by Layla Reyne
“For what it’s worth, you were amazing today. I’ve never heard that hymn sound so full, so layered before.”
Lincoln’s cheeks heated, a sly grin that morphed into a fond, soft smile, all of the prickliness fading away. Carter was glad to be seated, that same swooping sensation stealing through him and knocking him wonderfully off-balance.
“It was my grandmother’s favorite,” Lincoln said. “It’s actually very basic. It was one of the first things I learned to play. Then as I learned more about music, how to compose and arrange it, I added to the hymn.”
“Did you used to go to church, then, with her?”
He nodded. “I understand the community part of it. Hell, that was evident today, and the service was pleasantly brimstone and judgment free. For me, though, I opted out when a youth minister told my Sunday school class that non-Christians had no afterlife to look forward to.”
“Had he never heard of Nirvana? As in not the band.”
Lincoln chuckled. “Exactly. Or considered that there’s no afterlife at all. That was the day I left organized religion behind. I’m sure not every minister is as ignorant as that man was, but I wasn’t there for it, or any religion, as I concluded a few years later. Maybe it’s the scientist in me, but I’m more comfortable putting my faith in the tangible, namely myself and those around me—the good, the bad, and the ugly.”
Carter nursed his tequila, turning that rationale over in his head. He wasn’t exactly religious, but he did put some faith in there being a higher power. Growing up, he hadn’t had that faith in himself, and he hadn’t had people around him to depend on either.
Lincoln shifted next to him, mirroring his posture. “You said you were an orphan but a very lapsed Jew. Was it one of your foster families?”
“Very lapsed is generous. I haven’t actually ever practiced.”
At Lincoln’s quirked brow, Carter lifted a hip, withdrew his badge from his back pocket, and removed the tiny circlet of suede from behind his badge. He always carried the yarmulke with him, but he hadn’t pulled it out in years. He didn’t want to handle it too often, the light blue fabric showing its age and the hand-stitched Star of David in the center increasingly fragile. “There was a car accident when I was very young. So young I don’t actually remember it, or how I got separated from who I assume were my parents. I was thrown from the car and too young to speak my name when someone found me, so I got...lost. Being a foster kid is all I’ve ever known, but I always had this.” He held it out to Lincoln. “They found it on me. It was my one possession, and I’ve kept it with me, always. It’s all I have.”
Lincoln gently handled the yarmulke, and his voice was similarly gentle when he spoke. “That’s why the interest in Apex? In genealogy?”
Carter nodded. “I think the accident happened here. I’m still trying to confirm that.” He gestured toward the cap. “And also figure out who I am.”
Lincoln passed back the yarmulke with a smile. “You seem pretty confident in that.”
“Okay, who I was, then.” Carter tucked it into the pocket behind his badge, then ran a thumb over the gold shield. “Figures into who I am now too. I would love to settle down someplace, stop living out of my car, feel completely comfortable in my skin and like I don’t have to constantly prove myself. But I’m a foster kid, always trying to prove myself worthy of staying. Never succeeding. I take these random assignments in this place or that thinking maybe some family member, or the person who found me, will recognize me. And if I’m loud and brash enough in those roles, in those places, in my life, maybe that’ll help them see me.” He pocketed the badge, then tossed back the rest of his shot. “Of course, they may see me and decide they don’t want me, that I’m not good enough for them either.”
Lincoln caught his wrist on the descent. “I don’t know how anyone could think that about you.” His thumb swept over the inside of Carter’s wrist, like Carter had done to him two nights ago. He missed the pressure point, but the touch, and Lincoln’s heated gaze, were causing pressure of another sort. Behind the zipper of Carter’s fly, and in his chest, drawing Carter forward. Nose to nose, lip to—
Lincoln’s phone rang, startling them apart so forcefully that Carter had to shoot out an arm and leg to keep Lincoln from tipping backward in his chair. Amid curses and apologies, they recovered in time to catch the incoming call from Senator Kirk. “Ollie,” Lincoln answered, as he put the phone on speaker. “Did you find Ruby and Chase?”
“We found them,” Kirk said through choked sobs. “They were in a warehouse, the water was rising, oh God...” His words died, swallowed up by emotion, and for a second, Carter feared the worst.
Until Beverley came on the line. “We got them out alive.”
“Oh, thank fuck.” Lincoln bypassed his shot glass and went straight for the bottle, taking a long swallow. He held it out to Carter, who didn’t hesitate to do the same. Victory and relief in the form of smooth, aged agave burned across his tongue and warmed him from the inside out.
“Did you catch the copycat?” Lincoln asked.
“We did,” Beverley answered. “Jeff Baxter. Name ring any bells?”
“None here,” Carter said, as he lowered the bottle back to the table.
“Me neither,” Lincoln said.
“In any event, he’s in custody, and Ruby and Chase are safe,” Beverley said. “Case closed. You two can come home.”
“No,” Lincoln said, eyes darting from the phone to Carter, asking an unspoken question.
Carter answered it, the determination in Lincoln’s eyes the only guidance he needed. “We’re getting closer here,” he told Beverley. “To the real Dr. Fear.”
“Closer than we’ve ever been,” Lincoln added. “Does Baxter have gray hair?”
“Yes.”
“I think we’re on the right track,” Lincoln said. “And Dr. Fear killed again today. Here in Apex.”
“Again?” Kirk said, rejoining the conversation.
“Zia and Quinn weren’t Baxter’s kills,” Carter explained. “We’re fairly certain that was Dr. Fear, and then Baxter hijacked the cycle.”
“He left me a note at Stacy’s crime scene,” Lincoln said. “He’s escalating, and we have his attention. We can’t let this go. We’re too close.”
“Bev,” Kirk said. “If they’re right, we may never get another shot like this.”
“All right,” the director agreed. “Let’s not waste the opportunity, and let’s see if we can cut short the cycle, for good.”
“We need to question Baxter,” Carter said, “But we can’t leave town.”
“Let us get him processed. Do an initial interview and send you that transcript. Then if you have follow-up questions, we’ll set up a video conference.”
“Later tonight?” Lincoln said.
“Probably tomorrow.”
“But—”
Carter laid a hand on his forearm, and with the other, muted the phone. “Did you sleep any last night?” A glare, but not a denial. “Didn’t think so. Me neither.” He released Lincoln and unmuted the phone. “Tomorrow morning is fine.”
“Good work, you two,” Beverley said.
Kirk followed with a “Thank you for helping us save them,” and after a few more operational details they ended the call.
“I’m sorry,” Lincoln said, slumping back in his chair. “I should have asked before I said we wanted to stay.”
“You did ask, and I didn’t object, because you’re right. We’re too close.”
“You up for playing Mr. Polk a bit longer?” Lincoln asked, his grin a little fuller, a little looser after three shots of tequila.
Carter returned the smile. “I think I could suffer it.”
Lincoln scoffed, full of mock outrage as he shifted in his chair, sideways and forward, toward Carter. “You have to suffer? What about me?”
Carter matched him, in affected ire and position, knees bumping as he narrowed the already scant distance between them. “What about you? Or rather, what about me is so insufferable?”
“You’re cocky, and you have an aversion to putting things in their place.” He flung an arm out to the side, toward the kitchen. “Like dishes in the dishwasher.”
Carter grabbed his arm. “You want me to put things in their place?”
Heat flashed in Lincoln’s eyes, and he didn’t try to wrench free. Instead, he used his wrist in Carter’s grip to drag him closer, to the end of his chair with his legs spread, thighs on either side of Lincoln’s. Faces so close Carter could feel the warmth of Lincoln’s breath and the timbre of Lincoln’s words. “You’re insufferably handsome, and it’s all I can do not to kiss you.”
Carter prayed to all that was holy that the fucking phone didn’t ring this time, didn’t interrupt his fantasy that was so close to finally becoming reality. He slid closer, cheek to cheek. “I can make you suffer, in other, more pleasurable ways, but I’d prefer you do that to me.” Lincoln’s gasp made his dick throb, and the heat that bloomed against his cheek and thighs was scalding, enough to make him draw back, wanting to see all of Lincoln in his turned-on glory—pupil’s blown out, lips parted, erection tenting the front of his pants. Carter lifted his eyes to Lincoln’s molten honey ones. “But holding out for a kiss, you don’t have to suffer that, L, if you don’t want to.”
“I don’t want to,” Lincoln said, zero hesitation.
Carter held his gaze as he shifted their positions, lifting one then the other of Lincoln’s thighs over his own. “What do you want, L?”
Taking the cue, Lincoln grabbed hold of Carter’s shoulders and levered himself onto Carter’s lap. He half groaned, half growled, as he rolled his hips, magnifying the suffering tenfold. “I want you to fucking kiss me.”
As much as he wanted to stretch up and capture Lincoln’s lips, to end their suffering, Carter couldn’t resist one last needling. “Say ‘ple—’”
Lincoln’s mouth crashed down onto his, and it was entreaty enough. More than. Carter groaned as he opened for everything Lincoln had to give—tongue, teeth, lips—wanting and craving it all. Delayed gratification at its finest. Lincoln rolling his hips and rutting his arousal against Carter’s abs as his hands raked through his hair. Cradling his scalp while holding him hostage. Carter ran his hands up Lincoln’s thighs and around to grasp his perfect ass, holding tight as he thrust up against him. Lincoln moaned down his throat and tugged Carter’s head back farther, deepening the kiss. Carter surrendered, to anything and everything Lincoln wanted. Just as long as he got to keep him here, in his lap, devouring each other.
Neither of them protested, but eventually the chair did, a creak that forewarned of imminent collapse under their combined weight. Carter made to move, to stand and transfer Lincoln from his lap to the table, hoping the latter would be sturdier than the chair, but Lincoln shifted first, sliding off to stand between Carter’s spread legs. Hands still in Carter’s hair, he gentled the hold and kiss, fingers playing with his curls as they wound down to light pecks.
“Fuck,” Carter panted, still catching his breath. “I’ve suffered years waiting for that kiss.”
“I suffered weeks with you in class, and those were the worst weeks of my teaching career.”
“I wasn’t that bad.”
Lincoln trailed his hands down his neck and around to the hollow of his throat, making Carter shiver. “Yeah, you were.”
Carter hooked his arms around the backs of Lincoln’s thighs and eyed the erection straining toward him. “I can show you bad.”
Lincoln slipped a hand beneath his chin and tipped up his face for a hard, fast kiss. “All those years, you can appreciate a slow burn.”
“In other words, you’re gonna make me suffer some more.”
“Trust me when I say we’re both going to be suffering.”
He moved to step back, and Carter dropped his arms. He wouldn’t push. After all they’d talked about, he understood Lincoln had reservations, had other commitments to consider. And Carter had his own baggage to deal with. Still had more to prove.
As if hearing his thoughts, Lincoln paused at the hallway to his room. “If I can help you find out who you were, just say the word. But, Carter, just so you know, whatever we find, it won’t change how much I like who you are now.”
Carter’s belly swooped, and his heart raced, the potential in both those offers terrifying and tantalizing. Not quite ready to go there himself yet, he relaxed into his chair, and their usual smirk and snark routine. “I thought I was insufferable?”
Lincoln correctly read the call, giving Carter that out, and turned for his room, tossing a “Goodnight, Mr. Polk” over his shoulder.
“Goodnight, Mr. Polk,” Carter returned, watching Lincoln’s perfect ass strut away from him. The perfect ass—and perfect man—he’d held in his arms tonight.
Finally.
Chapter Thirteen
Lincoln was freaking out. At how fast the flicker of attraction between him and Carter had ignited into a roaring fire, at how much he genuinely liked Carter Warren, at how much he wanted to kiss him again, at the nagging reminder of how much his last real relationship had hurt his family.
Real.
And then there was that. How much of this with Carter was real? How much of what Lincoln felt for Carter and vice versa—how much of the chemistry between them—was owed to Mr. and Mr. Polk? To the temporary rings on their fingers? What would happen when they left Apex and returned to their real lives? The undercover thing put a whole other wonky layer of confusion on top of what was already confusing. Maybe he and Carter’s chemistry would be self-contained to Apex and the Polks. This could just be a random hookup.
But that’s not what this felt like at all. It felt like a second chance at a missed connection, like the time for them was finally right. Lincoln didn’t date agent trainees, no matter how attractive they were, and when Carter had cursed his lecture hall all those years ago, Lincoln had been in no position, professionally or personally, for any relationship. His focus had been on teaching and fatherhood. But now he had those two things under control, and Carter was no longer his student.
Except they weren’t compatible. Messy versus neat. Nomad versus homebody. Class clown versus the shy kid at the back of the class. Young with a headful of dark curls versus over the hill with more silver in his blond every day. Maybe if they were both thirty-two some of that could be worked out, but they weren’t. Lincoln was set in his ways, and he liked his life just fine without the complication of a relationship. He’d settled on that after the romantic flameout with Adam. Uprooting his and Elena’s lives, and Gabby’s and Trina’s roles in them, didn’t seem worth it.
Even for someone so insufferably handsome. Someone who didn’t seem the least bit fazed by Lincoln’s family. Who kissed like he’d been given the best gift of his life. Who had respected Lincoln’s professional and personal boundaries. Who Lincoln was in a unique position to help. Carter had said last night that he would love to settle down but that he needed to find out who he was first. If Lincoln helped him do that, would Carter want to settle down...with him? The hours Lincoln had stayed up last night looking into missing persons and accident reports from thirty-two years ago had nothing to do with what he wanted the answer to that question to be.
“Hey, L.” Carter tapped his foot under the table. “Where’d you go?”
Down a path he had no business traversing on only a single cup of coffee. “Sorry, was just watching the coverage.” He pointed at the television above Flour Power’s kitchen pass-through. The national news station was running split-screen footage of Oliver leading Ruby and Chase out of the hospital and Beverley holding a press conference at FBI headquarters. The sound was off, but closed captioning on. The director thanked all the agents and local law enforc
ement officers who’d assisted in yesterday’s rescue. He and Carter weren’t mentioned, neither was Jeff Baxter. When one of the reporters asked about Dr. Fear, Beverley refused to comment or to take further questions. Good, they were keeping Apex and their involvement quiet. If the folks here found out there was a connection, all hell would break loose.
“Station fire is news enough,” Carter said, making the same assessment, as he topped off their mugs from the pot of coffee a server had left on their table.
Lincoln doctored his coffee, then handed the sugar to Carter to do the same. Black was their common preference, but neither of them could handle this morning’s more bitter than usual brew. “That’s all anyone could talk about at church.”
“We just need to stay ahead of it all.” Carter twisted in his chair, surveying the café. “Do you see Barry? Or a waiter? Seems to be taking a while to get food.”
“First day back?” Lincoln said, eyeing the roving mass on the sidewalk outside. It was as packed out there as it was in here, the town suddenly alive again with students and faculty and all the local businesses open to welcome them back. Flour Power seemed to be the epicenter of activity. All the booths and tables were claimed, counter diners were seated shoulder to shoulder, and a line stretched from the takeout counter to the sidewalk outside. They’d thought grabbing a table might be quicker, but they might have been wrong.
“We just got delayed further,” Carter mumbled.
Before Lincoln could ask why, Susanne’s good mornings and excuse mes echoed over the din of noise. Lincoln guzzled more of the burnt coffee, grimacing.
Carter chuckled. “It’s terrible this morning, yeah?”
“Terrible but necessary. I’m really regretting not grabbing a second cup at home before we left.”
Carter smiled big, Lincoln helplessly returning it, before hiding behind his mug. By the time Susanne and Lydia shuffled through the crowd, he and Carter had killed another cup each, and Lincoln was pouring them refills.
