Chapter Three
CHAPTER THREE
Lincoln / Present
W iping off the slick sweat from my skin after I finish my last rep at the station’s gym, I flinch when my shoulder pops and sends shooting pain down my arm. I drop the dumbbell onto the floor and suck in a breath, putting my head between my legs to fight the nausea rising up my throat.
“God dammit ,” I growl, squeezing my arm to my body and trying to breathe past the pain.
My doctor told me I needed to stop getting ahead of myself, and the physical therapist I was assigned to was inclined to agree. But months off my regular training regime made me grumpier than usual. It was hard enough not to work my regular shifts, but having nothing to channel my frustration into made me a hell of a lot harder to deal with when I was stuck behind a desk or at my house trying to find distractions.
I’d rather be here, pushing my limits with the mindless chatter and sirens surrounding me, than in a house too big for me where my demons poke and prod my conscience whenever they get a chance.
Rubbing my shoulder after putting my weights away, I head to the locker room for a quick shower to feel half-human. By the time I’m out and changed, the pain is tenfold. No amount of hot water and ibuprofen seems to touch it, and I know damn well the bottle of oxycodone at home is going to remain untouched where it’s collecting dust in the medicine cabinet, no matter how bad the pain gets.
As I make my way through the building, one of the new dispatchers calls out, “Finally leaving, Lincoln?”
I lean against the wall beside the bulletproof glass separating me from Haddy’s desk in the dispatch room. She’s been here almost as long as I have and is constantly training new personnel on the phone systems. “’bout time, isn’t it?”
Most of the dispatchers are older, with kids around my age, so it’s easy to get along with them. Some of them act motherly if I do something stupid, like the time Haddy scolded me for not calling out my location before I got into a foot pursuit in the woods at one in the morning back when I was a patrol officer. It helps to have a good rapport with the people on the other side of the scanner, especially when you need a favor.
She’d sent me a get-well card after I was released from the hospital that had everybody’s signature on it, along with a plate of her famous homemade cinnamon buns. It was her I had to thank for the slight weight gain during recovery that hid my once-defined torso.
“I’m surprised you don’t have a cot set up in your office with all the time you spend here,” she remarks, a sad smile on her face.
She knows about my divorce and why I don’t like going home. Most people here do because they’re in everybody’s business. But, for the most part, they don’t pry too much in my personal life. They know I won’t reveal anything, even if they ask.
“Sometimes I think about it,” I admit, smiling past the pain still throbbing in my arm.
My eyes flick to the new dispatcher sitting beside Haddy, who definitely doesn’t fit the mold I’m used to. She’s younger than everybody else, probably around my age or a little younger. Pretty in an innocent kind of way. I’m not sure why she took this job because she looks like she belongs in a classroom teaching kids. The kind of calls the station gets tend to be too much for the people filling these seats, which is why we have so much turnover in staffing in the comms room.
Her eyes, some kind of mixture between green and blue, roam the front of me, taking in the suit pants and button-down I’m in. She’s used to seeing the officers in the state’s scratchy wool uniforms that are known as the gray bags—they’re shapeless, hot in the summer, and cold in the winter. When I got my promotion, I got to switch to business casual attire that is a hell of a lot more comfortable and definitely more flattering. I can tell the new girl appreciates it as much as I do.
I’ve seen that look flashing in her eyes before. I used to relish in the attention women gave me in the past. One smile, a singular wink, and they were mine to do what I wanted with.
It was that easy.
“You do spend a lot of time here,” she notes, her gaze finally landing on my face. She props her chin onto her palm. “Most guys have to be home to spend time with their families.”
She’s been here long enough to know the dynamics of most of the officers; those who are married, the ones with kids, the few who are unattached, and the ones having affairs behind their significant others’ back. Usually with other people from the station. This place is a cesspool of infidelity and scandal, and I definitely wouldn’t want to run a blue light over half the surfaces in it hearing half of the shit that goes on.
“I guess I’m not most guys,” I comment, choosing not to feed into her prying. I’m not an idiot. She’s interested and fishing for information that I have no intention of spoon-feeding her.
Her lips curl up at the same time her eyes lighten with mischief. “I get off in a few hours.”
One of the other dispatchers in the room coughs into their palm right before taking a call, but I see the amusement on their face all the same when I shoot them a look.
I look at the new girl, whose name I don’t even remember. Anna? Brittany? She looks sweet-faced, but I can see trouble under the mask. I bet she’d be easy to control, a distraction to feel good when I need it most. Someone like her, ready and willing, would let me do whatever I wanted with her body. And she’d take it with a smile.
But the heavy piece of gold I always keep in my pocket reminds me that there’s somebody else who would be just as willing.
And, frankly, hate sex is hotter than the desperate kind, no matter how attractive the person is offering it. “I hope you get home safely then,” I tell her, pushing off the wall I’ve been leaning on.
Her eyes flicker to my left hand, locking on the fourth finger that my thumb lazily drags across. “Lucky girl,” she murmurs.
Hardly, I want to say, but I choose not to. I don’t want to feed the fire or give her hope. There is none, and there never will be.
Not when there are ghosts of the past constantly haunting me. Dragging her, or anybody, into the mess I’ve made for myself, would be cruel and unusual punishment.
“Have a good night,” I tell everyone in the room, waving a hand in their direction.
“Try getting some sleep for once, Hawk,” Haddy calls out to me in that maternal tone.
As I walk away, I feel a twinge of regret for not giving the new girl a shot. It’s not like I have to promise her forever, just an orgasm or two and maybe some breakfast in the morning. I know damn well I won’t sleep like Haddy wants me to, so I might as well spend the time doing something I enjoy.
There are days when that temptation to enjoy a woman again almost beats the vows I took eight years ago, but I never let anything come of it. Not even after the divorce was finalized.
No matter how much I want to, no matter how much the need seeded inside of me begs me to stop holding out for hope that something will change, I never stray. What I told the therapist was true. I don’t want to fight for somebody who doesn’t even try to do the same for me.
On the drive home, I let the radio drown out the thoughts swirling in my head with classic rock. When I look at the time illuminating in the darkness, I tap my finger on the top of the steering wheel before cursing under my breath and taking a sudden left.
I may not want to fight, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to feel something.
Eight minutes later, I’m turning into a narrow driveway to an apartment building that’s a far cry from the house we used to share.
Despite the time, I knock on the door and wait for the tired brunette to open it with confusion pinching her brows together.
I step inside, pushing Georgia back and closing the door behind me. She’s about to say something, but I grab the back of her head and fist her hair, guiding her to look at me. “Don’t talk.”
Crushing my lips against hers, I back us up until she’s pressed between the erection quickly hardening in my pants, and the drywall. Her hands quickly grip my hips, her pelvis arching forward to gain friction against mine.
Biting into her bottom lip, I swallow her moan and grin when I pull back and see the way her whiskey eyes take me in. “You’re going to do exactly what I say. Do you understand me?”
Her tired expression melts into lust as she nods slowly, a hunger in her eyes that matches my own. “Yes, sir,” she whispers.
“Good girl,” I praise, caressing her cheek. I step back and watch as her chest, covered in a thin piece of fabric that I realize is an old shirt of mine, rises and falls rapidly.
I undo my pants and pull them down far enough to take myself out. “Get on your knees and remind me what that pretty little mouth can do.”
Her eyes flare as she watches me stroke myself, her teeth digging into her bottom lip as I grow in my palm.
When she sinks down on her knees, I bite back the groan as she takes me into her mouth. And damn, do I miss the skill set of her tongue and teeth, teasing me without hurting me, swallowing me without gagging, and pleasuring me without argument.
I run my fingers through her hair, watching her head bob over me with a precision that has my eyes rolling back. I’ll never forget the first time I got to experience her mouth on me.
The thought hardens me, making her choke as I push her down until I can feel the tip of my dick in the back of her throat. When her moans vibrate me, I pull her away and force her up by her hair.
When I see the slick grin on her face, I pull her head back and hover my lips over hers. “Playing games, are we?”
Her eyes sparkle. “Never,” she says coyly.
We both know that’s a crock of shit.
“You know what happens when you play games,” I say, nipping at her lip before stepping back and guiding her to the bedroom. “You get punished.”
I bend her over the bed and slide my hand over her exposed ass cheeks. Opening the pathetic excuse of a closet, I grab a silk scarf that looks as expensive as the rest of her wardrobe and use it to bind her arms so she can’t touch me. Then I grab a belt and wrap it around her waist to give me leverage as I lift up her ass to bring it off the bed and level to my aching dick.
Lifting the oversized shirt she stole from me, I grin when I see she’s not wearing any panties.
“It’s like you knew I was coming,” I praise, closing the distance between me and her pert ass and grazing my nose along the curve of her until I hover over her seam.
Slowly, my tongue finds its way down, down, down until she’s arching her ass up higher as I get closer to where she wants my mouth. I can smell how turned on she is—how badly she wants me.
“Somebody is eager,” I muse, letting my tongue lightly graze over her entrance as I part her for better access.
“Just shut up and fuck me,” she moans, wiggling her hips.
Humming, I kneel behind her on the mattress and press her chest down. “I thought I told you not to talk.”
This time, she’s quiet. “Good.” My knuckles graze the sensitive area between her legs, feeling how ready she is for me. “Were you thinking about this all night? Thinking about me? It feels like you were. You’re so fucking wet, it’s almost pathetic.”
She sucks in a breath when my fingers taunt her core before tweaking the nerves that have another moan escape her.
“I hope you’re ready for me, wife,” I say, positioning myself at her entrance. “Because I’ve had a bad day, and your pussy is about to make it better.”
That’s the only warning she gets before I’m burying myself inside her, each thrust and pump hard, fast, and ugly.
Using the belt, I pull her body into mine until the slick sound of her arousal is mixed with our slapping skin and the noises muffled into the mattress that her face is pressed into. Her arms squirm behind her, her hands grasping at nothing but air, making me smirk victoriously.
“Do you like that?” I ask, grinding myself against her ass so she feels all of me. “Do you like being my little slut?”
A garbled noise is all I get from her, so my palm comes down on her ass cheek, leaving a red mark in its wake.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Yes,” she gasps, as I spank her ass cheek again.
“Yes, what?” I demand, tightening my hold on the belt and using her body to get closer to release.
Nothing about my movements is gentle or sweet, but then again, they rarely were with her. I’m not sure either of us believed in making love. The rawness of our relationship was always shown in much more creative ways that didn’t always involve this kind of intimacy.
She submitted to me willingly because she knew I would always put her first, make her feel good; to feel worshipped . It wasn’t like the control she relinquished to her father, who used it solely for selfish reasons.
Georgia trusted me, and I made sure to show her how much I appreciated it.
“Yes, sir ,” she spits, her head tilting back when I hit the spot that has her choking on the sassiness trying to creep out.
I massage her sore bottom. “That’s a good girl. Are you going to come for me?”
She looks back, her eyes narrowed like she wants to fight, me but her body is giving in to the sensations pulsing through it.
“Say it, Georgia,” I command, picking up the pace and fucking her faster, getting close to my release when I hear the way her ass slaps against my hips. “Say you’re going to come for me.”
She opens her mouth, but words don’t come out. Instead, a guttural noise rises from her throat as she cries out through an orgasm despite her best efforts to hold back.
Those goddamn noises do me in.
I pull out right before I come, emptying myself on her until she’s covered in me.
Releasing the belt, I let it fall onto the bed as I stroke myself until every last drop is painted on the woman who claimed to love me in sickness and in health.
What a fucking liar.
I take my time undoing the makeshift restraint around her wrists before using the expensive material to wipe both of us off, not caring if I stain it.
When she’s finally free, she sits up and stares at me, the shirt falling back over until her exposed skin is covered. “Why did you come here, Lincoln?”
I debate whether to tell her the truth or not since it’s rare that she offers me the same. But I do. Because some truths hurt, and maybe I want her to feel even a fraction of what I do. “I could have fucked somebody else tonight,” I tell her, collecting my clothes from where I discarded them.
Georgia is silent, her breathing stilled in wait for me to say something else. I feel a hand on the back of my bare shoulder, comforting me, telling me she’s there.
“I wanted to,” I admit, moving away from her touch before it burns me. “For a minute.”
She still doesn’t say anything.
I start redressing. “For some reason, I always come back to you.” When I turn, I see her watching me with glassy eyes. Jaw ticking at the vulnerability on her face, I clench my fist at my side. “And I fucking hate it.”
My ex-wife’s eyes pierce holes into my face, acting like she’s the one who’s been shot when it was she who all but pulled the trigger.
Her throat bobs, swallowing down whatever bullshit she was going to hit me with. Probably not an apology. I’m sure she loves that she still holds my interest. Coming here was basically a victory for her, showing that her grasp is still tightly wrapped around me.
The next words out of her mouth are unexpected. “I started seeing somebody,” she whispers, my shirt pausing halfway over my head.
My throat bobs with a thick swallow. Her words hurt a hell of a lot more than my injury, but it stings all the same. I knew it was only a matter of time before she admitted it, but I’d hoped the day would never come.
Because then I’d have to make a decision.
“Why didn’t you stop me tonight then?”
I’m met with momentary silence before she speaks on the softest exhale. “Because he’s not you.”
For the briefest moment, I close my eyes.
“Stay,” I hear her say next. “Stay the night.”
I stop in the middle of her tiny living room, where temporary, cheap furniture sits until she can find something else. I wonder if her father put her here as punishment for everything she’s done.
She used to have it all. Over two thousand square feet of space that was hers to do what she chose with. A house with a reading nook she loved spending time in. Cheap bookshelves I put together that lined the wall beside it, full of every color and shape book to add to her never-ending to be read list. A kitchen to experiment with new recipes in, no matter the mess she made or the inedible outcome of the meal.
Yet she sacrificed it for this.
For this life without me .
To spend it with someone else .
So, I swallow my pride and say, “No.”
As I walk out of the room, her rushed footsteps follow me to the front door. “I didn’t know,” she tells me, catching my arm. “That day, I didn’t know what was going to happen.”
Don’t go.
Don’t go.
Don’t go.
She knew enough.
“I didn’t know,” she repeats, this time her tone broken as her hand drifts toward the injury.
I refuse to let her.
“You knew something ,” I counter, grabbing her wrist and squeezing it once before dropping it away from me. “You knew what your father was capable of. Matt was your friend too.”
The amber in her eyes becomes glassy as her throat bobs.
“His blood is just as much on your hands as it is on mine,” I declare, storming out.
*
During my next session with Doctor Castro, it’s me who breaks the silence first. “Have you ever cheated before, doc?”
The question has her raising her eyebrows. I spent the first few minutes staring silently at all the fall décor she decorated her office with over the past week. Fall is my second least favorite season, following winter. Everything is pumpkin-scented or flavored, the trees lose their leaves, and the cool temps make my body hurt. It’s a reminder of what’s to come for the next six months.
But I’ll give the good doc one thing. It looks nice in here. Cozy. Like HomeGoods threw up in here. In a classy kind of way.
“Cheated how, exactly?” she inquires, adjusting her glasses higher up her nose. Does she even need those, or are they for sure?
I pocket that question for another time. “Cheated at all. My friends and I used to cheat on our math tests. They tended to copy my answers because I was better with numbers than they were. But, in return, they’d write my English papers so I wouldn’t have to read those dry-ass books.”
Right before I blink, I see a glimpse of amusement flicker across her face. Is that smile number five? “No, I’ve never cheated.”
“Not even in a past relationship?”
She shakes her head. “No. I believe communication is key in any relationship, and if there’s a problem that can’t be fixed by talking it out, I find it better to end things. It’s less messy that way.”
I used to think I was good at communicating. Georgia and I had goals. Dreams. Things to chase after. People to prove wrong. When did that change?
“Have you ever cheated on a partner before?” she asks. There’s no judgment on her face, but I wonder what she’ll write down after this conversation is over.
“No,” I admit. “Not on anyone.”
One of those brows arches higher. “But with somebody?”
My eyes go to the fake pumpkins by the door. At least I hope they’re fake, or they’ll rot and attract flies. Not even the apple cinnamon incense plugged into the wall can hide the smell that would leave behind.
“Georgia is seeing somebody,” is my only response, drifting my gaze back to her.
“How do you know that?”
“Because she told me.”
Slowly, she nods but doesn’t write anything down. “How often do you speak to her?”
I wait for her to pick up her pen, but she doesn’t so much as move from where she sits comfortably, one leg draped over the other like usual. “Whenever one of us is feeling lonely, I suppose.”
A thoughtful noise rises from her. “But didn’t you say she’s seeing somebody?”
My attention is drawn to the niche sign about fall leaves and apple picking hanging on the wall. I bet she paid a stupid amount of money for that. My mother has about a million little signs with sayings on them spread around her house that she spends way too much money on. I told her dad or I could make the same ones for cheap. “People can be lonely standing in a crowded room, doc. Maybe he doesn’t provide her the same things I can.”
“What would that be?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue. Love . But that’s what she’s expecting me to say. So, I give her the next best answer. “Somebody to take control.”
Her fingers wrap around the pen. “Do you consider yourself a controlling person?”
The curl to my lips happens instantaneously. “One might say I have a controlling personality, yes. I don’t like not being in control.” I think about Georgia and how responsive she was to my every demand the other night. She was always submissive to me, but it wasn’t by force—it was by choice. She was used to being controlled by her family without any expectations, but she chose to submit to me because she knew the reward was her pleasure.
That trust meant something to both of us, given the unique circumstances of our relationship. “I tried not being completely controlling in my marriage. Domineering, maybe. Authoritative, sure. Dominant, definitely. But Georgia always had a say when it mattered. I made sure of that. I made sure not to be…”
Just like her father.
She could have said no when I asked her to marry me. Sometimes, I wish she would have. I wish I never stepped foot into that bar that night or talked to the pretty brunette sipping on a top-shelf scotch. But I did. And the domino effect led me here, just like the good doc said.
“And how did you two meet?” she asks, her head tilting to the side.
My lips twitch, thinking about that night.
It was the beginning of the end.
“That’s a long story.”
She leans back, her foot bobbing up and down. “We’ve got time, Mr. Danforth. Enlighten me.”