of the county hospital.
“And if Dr. Fear is also here, it draws his attention to us more. That’s what we wanted, right? ”
“Not worth you puking onstage.”
“It will be if it saves Ruby.” He lowered his head and opened his eyes.
“Back when I played baseball—”
The non sequitur didn’t throw Lincoln as much as the choice of sport. “You played baseball?” Carter seemed built more for football.
“Are you imagining me in tight pants, Professor?”
“No, but now that you mention it.”
Carter chuckled and leaned a shoulder against the wall next to Lincoln. “I wasn’t in one place long enough to play most team sports, but in high school, a coach saw me throwing a ball around with one of my foster brothers who was on the team. I was on the team a week later.”
Carter was a foster kid. That was one explanation for the sealed record Lincoln had run into eight years ago when he’d tried to research the class menace. But that wasn’t the point, and Carter wasn’t done with his story.
“I was a closer, the pitcher who—”
“Comes in at the end,” Lincoln said. “I went to UNC. SportsCenter is a mandatory course.”
“Great, you get the sports questions at trivia night.” Carter smirked when Lincoln’s middle finger twitched again. He sobered, though, as the memory pulled him back in. “I spent seven to eight innings of every game feeling like I was gonna throw up. Waiting to go in.”
Not exactly the same but pretty damn close.
Lincoln had heard stories of athletes experiencing something like stage fright too, especially hockey players who were predisposed to throwing up in their helmets.
Or maybe that was just in The Cutting Edge.
Also beside the point but his mind tended to wander when he was nervous.
“How’d you make it go away?” he asked, striving to get back on track.
“Coach told me that when I went out there I was the number on the back of my jersey. Not Carter Last-Name-of-the-Week. Not the weird foster kid. Just the pitcher, Number 3. Told the PA guy to announce it that way too.”
Lincoln got where he was going. “So I just need to be Mr. Polk?”
“That’s right.” He pushed off the wall and stood in front of Lincoln.
“Not Lincoln Monroe, musical prodigy.” As he straightened Lincoln’s jacket, vest, and collar, the backs of his hands brushed Lincoln’s jaw, the scratch of the bandages distracting him in a good way.
“You’re Professor Lincoln Polk, the new university librarian, who is also gifted at music and gifted with a smoking-hot husband. ”
“Cocky,” Lincoln said, rolling his eyes.
Then righting them as the backs of Carter’s fingers brushed his cheek, intentionally. “There he is.”
“Did you keep playing?” Lincoln asked, genuinely curious, and genuinely trying not to think about where Carter’s touch and this closeness between them could lead, in a fucking church.
All those thoughts died with the death of Carter’s smile. He dropped his hand and stepped back, out of Lincoln’s space. “I was moved before the end of the season. Foster brother didn’t like that I took his spot on the team.”
Lincoln’s chest ached, imagining a teen Carter conquering a fear, only to be uprooted for that success. He pushed off the wall. “Carter—”
Carter cut him off with an extended hand. “Ready, Mr. Polk?” The smile wasn’t exactly forced, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either. It was a cover.
Which was what Lincoln needed to sink into, for Ruby’s sake. And for Carter’s. He slid his hand into his partner’s, squeezing gently. “Ready, Mr. Polk.”
Ready only lasted the ten minutes it took the minister to call the congregation to order and introduce him.
“Good luck!” Susanne said, looking the part of proud schemer.