Page 12 of Carry On (Love Doesn’t Cure All #4)

NASH

Ibroke my fucking rule of not getting personally invested. Of not getting attached. Because of Lincoln Cassidy, I broke that rule, and I knew I’d regret it.

Point in case: I wasn’t in my comfort zone in an attempt to avoid him.

I stuck to a certain part of town to avoid certain kinds of people. I knew where the crazies weren’t, and I knew where to go to avoid regular people too. On any given night, it was a crapshoot which one was more dangerous.

I was careful. Always. I didn’t need to deal with more bullshit than what I already had.

At least… I was until Lincoln Cassidy made me reckless.

You did that all on your own, the voice reminded me.

I groaned and threw an arm over my face, hiding in my elbow as I tried to escape all of it—tried to forget.

But fuck, it was so hard to forget.

The tantalizing taste of cinnamon on his tongue… was it from gum? A drink? Maybe he liked cinnamon in his coffee.

I let out another loud sound of frustration. Why the fuck did I care so goddamn much? Why had I let him burrow his way so deeply under my skin?

Like you said… you’re stupid, the voice commented.

So fucking stupid.

Laughter dragged me out of my thoughts. I dropped my arm, awareness rippling down my spine.

A group of college guys, rich by the look of them, wandered in my direction.

Rich college kids just had a look about them, and usually, they had the fucking attitude to match too.

It was something they inherited from their pain-in-the-ass rich parents.

There was a reason I avoided this area of town, and kids like them were it.

Well, you did it to yourself, the voice stated.

I tensed and waited it out. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be one of those nights. A guy could fucking hope.

“Hey, hey. What have we got here?” one of them said. Fuck. “You think he’s dead?”

Before I could say a word, something small and hard bounced off my stomach. I snatched it up quickly.

A rock. Well, a pebble. The least they could fucking do was be original.

It wasn’t like it was a new concept. People had been doing this kind of shit for years to me and others.

Some people just enjoyed the misery of the homeless.

It was like we were cosmic entertainment strewn around the streets for them to do whatever they wanted to.

Some days, I could handle it. Could take their stupidity in stride.

Today wasn’t one of those days.

But the others don’t deserve it, that voice cut in. You do.

Always the realist. I sighed and forced myself to sit up. Lying down wouldn’t do me any good.

“He’s not dead!” the kid exclaimed. Like any of them thought I was. It was just an excuse to be a dick to me.

Unfortunately, this was the kind of game I had to play carefully. There were three of them and one of me. Could I take them? Absolutely. But I didn’t want to have to. The endgame could land me in prison, while their behavior was swept under the rug because they had money to their name.

“I don’t want any trouble. I’m just trying to sleep,” I said. I wasn’t in the mood for their shit.

“Sleep?” another scoffed. “Isn’t that what you’ve got a home for?”

The comment made the others laugh, and I did my best to swallow my anger.

But they have a point, the voice stated.

I fucking knew that. I didn’t need anyone walking around and reminding me of that shit. The worst of it was that I had to play nice. Had to appeal to them.

Usually, kids like them grew bored quickly, especially if I didn’t rise to the occasion.

Yes, because you’re so good at that, the voice commented.

It wasn’t my strong suit and a big part of why I just avoided everyone I could.

“Like I said, I don’t want any trouble,” I repeated and hoped to hell it was enough to appease them. “I’ll just grab my stuff and be on my way.”

As I went for my guitar case, one of them grabbed it.

“Don’t touch,” I growled. I reached for it again, only for the guy to back up.

He tossed it to his friend while they laughed, and I felt my stomach drop.

If they broke my guitar, I was fucked. I didn’t have the money to replace it, and it was the only way I had to make a few bucks every day.

And that didn’t begin to touch the sentimental value the guitar had. I snapped, “Put it down.”

“Oh, come on, buddy!” The first guy stepped up close, and I could smell the alcohol on him. Who didn’t love drunk rich kids? “We’re all just friends here, right?”

“Right.” I resisted rolling my eyes. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I was done playing by their rules. It wouldn’t get me anywhere. “Give my guitar back, and walk away. Let’s not do anything stupid.”

“Are you calling me stupid?” he demanded.

Yes, yes, I fucking was.

“No, I’m telling you to give my guitar back and to get out of my face,” I said, not mincing my words. I flexed my fingers, curling and uncurling my fists. The anger coursing through me shifted, turning into an energy that needed to be contained.

Or released, the voice offered. Three against one? Who knows? Maybe they’ll do what you can’t.

Well, there was that. But I wasn’t aiming to get my ass kicked by a bunch of drunk rich kids.

“You know, I don’t think I will,” he replied. He reached into his coat and took out his wallet. “I think I’m going to keep it. It’s not like you need it. You can get a job, right?”

Taking a couple of bucks out of his wallet, he tucked them into the breast pocket of my jacket and patted my chest—a little too fucking hard. Hell, it could’ve been considered a shove.

“That should cover it.” He smirked.

And then, like the moron I was, I punched him.