Page 26 of Safety Net (Mendell Hawks #3)

CELESTE

Lincoln held the baseball cap in front of us as we leaned in to kiss each other.

He was sweet from the lemonade and warm from the summer sun.

I parted my mouth, my tongue sweeping across his bottom lip, and he followed my lead.

It wasn’t as gentle as our kiss backstage.

I'm hot with the need for his mouth to be on more than just my lips.

I knew Lincoln. His love for his friends.

His want for excitement. His fear of working so hard and not living up to expectations.

Every little piece of him I've seen this past year has built this growing fire I possess for him and only him.

The burn ignited the feelings I've read about in books. The feelings Naomi whispered about during sleepovers. Or students talked about during classes. I felt the heat now, the desire to never disconnect from a man I wanted to call mine. I’d gone from unable to look in his eyes to unable to pull myself away.

But we did manage. The kiss couldn't have been for more than twenty seconds because when we broke apart, the tour guide was still getting through introductions.

Lincoln lowered the hat and offered it back to me.

I finished off the rest of my lemonade, hoping the sugar would hit my dopamine receptors like Lincoln's lips did.

It was nowhere close, and for a second, I panicked nothing ever would get close again.

That I'll forever need a high only he could give me.

Would that be so bad?

Lincoln's gaze flickered between the front of the bus and me.

He traced his bottom lip with his thumb, mouth parted as if he were going to say something, but couldn't figure out how to say it.

I smiled because he had way more experience in this department than I did.

And yet, he quickly downed his drink like me, desperately trying to keep his attention on the tour guide.

The bus jerked forward, setting us off to the first stop. As much as I tried to listen to what was on our agenda, my mind wouldn't center itself long enough to remember what our tour guide said. I opened the brochure, scanning its pages as I brushed my fingertips across my mouth.

"We'll start at the center of downtown." Lincoln's voice was low and soothing. Our kiss had left me wide awake, but it seemed to do the opposite to him. Lincoln sounded calm enough to drift off into a carefree sleep.

"Here." He pointed to the map on the brochure. "And then they'll take us around in a circle, which they call the Haunted Circle —very original. It's on this stop we'll get to see a haunted house."

I chewed on my bottom lip and nodded. "Sounds fun."

We were still close enough that a lean in wouldn't take more than a second. My eyes flickered to his lips, but he didn't move. Didn't take the hint. So, I shocked us both by closing the remaining distance. This time it was a quick peck because I was too nervous to linger.

Lincoln chuckled under his breath when I pulled away and leaned back into my seat like I hadn't just given him the world's shortest kiss.

"It'll be very fun," he promised.

Tinsel was a coal mining town founded in the 1700s. Its legacy was a mix of gritty labor and folktales.

"When the need for coal declined." Our tour guide stood on a step that led up to a statue I had passed a million times, with a stone plaque I had never taken the time to read.

"The town lost almost half of its residents in a mass exodus.

However, those who stayed behind began to experience strange occurrences.

And the first one documented was right here, on the steps of our old city hall.

An apparition of the first mayor appeared here with a warning to all: never mind the coal, we need to go deeper. "

The crowd oohed and ahhed. I raised my brow, less fascinated, more creeped out.

"You good?" Lincoln had his mini notebook out and been scribbling in it since the tour group started walking.

I tried to stay quiet while he wrote, not wanting to derail his train of thought.

But he seemed to master the art of writing and talking because he consistently whispered other facts into my ear whenever he felt the guide glossed over something.

I leaned in more than I needed to whenever he whispered, causing his lips ever so slightly to brush across my skin.

"I'm fine," I said. "Just…I wish someone had listened to him and dug deeper, you know? Now, it's going to haunt me—no pun intended—not knowing what he was talking about.”

Lincoln smiled. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

"I don't think so." I paused to give it proper consideration. "But I think I'm going to for the next few hours, so it gives more weight to the stories. Feels more exciting that way."

He chuckled and nodded in agreement.

"Do you?" I asked.

Lincoln shrugged and wrote something else in his notebook. "They're an amusing story device. I believe in them for that reason alone."

"But we're talking in real life," I reminded him with a gentle bump of the shoulder. I lingered a bit, blaming it on his warmth rather than the immediate calm I felt from being so close to him. "I would have bet my last dollar you, of all people, would say yes without any hesitation."

"Well…" Lincoln leaned into me too, prolonging the gentle touch for another couple of seconds. "There was a time when I thought I lived with one."

I raised a brow. “Go on. Don't leave me hanging.”

Our group started following the tour guide down the sidewalk.

We'd visited a few sites on foot before heading back to the bus to our next stop, closer to the mountains, where we'd find the haunted house.

Lincoln and I fell behind the others for the sake of privacy and my splintered interest in lore outside of Tinsel.

"I grew up with my grandma." Lincoln snapped his notebook closed and tucked it into his back pocket. "She has this huge house on the hill, it's called Marble Manor."

"You grew up in a manor?" I asked. "So, you're fresh out of one of those spooky books for children with black cats and uncles who murder next of kin?”

He scoffed. "If only I were so lucky. No animals of any kind because my grandma thinks they're the spawn of Satan. And no murderous uncles because my mom's an only child. And all my dad's folks live in France."

"Your parents. What are they like?" I asked, realizing I didn't know anything about Lincoln beyond what happened here at Mendell.

I never considered asking about his family because of how he was with his friends.

The guys' lives seemed so entwined it was almost as if they'd been born together.

A family of their own choosing since they took their first breath.

"My mom's an animal photographer." The back of Lincoln's hand brushed mine. Once. Twice. Thrice. "She's obsessed with the job."

"Your grandma must love that." I flexed my fingers, my knuckles pressed against his.

He smiled. "She loves to brag about Mom's work but hates the content, so she has bed sheets she uses to cover the photos whenever no one else is around."

"And your dad?" I asked, swallowing a sigh when his hand caught mine. The grip was loose enough to pull away if desired. When I didn't, he held on tighter, tugging me close enough I'm sure he heard every thunderous beat of my heart.

"My dad's a filmmaker. Or, at least, trying to be…for decades now. They travel all the time together."

"Is that why you lived with your grandma?" I asked.

He nodded. "And that's why I thought I lived with a ghost. My grandma runs a candy shop, which needs far more attention than one might think. So, that meant I was home alone a lot. And what does a lonely kid with a weird obsession with mystery novels do?"

"Accidentally scare yourself?"

Lincoln laughed. "You know me well."

"I'm getting there. "

We fell further behind the group now. Not that it mattered to either of us.

I was here for his stories. His dreams. His smile.

Those lines around his eyes when he was genuinely amused and not just looking for a laugh.

It was hard to make a person who always laughs, actually laugh.

I’d learned as much from being friends with Naomi.

People like Naomi and Lincoln knew how to find the funny, even in the dark spaces.

If you managed to get an unplanned laugh out of them, then it felt like you could offer something new and special to them.

"Have I told you this before?" he asked. "Sometimes I tell people the same thing because I can't keep track of who knows what."

"Nope, I would have remembered if you told me about being haunted as a child," I assured.

"Good because it's my favorite story." His free hand ran across his jaw, a telltale of blooming excitement.

"Picture this: You're ten years old and just dying to talk to someone your own age.

You've just learned what Ouija boards are, but only through the grapevine of kids in your neighborhood.

The kids who only talk to you on the weekends at your grandma's shop because they know they can get you to sneak them free reject lollipops and chocolate bars. "

It was odd to imagine a young Lincoln having to grow up as isolated as I felt. If I'd been without my brothers and Naomi, I would have been more afraid of people. Isolation had had the opposite effect on Lincoln.

"You cut out the back of a cereal box and write the questions you have for a new best friend," Lincoln continued. "Because how else will the other side know what kind of friend you're looking for if you don't give them the exact criteria of who you're looking for?"

"Making sense so far," I said.

"You write down all the obvious questions first, of course."

I nodded. "Duh."

"Do you like wrestling?" Lincoln held up his fingers as he listed each one. "Which Power Ranger do you want to be? How long can you hold your breath underwater?"

"Only if it's cartoon wrestling," I answered. "I never watched Power Rangers, so I can't give an honest answer there. But I did watch Powerpuff Girls, that's almost the same?"

"Oh, sure." Lincoln shrugged, expression amused—and perhaps a bit surprised—at my chattering.

But our kiss and every second we've spent together had woven this tapestry of security.

There was no expectation to say something wildly meaningful with him.

I'm all relaxed, limbs at ease, unhurried thoughts, and deep breaths.

I was in the present moment, and it was liberating.

It was what I imagined a healthy home should feel like.

"I wanted to be Bubbles. And I can hold my breath for about a minute."

"You do have Bubbles' energy," he agreed.

Our group stopped in front of an abandoned building that used to be a furniture shop.

I caught bits of information on how the family that moved there had only been seen at night.

Now, every Halloween, a small candlelight could be seen flickering in the window on the second floor for a few minutes.

Because, for some reason, all ghosts agreed to sync up on the same holiday to do their essential business.

"I left the cereal box in the attic for a couple of days," Lincoln said.

"No answer. One night, I decided to stick around in case the ghost needed to suss out my vibe more.

Personally, I wouldn't want to befriend someone I've only heard them live a life below me and left me three questions to answer—no matter the importance of those questions. "

"Fair enough. I respect a ghost with standards."

"It's admirable." Lincoln nodded. "I stuck around and talked for a few hours. This ghost has heard my whole life story."

"You were ten, though, right?" I imagined a tiny version of Lincoln full of wonder and the constant need to chatter. "Couldn't have taken more than a few minutes."

"One decade holds a lot of content, Celeste."

I smiled, amused at his insistence. I loved how dramatic this man could be. "You're only conscious of maybe six of those years? Seven if you're like a really self-aware three-year-old."

"I remember things from as young as two," he said.

My brows raised as I tried to recall my childhood and kept getting stuck at a four-year-old me collecting rocks at the base of a mountain. "Man, what I'd do for that kind of memory retention. I bet that's a lifesaver when it comes to studying."

"I wouldn't bet on that."

"Why not?"

"I'm one failing grade away from being on academic probation. From the results of my first few assignments this semester, the chances of probation doubled," he said. "Memory doesn't do much for me these days."

I tried not to show too much shock or concern at the comment.

The confession was far more significant than his nonchalant tone suggested.

When I met Lincoln's gaze, I saw nerves there.

He hadn't meant to share that tidbit. He wasn't using his failure as a setup for some punch line.

His jaw tightened when he looked away from me and back to the tour guide, like he was finally interested in the information he'd digested a multitude of times.

"This potential probation," I started, voice low as I treaded carefully. "Do your friends know?"

He let out a dry laugh. "Nope. This was something I was going to take to the grave. Or at least keep under the radar until they started doing their big things and I stayed at Mendell for another year or so without them."

My chest tightened at the thought of him on his own. The strings between us strengthened because, despite being opposites, we'd buried something similar. We were afraid of the same kind of failure and loneliness.

"Do you want—"

"This is my favorite part," Lincoln interrupted, moving closer to the group.

I watched his back as he turned his attention to the tour guide's explanation of our empty bell tower and the secrets it held.