Page 87 of Carry On
“The hell it isn’t!”
“It’s my fault.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Lincoln!” Dean exclaimed. “Do you hear yourself? Do you know what you sound like?”
“He has PTSD,” I told him quickly. That shut him up. When I was sure he wouldn’t start yelling over me, I continued, “He’s an Army veteran.”
“Fuck,” he whispered.
“I startled him,” I said. “He was sleeping, and I startled him.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Lincoln,” he repeated with a sigh. “You really know how to pick them, don’t you?”
“That’s not fair,” I snapped and promptly devolved into a coughing fit.
“Shut the fuck up and let me look at you,” he growled. I did exactly that, letting him examine my neck. The increasing frown on his face did nothing to ease my concerns. The exam was short and quick, not that I was expecting much. He was a paramedic, not a doctor. I knew the scopeof what he could do was limited. “I don’t like it. You need to go to the ER and have them look at you.”
I was already shaking my head before he finished his sentence.
“I’m not going to the ER.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you want to do or not. I can’t magically tell if he damaged something. I can tell you that you look like shit and that you need to go to the ER to have your neck examined.”
“I’m not going.” That was a can of worms I didn’t want to open. I was already struggling with how to explain this at work. Explaining it to the emergency room staff didn’t sound appealing. I felt okay enough, minus the grating in my voice. That had to mean something.
He sighed and sat down across the office from me. The weight of his stare made me uncomfortable as he considered me. From the look on his face, it was clear he was debating just dragging my ass into an ER without my permission.
“Look, I can’t tell you what to do,” Dean said softly. “But when it comes to what it’ll look like, PTSD is a crapshoot. You and me… we have PTSD, and we’re emotional disasters. But sometimes, PTSD makes people… violent and messy. You got lucky. At least, I think you did. I’m fairly certain this is just cosmetic, but I’d feel better if you’d go see a doctor.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. You look like he tried to kill you.”
“He didn’t.” I was lying. We both knew it. Any longer and he would have. Not intentionally, but that didn’t change the fact that he would’ve killed me. “He didn’t mean to.”
“That doesn’t make him any less dangerous,” Dean pointed out. “He needs help—the kind of help you can’t give him. Andyouneed to be careful. You can’t be putting yourself in a position where he can do this to you. You might not survive it again.”
“I—”
“I know you care, Lincoln,” he interrupted, “but you have to put yourself first.
I said nothing. I heard him—I did—but I hated his words. I hated that we were at this point. Nash wouldn’t intentionally hurt me. Yes, he was quiet and withdrawn, defensive if he needed to be, but under it all, he was a good man.
He was just broken like me. I couldn’t fault him for that.
“You can’t let this man kill you just because you want to help him.”
The reality was: I didn’t want to just help him. I wanted him in my life. Nash was a double-edged sword—sweet and sexy on one side, dangerous and terrifying on the other. I couldn’t have one without the other.
CHAPTER 60
NASH
Screaming.
So much fucking screaming.
It echoed in the back of my head, stuck on repeat.
