Page 86 of Carry On (Love Doesn’t Cure All #4)

LINCOLN

It was later than I wanted when I finally managed to get home.

The condo was quiet, and all the lights were out.

I kicked off my shoes and went straight for the kitchen.

On the way, I saw Nash on the couch, arms folded over his chest as he slept.

He looked peaceful, serene. At least, he was finally getting rest.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly and quietly. “I’ll turn it off in a second, promise.”

Nothing.

I frowned, something uncomfortable weaseling its way through my chest. He wasn’t a heavy sleeper by any means. Usually, disrupting him in any way got me some kind of grunt or grumbling sound.

“Nash?” I said a little louder as I set down my briefcase.

Still nothing.

I was almost halfway to him when I saw it: the half-drunk bottle of whiskey on the table alongside two empty prescription bottles.

The bottom of my stomach fell out.

“Nash!” I exclaimed, scrambling to get my phone from my briefcase before hurrying across the room to him. I took his face in my hands. He wasn’t breathing. “No, no, no… no, hey. Come on, Lucky… look at me. Please, look at me.”

My eyes burned hot as I shook him.

Nothing.

“Please, please, please… ” I begged.

Shoving the coffee table aside, I dragged him down from the couch onto the floor and pressed my ear to his chest.

Nothing.

No heartbeat

Not even a little one.

A sob tore through me as tears flowed faster, making it damn near impossible to see the phone as I dialed 911.

“911… what is your emergency?” a woman answered. My hands shook so hard that I dropped the phone, and I rushed to put it on speaker. “Hello? Is there someone there?”

“Please… he’s not… he’s not breathing.” My voice cracked. “He’s not breathing. Help me… he’s not….”

“Who’s not breathing?” she asked.

“My husband… I think… I think he overdosed, and he’s not breathing, and I don’t know what to do,” I rambled.

“I’m going to get help for you, okay? But I want you to stay on the phone with me,” she replied.

I nodded stupidly, not sure what the hell I was supposed to do.

I answered her questions, giving her my name, confirming my address, and giving her the doorman’s information. “Lincoln, is your husband responsive?”

“No… no, he’s… he’s not breathing. He’s not breathing at all.”

“I need you to start chest compressions until help arrives, okay?”

“I don’t know how,” I admitted. Why hadn’t I ever bothered to learn CPR?

“That’s okay,” she assured me. “I’ll talk you through it. Is he on a flat surface?”

“Yes… yes…”

“Good, I want you to kneel next to him, keeping your knees shoulder-width apart,” she ordered. Shaking head to toe, I did as she asked. “Now, you’re going to place the heel of your hand on the center of his chest.”

I did, another sob ripping through me at his lack of breathing.

“Stay with me,” she said quickly. “Interlace your fingers with your other hand, one on top of the other.”

“Okay… okay.” I nodded as I did just that.

“Now, push hard and fast, thirty times. I want you to count out loud for me, Lincoln.”

I did, my voice catching in my throat with every number. Counting to thirty took forever.

“Keep going, Lincoln. Another thirty for me,” she ordered as I neared the end of the first set.

I did.

And I kept counting.

And begging.

And praying.

And hoping with every fiber of my being that Nash would open his eyes.

I wanted him to sit up and yell at me for being dramatic and making a scene. I wanted to fight with him about it.

I just wanted to hear his voice and know he was okay.

“Fire department!”

I was only vaguely aware of voices in my condo. Someone grabbed me and pulled me away from Nash.

“No, no, no!” I exclaimed, scrambling to get back to him.

“Lincoln!” A hand grabbed the side of my face. “Look at me!”

That voice.

I recognized that voice.

I blinked hard to clear my vision as Dean’s face wavered in front of me.

“I’ve got him,” Dean said. “I’ve got him.”

I just nodded, a lump rising in my throat. Strong hands held me up while Dean crossed the room to join another paramedic on the floor next to Nash.

“Hey, look at me,” a voice said. I barely turned, my head swimming in a million ways I couldn’t explain. A man—a firefighter from the look of him—offered me his hand, ordering, “Take my hand.”

I did, and he covered it with his other one.

“My name is Jensen,” he said. “I’m not going to tell you it’s okay or even that it’ll be okay, but I can tell you that my team will do everything they can for your husband. Squeeze my hand as tight as you need. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

I just nodded, words failing.

He squeezed, or maybe I did, as I watched them try to resuscitate Nash. My legs were jelly, and my heart was lodged in my throat. I couldn’t catch my breath as I watched them attempt to shock his heart back to beating with no luck.

Over and over, Dean pushed them to try.

And all I could think was… two prescription bottles and whiskey.

Two prescription bottles and whiskey…

He didn’t want this.

Every little moment of pain and agony he dared to share with me crashed through me.

A lifetime of hurt and agony.

Of losing himself a little more every day.

He didn’t want this.

He didn’t want to come back only to keep fighting a war he couldn’t win.

Tearing away from Jensen, I threw myself on the floor next to them and grabbed Dean’s wrist.

“He wouldn’t want this,” I sobbed, barely hearing my own voice. “He wouldn’t want this…”

I folded over the man I loved, pressing my forehead to his.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry,” I whispered to Nash. Those two words tumbled out of me on repeat as I completely fell apart.

I didn’t know how to let him go, but I knew enough to know I had to.

Dean’s hand touched my shoulder, squeezing lightly.

“Time of death… twenty-one-eleven.”