Page 55 of Carry On
He doesn’t deserve your bullshit,the voice commented.
“Okay,” I agreed. What the hell else was I going to do? Tell him no? That I’d rather fight him than get along with him?
That sort of thing appealed to me. Fighting made sense to me. I was used to fighting. I knew how to fight. I knew how to use violence and anger to take up space.
I didn’t know how to talk. How to… not push people away. How to make a conversation matter. I didn’t know how to be heard.
CHAPTER 40
NASH
Right…okay…”Lincolnmutteredunder his breath and paced right back the other direction. I watched as he disappeared into his room, talking to himself. The man was losing his mind a little.
I, on the other hand, had been ready for hours and was just sitting on the couch, trying to find something to do. I had no desire to participate in his brand of chaos.
It’d taken us two weeks to get to this point. For two weeks, we worked in tandem to put his plan into action. Well, Lincoln did most of the work. I was directed to work on my food tolerance, sleep schedule, and all that bullshit.
We also spent two weeks in dick lockdown. I wasn’t a fan of that part of the plan, but Lincoln was insistent that we had other things we needed to focus on. I would’ve rather focused on sex and forgotten everything else. The man was a drug, one I didn’t know I needed. It was so easy to lose myself in him and let the world fade away.
You can’t forget what you are,the voice commented.
Always fucking eager to tear me down.
Being with Lincoln like that was easy. That was mind-numbing. Letting him consume me made it easy to forget the nightmares and pain—just for a moment anyway. I craved that. Desperately and a little pathetically. Histaking that away had me wound up tighter than a coil, but watching him spiral as he tried to grapple with control for the day was the push I needed to get me out of my head.
“The wedding photographer will meet us at the courthouse,” Lincoln began once more when he rejoined me.
“Why the fuck do we need a wedding photographer?” I demanded. His plan was full of weird shit. There were things that I didn’t understand why we needed to have or do. Things like my suit, a wedding photographer, and dinner. Why did we need a fancy dinner after? At least I was promised scotch as a reward for the bullshit I was putting up with.
“Because if I were getting married for real, I’d have a photographer,” he said. “People use wedding photographers. It’s a thing.”
“A stupid thing,” I muttered.
“Some people like pictures.”
“It’s stupid to pay people that much money for pictures.” But whatever. If you had the money, throwing it away on a single moment like this probably made sense. I could think of better ways to spend it. “But okay, love bug. If that’s what you want.”
“No,” Lincoln snapped damn near immediately, but his mouth twitched at the corner as he held back a smile.
Mood: lightened.
Mission accomplished.
I’d spent the last week throwing ridiculous names at him randomly just to see what he’d say. He had yet to agree to anything I threw out, but I couldn’t blame him. I wasn’t exactly trying to be serious with my choices. More than anything, I was doing them for the smiles I usually got from him as a result. I’d become a little obsessed with that brilliant smile of his. I tried not to think about what that whole mess meant.
He stopped pacing to stare at me—really stare at me. I couldn’t blame him for the look on his face either. I was in a suit. A nice black suit with the jacket, tie, and everything. I looked like a goddamn tool. Flannel wasn’t allowed at this wedding, apparently, no matter how hard I tried to argue for it.
It’s because you know that no matter how much you look the part, you’ll never fit in his world,the voice remindedme.
Like I needed it. I was all too aware of how little I fit into Lincoln’s world.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Ready to sign my well-being away to you in a contract of societal expectations?” I replied, arching a brow. The look he leveled on me was none too impressed as I got to my feet. “Sure. Why the fuck not? I’m in a suit, my hair is combed, and I’m painfully sober. Why not add getting married to the mix?”
“Jesus fuck,” he grumbled. “Your enthusiasm for our fake marriage is so encouraging.”
“Better?” I demanded, plastering on a fake smile. I could be charming when I wanted to be. The loud, genuine laugh he let out was worth it.
