Page 27 of Carry On

Probably the latter.

“My work phone is saved under my name,” Lincoln kept on talking, and I did my best to keep up, “so if you need something and need to call me, just call my work phone.”

“You have two phones?”

“It’s a necessity in my line of work. I work with a long list of people who I’d rather not have my personal contact information,” he explained. That made sense. “If you need me, just call me.”

“Okay.” I wouldn’t.

“Your clothes are in the dryer for you as well.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem. It’s not like you need to argue with all the fucking buttons like I do.” He chuckled as he started out the door.

“And, Linc?” I called after him. He paused in the doorway. “Thank you for everything.”

“Anytime,” he said with another one of those smiles I liked. I knew he meant it. I didn’t know much of anything about him, but I could tell he was one of the good ones.

I could feel the pending migraine building in my skull, the ache minimal. I had to get the hell out of there. I refused to crash and burn while at Lincoln’s place. Besides, I didn’t want to overstay my welcome.

My clothes were warm straight from the dryer and taunted the line of being dangerously comfortable. I didn’t need to get comfortable withsomething like this. I didn’t know the next time I’d have access to these kinds of luxuries.

I double and triple-checked everything to make sure I left his home exactly as it was before I arrived. I’d taken the time during his little house tour to make sure I knew where shit was and made sure not to affect it.

The only thing I took was a loaf of bread.

Stealing from the guy who opened his home to you isn’t a good look,the voice chastised.

Except I wasn’t stealing. I planned to pay him for it.

Inside my underwear band was the best place to keep little bits of extra cash I managed to earn. I had a little pocket cut and sewn in there for exactly that. Some people stole bags, and other people stole the clothes right off your back, but no one touched your fucking underwear. That was just the reality of that shit, and I used it to my advantage.

Not that I blamed them. I knew the kind of diseases and crap that went around the homeless crowd—not everyone, but definitely some of them. It wasn’t their fault, either. That was just the reality of this life we were stuck with.

It was also the same reason why I hadn’t had sex in over eight years. I couldn’t afford a doctor, and I wasn’t about to fuck around with that kind of thing.

The bread was some brand I’d never heard of, probably something organic and expensive. I didn’t have much, and it probably wasn’t even enough to cover the cost, but I tried. That had to count for something.

It doesn’t,the voice commented.

I ignored it as I left the few bucks I had neatly organized on the counter for him to find, along with a thank-you note.

Easing my bag and guitar case onto my shoulder, I double and triple checked the door to make sure it was locked before I left with the intention of never seeing Lincoln again.

CHAPTER 20

LINCOLN

Workdraggedon.Courtwent fine, the office things I needed to do were simple, but I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to go home, where Nash was. To what? I wasn’t really sure. I knew the two of us needed to have a conversation about last night.

I didn’t have a clue what any of it meant. The twenty-twenty hindsight had me confused. Caving to Nash’s influence had been as easy as breathing. He’d riled me up with his brash approach, but I’d given in with little resistance. Granted, I wasn’t sure I could call anything I’d done as resisting him.

And fuck, it felt so goddamn good. It scratched an itch I didn’t know I had. It hit hard on my need to use sex to feel good. I didn’t want that to be the only time. Going to bed without him had tested my restraint. A cold shower had kept me in check. If I’d let my dick do all the talking, I would’ve ridden that man into oblivion over and over, all night long.

But Nash wasn’t without complications. Beyond the socio-economic differences, we didn’t know each other. It was obvious he didn’t want my help. My strong-arming him into coming home with me had a limit, one I didn’t want to push again.

“I’m home,” I called out when I finally let myself into my home some time after eight. It was significantly later than I wanted, but I was used to working late.