All of My Soul

by Jenni Wilder

  Images of his rock-hard body swirled through my mind, and I dropped my arms from around his neck. I ran my hands over the beautiful ridges on his stomach. His shirt was in the way, but I could still feel how defined and toned he was. My fingers skated over the outline of his two hard muscles that disappeared into the waistband of his jeans.

  He growled and ripped his mouth away from mine. “Oh fuck. Jillian. What are you doing to me?” He was breathing hard, trying to stay in control.

  I looked up at him with wide eyes, trying to convey how much I wanted him. “I just need to be close to you right now,” I pleaded. Hearing Dr. Raussman’s interpretation of my nightmares seemed to solidify something for me. I knew I loved Lincoln madly, but hearing that even my subconscious knew he was the most important person to me made things more real. I took it as proof this wasn’t just a superficial love.

  Lincoln closed his eyes and rested his forehead against mine. He didn’t move any closer, but didn’t pull away either. “We can’t. Not here. There might be cameras.”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Dating a celebrity sucked sometimes. He couldn’t be caught doing inappropriate things in an elevator no matter how much I begged him. To be honest, I wasn’t into public sex either. No way did I want to be caught on tape. Not with my scars. But until Lincoln pointed it out, I hadn’t even thought about it. I just wanted him.

  Opening my eyes, I moved my mouth to his ear as I dropped my leg from his hip. “Take me home, baby,” I whispered.

  He opened his eyes and gave me his wolfish grin again. “Your wish is my command, Princess.”

  The elevator dinged as the doors slid open, and Lincoln moved off me. He grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the elevator, laughing and smiling.

  Brody smiled at us as he put down his newspaper and got up from the uncomfortable-looking lobby chair. I didn’t wait for him to meet us at the door like usual. I was too anxious to get home to worry about what might be waiting for us on the other side of the door. But as my feet hit the sidewalk in front of Dr. Raussman’s office building, I heard a commotion around me.

  “There she is!” a wiry voice said near me.

  I spun on my heel and gasped when I saw a camp of reporters not too far away from me, some with cameras, some not. They were just out of sight from the lobby, strategically placed so Brody wouldn’t have seen them.

  One man was pointing at me while others scrambled to push buttons on various recording devices. The group instantly surrounded me as cameras flashed in my face.

  “Jillian! What do you need therapy for?”

  “Jillian, over here! Do you talk about your father’s death with Dr. Raussman?”

  “Do you and Lincoln need couple’s counseling already?”

  I threw my hands up in front of my face to shield myself from the onslaught of questions and tried to step back to retreat away from the reporters, but they had me surrounded.

  “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM HER!”

  Lincoln was next to me in an instant, his arms surrounding me, caging me against his chest. I pushed my face against him, my eyes already filling with tears. How had they found us?

  The media blitz continued as questions were shouted while Lincoln guided us through the crowd, trying to get us to the safety of our town car. Peeking through Lincoln’s protective embrace, I saw Brody mercilessly pushing reporters away from us.

  Lincoln practically threw me into the back of our vehicle and climbed in after me while Brody ran to the driver’s side. Despite the dark tint on the windows, the reporters pushed cameras against the glass, attempting to get just one more picture.

  Tires squealed, and I was flung back in my seat as Brody peeled away from the scene. I sat up and watched through the back window as the media circus faded into the distance.

  Quick movement from next to me caught my attention. I turned just in time to see Lincoln punch the back of the front passenger’s seat. “FUCK!” he screamed and punched the seat again before dropping his head into his hands in defeat.

  Memories of the first time Lincoln and I encountered a tabloid reporter filled my mind. Lincoln had turned glacial and shut me out after the incident, preferring to deal with it himself rather than tell me what was going on. Like hell if I was going to let that happen again.

  I pulled my phone out of my purse and slid across the bench to climb into Lincoln’s lap. Thankfully he seemed accepting of my comfort as he pulled me close to him. I rested my head against his shoulder as I hit the speaker button on my phone.

  “Hello?” a voice came across my phone and filled the car.

  “Carter,” Lincoln said.

  “Hey, what’s up bro? Why are you calling from Jillian’s phone?”

  “We’ve got a problem,” Lincoln told his brother.

  Silence filled the car.

  “Is Jillian all right?”

  “I’m fine.” I set my phone on my lap and squeezed Lincoln’s hand. “We’re both fine.”

  Lincoln spoke up. “Carter, they knew where we were. They knew she was seeing a therapist.”

  “Who?”

  “Vultures,” Lincoln spat out.

  Carter understood. “Oh, Jesus. Okay. Let me make some calls. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

  The line disconnected and silence filled the car again until I spoke in a small voice. “Where is he meeting us?”

  “My parents’ place.” He said it as if it should have been obvious.

  “Oh.” We had gone there the last time the media found us. “Why there?”

  He nuzzled against my head. “I’m not sure. We’ve just always gone there when we’ve had a problem. It’s our safe zone.” He sighed deeply. “Jillian, look at me.”

  I pulled back and looked up at him. His face was serious and full of anxiety. “I don’t”— he swallowed hard—“I don’t know if I can fix this.”

  I brought my hand up to his face and caressed the worry lines on his forehead with my thumb. “What do you mean?”

  “If it had only been one or two vultures, we could have buried the story. Paid them off. But there were a lot of reporters back there on that sidewalk. I’m afraid it’s already too big to cover up.”

  I wound my arms around his big shoulders and hugged him tight. His strong arms wrapped around me as he hugged me in return.

  “I’m so sorry, baby,” he whispered, his voice strained, full of regret.

  “Hey. Hey.” I pulled back to look him in the eye. “Do you remember what I said the first time the tabloids caught us?”

  He pursed his lips but didn’t answer.

  “I said I didn’t care if those pictures of us kissing were printed, and I still don’t care what they print about us.”

  “This is more than pictures, Princess. They’re going to write that you’re seeing a therapist.”

  I let out a small laugh. “I am seeing a therapist. I’m not ashamed of it.”

  “They’re not going to say it nicely, Jillian. They’re going to make you look crazy.”

  I cupped his face with my hands and shook my head. “I don’t care. As long as the people I love know the truth, then nothing else matters.”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. The next thing I knew his lips were on mine, and he was kissing me fiercely. Knowing Brody was sitting two feet away, I kept our kiss fairly innocent, but it was passionate enough that I knew he appreciated my calm reaction to the drama with the reporters.

  Brody drove around for a while to lose anyone who might have been following us. Eventually he pulled into a driveway and drove around to the backside of the white colonial-style house, hiding us from view of the main road just like Lincoln had the first time the tabloids caught us together. I wondered when Lincoln had briefed Brody on the standard procedures for being chased by the paparazzi.

  Brody stepped out and waited for us at the rear of the vehicle, but Lincoln’s grip on me didn’t lessen. Instead, he held me close and looked at me with intense eyes. “This is my worst nightmare,
Jillian. Our parents trained us to protect our privacy, and right when I see all my defenses have failed, you put things in perspective. You knew exactly what to say to make this better. This is what I’m talking about when I tell you that you’re amazing. I don’t know anyone else who would be taking this so well.”

  I smiled at his compliments. “As long as none of them get a copy of Mackenzie’s horrible picture of me, I don’t care what they print.”

  “They won’t. I promise you that much.”

  I kissed him again, this time not holding back since we were alone. All the passion from the elevator flared through me again, and I had to pull away from him before I lost control.

  “Come on, baby,” I said with a smile as I crawled off his lap. “Let’s go inside.”

  Lincoln gave the rundown of what was happening to Margie, the housekeeper, before we retreated to the library. Since Lincoln’s parents were in Washington most of the time, I had only been here once before, but I was getting serious déjà vu. This felt eerily similar to the last time I had been here, but I hoped this time would be a better experience. I had successfully stopped him from pulling away from me like he had last time, and my craving for him hadn’t lessened despite the media circus.

  Checking my phone as we entered the library, I saw we still had forty minutes before Carter said he would meet us here.

  “Why this room?” I asked Lincoln as he retrieved two bottles of water from the mini fridge behind the wet bar. “I’ve never even seen the rest of the house.”

  Lincoln shrugged as he handed me one of the bottles and took a long drink from the other one. “I don’t know,” he answered after he swallowed. “There’s no windows in this room. Feels a little more private, I guess. Did you want a tour?”

  I grinned wickedly and saddled up to him, hooking my fingers through his belt loops. “Why don’t you show me your childhood bedroom? I want to see where teenage Lincoln slept.”

  He returned my smile, but shook his head. “I never lived here.”

  That surprised me. “You didn’t?”

  “No. We lived in a house on the Near North Side when I was little, but by the time I was in high school we had moved to the Governor’s Mansion in Springfield, although we spent most summers in Chicago or traveling. They didn’t buy this house until I was in college.”

  “Oh.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

  I ran my hands up his chest, my fingers itching to touch him. “Hmm… I thought maybe we could christen your bed.”

  A smirk broke out across his face. “Oh? And how do you know it hasn’t been christened already?”

  He meant to tease me but his question made me stop short. “But you said you’ve only slept with four women. Five including me.”

  He furrowed his brows. “Yeah, and two of them were in high school.”

  “In your bed?”

  “Does this really matter?”

  “Well, no. But I just thought I could give you a first.” I shook my head and pulled away from him. “It was stupid. Never mind.”

  He grabbed my hands and pulled me back to him. “It’s not stupid, baby.” He grasped my hips and looked at me intensely. “I can’t change what I did in the past.”

  “I’m not asking you to. It’s not a big deal.” I didn’t mind that he had been with other women. Well, except Mackenzie, of course. Her I minded. I hated that she ever weaseled her way into his life. But the other women? I couldn’t hold it against him that he had had sex with them.

  “Jillian, I wish I had known you when I was fifteen. You would have been my first and only, I promise you that.” I smiled, and he kissed my forehead. “But if you want to talk firsts…”

  “Yeah?” I asked eagerly.

  “I’ve never had sex in this room.”

  I squealed and tackled him, taking him to the floor as he laughed, and in the thirty-some minutes we had before Carter arrived we christened his parents’ library.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The rest of May flew by as I polished off my thesis. Unfortunately, Lincoln had been right about the tabloids. Carter wasn’t able to do anything to stop them from writing lies about me. The tabloids had decided that since I was seeing a therapist, I must be bipolar and the pictures they took of me outside Dr. Raussman’s office proved it as far as they were concerned. They had done their homework and discovered the fire and my dad’s death, which only added fuel to the idea that I was crazy. But they hadn’t reported anything about my scars nor had they printed Mackenzie’s picture of me, so I stuck with what I had told Lincoln. I didn’t care what they printed as long as the people I loved knew the truth.

  Eventually the vultures found other gossip to write about, and my story was forgotten. Things were starting to look up, and for the first time in a long time I felt like I could relax a little. My nightmares were still haunting me, and none of the places I had e-mailed my résumé to had replied, but my advisor had enthusiastically endorsed my thesis, and Lincoln and his teammates were kicking butt in the playoffs.

  It was mindblowing to me how well they were doing. I knew they were professional athletes trained by the best, but watching them play was like watching a precision instrument. They never failed to amaze me with how exact and fine-tuned their movements were. It seemed like they instinctually knew which teammate was backing them up and whether to pass to the left or the right without even looking.

  Brody, Kennedy, and I had made the trip to Los Angeles to watch the seventh game of the finals. If the Hawks won this game against the Kings, they would go against Montreal for the Stanley Cup. I wondered if Kennedy thought Lincoln was the best one out there like I did or if she was more realistic. I knew I was biased, but to me it seemed like he dominated over all the other players, and it was a beautiful thing to watch. He was a massive block of muscle, but when he was on the ice he could effortlessly change direction with just a twist of his skate. Despite his size and speed, he could look so graceful, but then within a fraction of a second he would be charging an opponent, bracing to check him brutally into the boards. He made it seem so easy and instinctual, and watching him left me breathless.

  The Kings were up by one point. One lousy point stood in the Hawks’ way for a chance to battle for the Stanley Cup. Time and time again, our boys charged down the ice to the net with the puck only to have it deflected at the last moment. The Kings’ goalie was simply too good. He owned his crease and wasn’t allowing anyone or anything near it. It was so frustrating to watch.

  As the clock on the giant overhead scoreboard counted down the remaining time in the game, it was obvious our boys were becoming more and more desperate to score. There were ninety seconds left on the clock when I saw our goalie make a mad dash to the bench, leaving his goal unprotected.

  “What is he doing?!” I exclaimed as I grabbed Kennedy’s arm in panic.

  “Coach is pulling the goalie. They can only have so many players on the ice, but if they pull the goalie, they can add an attacker and have a better chance of making a goal.”

  “But what if the Kings get the puck? Now we don’t have a goalie!”

  “Does it matter? We’re already losing. Doesn’t matter if we lose by one or fifty.”

  “Oh,” I replied, feeling stupid. This was the final minute and a half of the final game. If we didn’t score we were done for anyway. It was time for drastic measures.

  Our goalie quickly made his way off the ice, and Lincoln’s teammate Milo Olofsson exploded off the bench and into action. He frantically skated toward the attack zone in an attempt to save his team from elimination. Weaving in and out of the players, he grabbed the puck with his stick. Kennedy and I clutched at each other, and I held my breath as Olofsson passed the black disc to Lincoln. Lincoln smoothly took it behind the goal in an attempt to confuse the goalie. As he rounded the net, I could tell that he was quickly analyzing the scene on the ice. Deacon was blocked and of no help. Matt was across the rink, and Olofsson had just been checked into the boa
rds. It was up to Lincoln to make this shot. He charged the net from behind, hooking his stick around to make a backhanded shot when he collided with a black and white monster that came out of nowhere.

  When the Kings’ defenseman who had just put Olofsson into the boards had seen who had possession of the puck, he bolted to the front of the crease to intercept Lincoln. The two of them collided a split second before Lincoln could make the shot, and the force of the impact could be heard throughout the arena.

  The sound of plastic pads and helmets hitting each other in a giant crunch reverberated across the ice and up into the stands. Lincoln’s skates came out from under him, and he crumpled to the ice like a rag doll, losing the puck in the process.

  I can honestly say I had no idea what happened to the puck after that. My eyes were fixed on Lincoln, looking for some sign that he was all right. But from where Kennedy and I were sitting, it was impossible to tell if he was even conscious. Whistles blew and play stopped with forty seconds on the clock. Lincoln’s teammates crowded around him as he lay on the ice, blocking my view.

  “Kennedy… ” I whimpered quietly.

  Despite being filled with energetic and potentially drunk Kings fans, everyone in the stadium was silent as we watched the Hawks’ trainer run across the ice. No one spoke or applauded. Everyone seemed to know how serious this looked.

  “He’ll be all right. He’ll be all right,” Kennedy chanted as she grabbed my hand and squeezed it. I covered my mouth with my other hand and waited.

  Eventually the trainer waved to someone and a hidden door in the boards opened. Three men pushing a yellow ambulance stretcher carefully made their way onto the ice. I whimpered against my hand.