Page 64 of Carry On (Love Doesn’t Cure All #4)

LINCOLN

NASH: They put the wrong fucking number in.

What do you mean they put the wrong number in?

NASH: Can you fucking read? What the fuck do you think that means?

Rule number seven applies to text messages too,” I snapped under my breath when Nash answered the phone. He was grumpier than usual this morning, which I suspected had to do with the weird chess analysis at the park.

“Yeah, well, then maybe don’t ask stupid fucking questions,” he shot back, his tone downright volatile. My skin prickled in response.

“I will not be your punching bag,” I retorted. “We talked about this. I’m trying to fucking help.”

“Yeah, and what the fuck has your help gotten me? Another goddamn headache I don’t fucking need,” Nash said.

Ah, he had a headache. That explained so much. I sighed as I pinched the bridge of my nose and reclined in my office chair. Pain turned him into an asshole—the kind I had a hard time getting through to.

“What did the doctor say?” I asked. I chose to redirect the conversation rather than engage his anger. It was the smarter choice.

“Your fucking insurance company denied the fucking referral because the fucking doctor put the wrong fucking number in the wrong fucking spot!” he raged. That was a whole lot of fucks for such a short sentence. “I thought you said he was good at his fucking job.”

“He is.”

“I doubt it. He can’t even put in the right fucking number.”

“Accidents happen, Nash,” I assured him. Did it suck that it was on this that the doctor screwed up? Absolutely. Nash’s trust in the system was paper-thin at best. This wouldn’t help that. “They’ll correct it—”

“No! No, I have to fucking call them to ask them if they can correct it,” he cut me off. “And you know what happened when I tried to fucking call?”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

“I—”

“I can’t get anyone to fucking answer the phone. They wanted me to leave a goddamn message and wait seventy-two-fucking-hours to get a call back! That’s seventy-two hours in business days! Fucking business days!”

“That’s—”

“The whole fucking system is broken.”

“I—”

“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this stupid fucking plan.” Nash kept on raging, and I tuned him out for a moment as I did my best to maintain my calm. Even through the phone, his anger set me on edge, each angry bite cutting through my resolve.

After a few minutes, I knew I had to shut him up. There was just no way I could keep going like this. His anger was too much.

“Okay, look,” I said loudly over him. Thankfully, he shut up. “I understand it’s frustrating, but yelling at me won’t do a damn thing.”

Other than piss me off.

“The only thing you can do is call them back and wait,” I continued. When he started to protest, I spoke over him, “I get it! It sucks. But that’s how the system works. You can’t change it.”

“Fuck the system,” Nash snapped and promptly hung up.

I sighed and set my phone down. I had no desire to chase him down.

He’d cool off, and we’d be fine. I understood his frustration—I did.

It was hard not to, especially with all the promises I’d made him about getting to the bottom of his pain.

One doctor was passing him off to another and screwing it up in the process.

My phone dinged, and I glanced at the screen.

NASH: I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you.

NASH: I have a headache, and I couldn’t sleep, and I’m just mad.

NASH: I fucking hate this.

I knew he did. I just didn’t know how to fix it for him and for my own sanity.

I left work early. Rather, every instinct had me running home to him. Knowing Nash had a headache, coupled with the blatant ignoring of me for the rest of the day, had me worried. I couldn’t describe it, but I just listened to the inexplicable urge.

“Nash?” I called out as soon as the front door was closed.

Silence was my response. Hopefully, he managed to fall asleep.

Sleep was about the only thing that seemed to help him, and I honestly believed he just slept through the pain until it went away to avoid dealing with it.

But I couldn’t comment on it. I’d never had a migraine. I didn’t understand the pain he felt.

I found him in the bathroom, curled over the toilet with a hand shoved through his hair to hold it back. The sight made my heart lurch into my throat.

I flipped on the light, and his eyes squeezed shut instantly. He turned into the crook of his arm, moaning.

“No!” Nash snapped.

“Okay!” I quickly turned it off. Stepping behind him, I gently held his hair back for him as he heaved, the sound dry and empty. I asked softly, “How long?”

“Started yesterday,” he rasped. “Worse today.”

That explained the dry heaving. He had nothing left in him.

“Did you take your medicine?”

“Didn’t help yesterday,” Nash muttered. “Threw back up today.”

“Okay.” Fuck. My lips pressed together as I worked to come up with a plan. I’d seen some of his bad headaches, but this was the worst I’d seen him. I couldn’t imagine the amount of pain needed to reduce anyone to this. I squeezed his shoulder for comfort. “I’ll be right back.”

I wasted no time grabbing the garbage can and setting it up next to his bed.

Curtains closed, air conditioning turned off, and I did everything I could to turn the bedroom into a sensory deprivation zone.

The less external stimulation, the better.

If he was just dry heaving at this point, there was no reason he couldn’t at least be comfortable in the bed, or rather, as comfortable as he could get.

“All right,” I said, keeping my voice quiet, as I rejoined him. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“No—”

“I moved everything you need in there,” I interjected. “It’s better than the bathroom floor.”

I hoped to hell he wouldn’t argue. I couldn’t very well drag him—well, I could, but I knew enough to know that it wouldn’t end well for either of us. There was just no point in his staying on the bathroom floor.

Thankfully, he didn’t fight me. He swayed as he stood, and his palm slammed to the wall for support. I bracketed his waist, gently supporting him. His fingers gripped my forearm, impossibly tight and bruising, as a shudder ran through him.

“I’ve got you,” I whispered. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he rasped, his voice breaking. A sob tore through him and fractured my heart. This was Nash, rubbed raw and held hostage by something he had no hopes of fighting. It killed a part of me. I would’ve done anything to take it all away. “I’m just so fucking tired, Linc.”

“I know,” I said.

“No… you don’t.” His forehead touched mine, and I took the brunt of his weight as he leaned into me. “I just want the pain to go away.”

“I know,” I repeated and hated every bit of the fact that I couldn’t do a damn thing to help him. Not with this.

“I don’t want to do this anymore, baby,” Nash let out, his voice so quiet I almost missed it. But the words burned hot in my chest, heavy like lead and full of meaning. They weren’t frivolous words for him.

“Stay with me, Lucky,” I damn near begged. I wasn’t sure it’d make a difference, but I could hope. “Stay with me.”

He made a small sound, something incompressible and weak, and I took that as a sign to get him into bed. We made it slowly, with me holding him up. Every step was heavy and uncoordinated, but eventually, we got there.

His eyes shut with a drawn-out sigh when his head hit the pillow, not that I blamed him. I couldn’t imagine how exhausted battling that kind of pain made him. I covered him in blankets and started to make my leave, but his fingers caught my wrist.

“Please… don’t leave me,” Nash whispered.

“Okay,” I replied without hesitation. I rounded the bed and crawled under the sheets. Curling up behind him, I pulled him closer and willed every ounce of good energy I could into him. It wouldn’t help, but for a moment, I could pretend like it would.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, Nash rolled over and buried his face in my chest. He slept deeply while I held him tight, counting his every breath as I did.