Page 61 of Carry On (Love Doesn’t Cure All #4)

NASH

Screaming.

So much fucking screaming.

It echoed in the back of my head, stuck on repeat.

I drank to drown it out.

To drown out the guilt.

And the anger.

The panic.

Expensive whiskey went down a hell of a lot easier than the cheap shit. I skipped the glass and drank straight from the fucking bottle.

And still, no amount of alcohol could erase the look on Lincoln’s face after I damn near killed him.

It won’t help, the voice commented.

Nothing could get the look of fear on his face out of my head.

Fear of me.

Of course, he’s afraid of you, the voice said.

And the way he flinched when I tried to touch him?

Fuck, I’d screwed up bad.

Does that surprise you? the voice demanded.

No, no, it did not. After everything, I deserved that.

I should’ve left. I should’ve grabbed my shit and gone. His life would improve monumentally if I were gone.

But I couldn’t do it. Drowning in whiskey in the warmth of his condo far outweighed the alternative.

I didn’t have a clue how long I sat there. Eventually, I stopped drinking, and the sun went down, but I didn’t have it in me to move from that spot. I was stuck inside my head, brutalized by all the what-ifs and rambling thoughts I couldn’t control.

When Lincoln walked in sometime before midnight, I still didn’t move. I didn’t have the energy to. I also didn’t know what the hell to say to him. Sorry, I almost killed you wouldn’t quite cut it. I hoped to hell he’d just leave me to my wallowing, and we’d try this conversation in the morning.

What makes you think he wants you to stay? the voice asked. After what you did to him? He’s scared of you.

He was. That flinch played on repeat in my head. I couldn’t let it go. He was scared of me.

Do you blame him? the voice continued.

No… no, I fucking didn’t.

The lights flipped on, and he sat on the coffee table in front of me. My heart dropped out of my chest. The open collar of his dress shirt put his neck on display. His skin was bruised and violently irritated.

Fuck.

I did that to him.

My eyes stung, and my nose burned with the onslaught of guilt and shame. I looked away. I couldn’t face him.

He picked up the whiskey bottle on the table and took a long sip before giving me his full attention.

“How drunk are you?” Lincoln asked softly. The rasp in his voice cut through my stomach like a hot knife.

I said nothing. I didn’t know what to say.

Nothing you say can fix this, the voice commented.

Yeah, I knew that too.

“Look at me.” Lincoln’s knee bumped into mine, but I still refused to look at him.

He repeated the action. And a third time.

“I’m not stopping until you look at me. I will irritate the ever-loving fuck out of you until you look at me and answer my question.

I am both equal parts charming and fucking annoying. Just depends on the day.”

I scoffed at the idea. I had a hard time believing that Lincoln knew how to be annoying. Too brazen and truthful for his own good, maybe, but never annoying.

“Not enough,” I grumped. I caved and looked at him. His lips pressed together as he nodded slowly.

“I have it on good authority that this now two-thirds empty bottle was unopened this morning.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be,” he shot back. “Are you drunk right now?”

“Not exactly.” I’d stopped drinking around midday. That turned into just sitting and spiraling. I was excellent at that part.

“Okay.” He fell silent, and I could practically see the wheels turning in his brain. His expression was composed. Contemplative. Calculating.

He’s getting rid of you, the voice told me.

I wouldn’t be surprised. I deserved it.

“I’m not mad at you,” Lincoln said. My gaze snapped to his face, searching for some clue as to what kind of game he was playing. He repeated softly, “I’m not mad at you, Nash.”

“You should be,” I replied. Why wasn’t he?

“I’m not.” He shook his head. “But we need to talk about what happened—”

“I almost fucking killed you,” I snapped over him.

“I know, but—”

“There are no buts.”

“You need help, Nash. I can’t…” he faltered as he struggled to find the right words.

He can’t handle you anymore, the voice said.

“I can’t help you the way you need help. I’m not equipped to…” He blew out a long breath. “I don’t know how to help you, Nash. I’m not equipped to. You need to see a doctor who can help you, so this doesn’t happen again. This can’t happen again.”

Another doctor. Another person to tell me just how fucking broken I was.

How many people need to tell you before you realize you’re just not worth it? the voice asked.

“You need help, Nash,” he whispered.

“You can’t fix me,” I murmured.

“I’m not trying to.”

“No one can.”

“Maybe it’s less about fixing you,” Lincoln said, “and more about learning how to live with this.”

Even he knows you can’t be fixed, the voice cut in.

“Nash?”

I said nothing. How did I make him understand that I didn’t want to live with this?

I had been for a long time. Too long. I was fucking tired of living with this thing inside me.

There was no fixing it. It was a disease I was stuck with.

It rotted me from the inside out, destroying anything good that had once been there until I was nothing but a shell of a man.

But nothing I said would make that make sense for him. I knew that, so I just nodded slightly. I wasn’t worth it.

Lincoln slid onto his knees in front of me and grabbed my shirt to pull me closer. He nudged my legs open wider, and I welcomed his closeness as his forehead touched mine. I breathed him in. I didn’t deserve him like this. Not before, and certainly not after what I’d done to him.

“Where are you at, Lucky?” Lincoln whispered. The gentleness in his voice gutted me. I toyed with the front of his shirt as I contemplated the question.

How honest was too honest?

All of it, the voice replied.

How much did I tell him?

Nothing, the voice said. He doesn’t want to hear it.

“A dark place,” I answered with a little too much honesty.

“I know.” He cradled my face in his hands, and I refused to look at him, shutting my eyes.

The feel of his lips on my temple was almost too much.

Too tender. Too intense. The gesture stood out in stark contrast to the agreement we had.

I didn’t know how to handle affection like this and certainly not from someone like Lincoln. “You can tell me, you know.”

“No,” I said quickly. He was too good—too kind. He didn’t deserve the burden of my darkness.

“I’m not scared, Nash.”

“You should be.”

The evidence as to why was right there, marring his neck. How did I explain the darkness to him? How did I explain where my head spiraled to when I barely understood it myself?

“Tell me how to help, Lucky,” Lincoln replied. I breathed him in deep, letting the rich aromas of his cologne fill my lungs. I drank him in and felt it drift into places I couldn’t explain. It was soothing. Comforting and distracting.

“Help me feel good, Linc,” I pleaded. “Help me get out of my head.”

The words were barely out of my mouth before his lips touched mine, and I let myself drown in him. His breath. His warmth. His voice. I drank him in until he completely consumed me, and everything else ceased to exist.