Page 60 of Carry On (Love Doesn’t Cure All #4)

LINCOLN

Ifelt ridiculous walking around in a suit with a goddamn scarf on, especially with the late summer weather, but it was the only way I could think to hide the brutal-looking bruising on my neck.

I’d taken one look in the car before slamming the visor shut and calling off from work for a health emergency.

While the cosmetics of the whole thing bothered me, I was more worried about the health implications.

Nash had damn near crushed my windpipes.

I couldn’t help but wonder if there was damage, but I also couldn’t bring myself to go to the ER.

I knew how I looked, and I didn’t want to have to explain it.

As an alternative, I tracked Dean down at work. The firehouse was busy with its doors open and people moving around. Before getting out of my car, I adjusted the stupid scarf and played with my voice a little. I sounded like shit, and that stressed me out, but there wasn’t much I could do about it.

I found Dean in the ambulance bay doing God only knew what. He glanced at me and did a double-take.

“That scarf makes you look like a douchebag,” Dean commented with a grin.

“Can we talk?” I asked, my voice scraping in my throat like gravel.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded, all the humor vanishing from his expression. When I didn’t reply, he put down his stuff. “All right, come on.”

I followed him to a room in the back of the firehouse. As we walked, I ran through what I was going to say to him because no matter what I said, he’d lose his shit.

“Talk,” he ordered the minute the door was closed. I sat against the desk while he crossed his arms. “Okay, maybe pick your words carefully. You sound like shit.”

“I know,” I replied. I unwound the scarf and dropped it onto the table.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Lincoln!” Dean immediately moved in to inspect my neck, his fingers brushing over my skin. I winced. Everything was tender and painful. “What the fuck happened?”

“Can you just tell me if I’ll be okay?” I asked instead, hoping to avoid his question, though I knew it was a futile effort. Dean wouldn’t let it go.

“You look like someone tried to strangle you,” he commented. I made a small sound, but that was it. Something in my expression, though, must’ve tipped him off because he pulled back. “Don’t you fucking dare tell me he did this to you.”

Yeah, there it was.

“It’s not his fault—”

“The hell it isn’t!”

“It’s my fault.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Lincoln!” Dean exclaimed. “Do you hear yourself? Do you know what you sound like?”

“He has PTSD,” I told him quickly. That shut him up. When I was sure he wouldn’t start yelling over me, I continued, “He’s an Army veteran.”

“Fuck,” he whispered.

“I startled him,” I said. “He was sleeping, and I startled him.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Lincoln,” he repeated with a sigh. “You really know how to pick them, don’t you?”

“That’s not fair,” I snapped and promptly devolved into a coughing fit.

“Shut the fuck up and let me look at you,” he growled.

I did exactly that, letting him examine my neck.

The increasing frown on his face did nothing to ease my concerns.

The exam was short and quick, not that I was expecting much.

He was a paramedic, not a doctor. I knew the scope of what he could do was limited.

“I don’t like it. You need to go to the ER and have them look at you. ”

I was already shaking my head before he finished his sentence.

“I’m not going to the ER.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you want to do or not. I can’t magically tell if he damaged something. I can tell you that you look like shit and that you need to go to the ER to have your neck examined.”

“I’m not going.” That was a can of worms I didn’t want to open. I was already struggling with how to explain this at work. Explaining it to the emergency room staff didn’t sound appealing. I felt okay enough, minus the grating in my voice. That had to mean something.

He sighed and sat down across the office from me. The weight of his stare made me uncomfortable as he considered me. From the look on his face, it was clear he was debating just dragging my ass into an ER without my permission.

“Look, I can’t tell you what to do,” Dean said softly.

“But when it comes to what it’ll look like, PTSD is a crapshoot.

You and me… we have PTSD, and we’re emotional disasters.

But sometimes, PTSD makes people… violent and messy.

You got lucky. At least, I think you did.

I’m fairly certain this is just cosmetic, but I’d feel better if you’d go see a doctor. ”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. You look like he tried to kill you.”

“He didn’t.” I was lying. We both knew it. Any longer and he would have. Not intentionally, but that didn’t change the fact that he would’ve killed me. “He didn’t mean to.”

“That doesn’t make him any less dangerous,” Dean pointed out. “He needs help—the kind of help you can’t give him. And you need to be careful. You can’t be putting yourself in a position where he can do this to you. You might not survive it again.”

“I—”

“I know you care, Lincoln,” he interrupted, “but you have to put yourself first.

I said nothing. I heard him—I did—but I hated his words. I hated that we were at this point. Nash wouldn’t intentionally hurt me. Yes, he was quiet and withdrawn, defensive if he needed to be, but under it all, he was a good man.

He was just broken like me. I couldn’t fault him for that.

“You can’t let this man kill you just because you want to help him.”

The reality was: I didn’t want to just help him. I wanted him in my life. Nash was a double-edged sword—sweet and sexy on one side, dangerous and terrifying on the other. I couldn’t have one without the other.