Page 7 of Carry On (Love Doesn’t Cure All #4)

NASH

My fingers slipped on the string, making the note come out choppy. I swore under my breath as I fixed my mistake. Mostly. I couldn’t hide the fact that at least half a dozen people walking by had heard my fuck up.

Like they care, that voice poked at me.

Its volume was louder and more pressing in my head.

The ever-present throbbing of a headache only amplified how rough the thoughts were.

The worst part was that I knew this wasn’t as bad as it’d get.

I was teetering on the edge of an inevitable migraine.

The more pain, the harder the voice was to control.

Control? the voice scoffed. You’ve never had control.

Amen to that. My life had been spiraling out of control for a long fucking time. I was just along for the ride, and I hated it.

You could do something about it, the voice suggested.

I faltered, my fingers slipping off the string again.

“Fuck,” I muttered.

Always fucking up, the voice said.

I sighed, pushing out the long breath as forcefully as possible, like somehow that would get rid of the nagging voice in my head. It wouldn’t. It never did. It’d been like this my whole goddamn life.

I wasn’t crazy. My mother called it a mixture of anxiety and depression. Apparently, it ran in her family. She’d spent years teaching me how to manage it, little tricks and exercises to help me deal. It didn’t work. Not really.

Not after she died.

Not after my deployment.

And not now.

No, I was stuck with the damn thing.

I ran a hand through my hair and leaned back against the brick building, taking a break from playing. As I did, I caught sight of Lincoln sitting across the street on a bus bench, just watching me.

Damn it.

I knew for a fact that he didn’t take the bus.

He was a taxi or drive himself kind of guy, mixed with the occasional walk in there.

Yeah, I’d been watching him a little too much.

That was information I didn’t need to know, but I found myself wanting to know it.

I was unusually obsessed with the idea of watching Lincoln.

I forced myself to focus on my guitar—to not think about Lincoln Cassidy—but I struggled.

Knowing that he was right there pissed me off.

Judging me. Scrutinizing me. I hated being under anyone’s microscope.

My whole life, I’d faded into the background.

I skated by on being invisible. I didn’t want to be at the center of anyone’s attention.

And nothing good could come from being at the center of Lincoln’s.