I blink at him. “What?”
“Your new roommate’s father is a judge.” A cruel smirk curls at his lips.
That’s why he’s here?
To question me about Grace’s father?
Dude needs to find a real job because he has too much time on his hands.
I pull in a deep breath to calm myself. “I didn’t give her a questionnaire before moving in.”
His smirk widens. “Oh, how I miss that mouth of yours.”
I hold in the urge to dramatically make a vomiting noise. I don’t want him to miss anything about me. I don’t want him to even think about me.
I remain in my bedroom doorway, maintaining a safe distance between us. “Look, Quinton, I don’t care what you’re doing. Keep committing crimes. Don’t. I don’t give a shit. I got into trouble because you’re a coward, but I’ve moved on.”
His back straightens, his smirk dropping faster than his loyalty to me. “Coward?” he huffs. “I’m no goddamn coward.”
I imitate his huff. “Who puts drugs in their girlfriend’s car, and then when said car gets searched, claims the drugs aren’t his? You made me take the fall for your crime. I rode off in a cop car, and you drove away in your brother’s Mercedes. That, my regrettable ex-boyfriend, is a coward. Be lucky I don’t rat you out.”
“Why didn’t you snitch on me then?”
“I don’t want your wrath, obviously. I was stupid enough to date you, and now, I want nothing to do with you.”
“I’m the one who decides when I’m done with someone. Not the other way around.”
I snort. “Think again. I’d never touch a loser like you again, who lives off daddy’s money but wants the high of playing drug dealer for a few years.”
Wrong words.
I know my mouth has gotten me in trouble again when he jumps up from the bed. His face reddens in fury as he snatches my elbow and jerks me into my bedroom. I gasp as his hand moves to my throat, and I’m slammed against the wall.
“I will end you.” Quinton hisses in my face. His grip tightens before he suddenly pulls back, his hands slapping the wall on each side of my head.
I draw in a shaky breath in an attempt to calm myself that does nothing but that. “Don’t be stupid, Quinton. It’s not smart, breaking into a judge’s daughter’s house. It might lead to you getting in trouble.”
The reality of my words dawns on him.
He drops an arm but doesn’t pull away. “You fucking cunt.”
I brace myself for another chokeslam or slap or something, but he takes a step back.
“Fuck you, Cassidy.”
“Get out of my house.”
Me and my big mouth.
That’s what I think as I wince and stand in front of the mirror, examining the large bruise around my neck. Arguing with Quinton was stupid, but I couldn’t stop myself. Cringing, I carefully pull a sweatshirt over my head, drag the hood up, and tighten it. That way, if Grace comes home, she won’t see anything out of the ordinary.
Except that I’m walking around, looking like a damn Eskimo.
If she sees what Quinton did, she’ll tell Sierra. Grace might be my roommate, but she’s been friends with my sister longer. Grace is also a nice person. She’d reach out to someone out of concern for me. To prevent that from happening, I’ll be hiding out until this bruise fades.
As I make myself comfortable in my bed, I look through my phone.
Lincoln has called and texted numerous times, and I’ve ignored every one of them. Afraid that he’ll come over if I don’t, I text him back.
Me: Sorry, I have a headache. Can I talk to you later?
Lincoln: Are you sure everything is okay?
Me: It’s fine. I’m just going to nap.
Lincoln: Talk when you wake up?
Me: Of course.
So much has happened today.
Lincoln and the random woman who he no doubt has history with. Quinton making a visit and physically assaulting me. The day had started as a fairy tale and ended as a nightmare.
Throughout the night, I sleep like shit.
The next morning, I wake up to find more texts from Lincoln.
I shut my eyes.
The day after we had sex, the day after we discussed our issues with trust, everything falls apart.
My phone rings, and it’s Georgia. She’s also texted a few times, asking if everything is okay. I’ve blown her off by replying with smiley face emojis.
“Hey, girl! Taco Tuesday is at our place tonight! Consider it a housewarming-slash-margarita party.”
I chuckle. “I’m sure Archer is loving a party at his house.”
“Well, it’s our house now, and if I say we shall party, then we shall party.” She laughs. “Plus, he’s so happy I finally moved in that he’d let me throw a hundred parties. The fun starts at seven. Come with an empty stomach.”
“I wish I could,” I say around a groan. “But I have a killer migraine, and I think the move exhausted me. Sorry, but I’m going to sit this one out.”
“Okay, but if you change your mind, you know where to come! Let’s catch up this weekend, okay?”
“Sounds good.”
Opening my nightstand drawer, I grab two ibuprofens and wash them down with water. As I surf through different Netflix options, my phone beeps with a text.
Lincoln: You coming over?
I sigh, debating on my response. He texted a few times earlier, asking me to let him explain himself. I briefly replied, saying I’d talk to him about it later.
Twenty questions had been on my tongue when I walked in and saw some random woman with Lincoln, but then Quinton texted me a picture of him sprawled out on my bed. My throat burning, my stomach churning, I knew I needed to get out of there. Not only because I was worried about being sick, but I also needed to get to my house before Grace did, so I could kick Quinton out.
Yes, my heart had sunk into the pit of my stomach when I saw Lincoln with that woman, especially it being the day after he and I finally had sex. But right now, I’m not in the mood to go back and forth. All I want to do is stay in bed, binge-watch a sappy show, and sleep. We’ll discuss his stupid behavior another time.
Me: No, staying in for the night.
Lincoln: Come on. I need my sidekick.
Me: Sorry.
As bad as I want to go and take my mind off everything, I’m in pain, and there’s no hiding my bruise yet. If someone bumps into me, if someone touches me in the wrong place, I’ll wince.
Quinton wasn’t like that when we dated. Yes, after thinking back, I remember the few times he was sketchy, but I didn’t think he was dealing drugs.
Not only did I not want them to go to the police, but I also didn’t want them to beg me to tell on him, nor did I want them to assume I was involved with his little side business. Knowing my parents, they would’ve freaked out and tried to stick me in rehab.
Lincoln: Everything okay?
Me: I’m just tired.
Lincoln: See you tomorrow?
Me: See you tomorrow.
I’m not sure if that’s true.
Chapter Nineteen
Lincoln
“You’re not on the schedule tonight,” I say when Johnna, one of the bar’s waitresses, walks in.
Johnna shoves a notebook in her apron. “Cassidy asked me to cover for her.”
Dread pools through me.
I planned to talk to Cassidy tonight about what had happened. With the anger I’d had when Isla was there, surely, Cassidy had to know there is nothing between us. Not one emotion in my body feels anything but disdain for Isla. I was ready to explain everything to Cassidy, but then her phone rang. The mood in the room hadn’t been fucking rainbows, but whatever she’d read on her phone spooked her.
Since she left, I’ve texted her a few times. When I received no response, I expected to see her at Georgia’s party. That didn’t work out, just like my plan to talk to her tonight. Cassidy has never opted out of our get-togethers, and now
, she’s calling off work. My stomach unsettles, and I’m tempted to pour myself a shot to soothe my anxiety.
I fish my phone from my pocket and text her.
Me: You okay?
She replies minutes later.
Cassidy: Yes. I have a migraine and want to rest.
Me: You want me to bring you something when I get off?
The temptation to ask if she needs company hits me. I’ve picked up countless shifts for people, and someone could return the favor.
Cassidy: Thanks, but I’m fine.
Disappointment shatters through me. I want to be that guy for her, the one she calls when she has a migraine, who she calls when she’s bored, whose name she moans when I’m inside her.
That damn guy.
I want to be everything for her.
Even though I shouldn’t.
Unease drives through my blood as I text her back.
Me: Let me know if you change your mind.
Another text comes through, and that disappointment from earlier soars because it’s not Cassidy.
Isla: Can we talk?
I clench my hand around my phone. Just seeing her name gives me the urge to throw it.
Me: Nope. Go talk to your husband.
Getting wrapped up in Isla was a mistake. Just like all the other women before her. She was crazy, but her husband? Dude was even fucking crazier when he found out we were sleeping together. I was young and dumb. Still, after it ended, I realized that wasn’t an excuse for sleeping with a married woman. In my defense, she told me they were separated and in the process of a divorce.
Turned out, that was a lie.
With a curse, I block her number.
The rest of the night, my mind is on Cassidy.
I check my phone periodically, hoping she changed her mind.
Hoping she reached out.
Said something.
But it doesn’t happen.
Archer glances up when I knock on his open office door. Setting his pen down, he stares at me in expectation as I stand in the doorway.
I rest my shoulder against the doorframe. “Did Cassidy give a reason she called off tonight?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, she talked to Cohen.”
Cohen is on baby leave, and I’d feel horrible for waking him. As bad as I’m trying to fight it off, all night, there’s been a heaviness in my stomach that something is wrong with Cassidy. When she read whatever was on her phone, that light she carries around like a fucking pet dimmed.
I rub the back of my neck, hoping to relieve the tension. “If you can ask next time you talk to Cohen and let me know, that’d be great.”
Archer lifts his chin, anchoring all his attention on me. “What’s the deal between you and her?”
“We’re”—I hesitate, wondering if I should tell him the truth even though Cassidy asked to wait—“friends.”
Tenting his hands together, he levels them on his desk, his voice turning stern. “I know what faking being friends is. Georgia and I did it for years.”
“Wrong.” My voice wavers as I continue, “You and Georgia fake hated each other. I’ve never disliked Cassidy, and we don’t pretend shit.”
Okay, the last statement is a lie.
We do pretend that we don’t have feelings for each other.
He nods, staying quiet.
His silence pisses me off.
I point at his phone next to him. “Can you ask Georgia if she’s heard from her?” I’d text her myself, but like with Cohen, it’s late, and I don’t want to wake anyone up.
Archer blows out a ragged sigh. “Look, bro, Cassidy might not be the girl for you.”
I pull in a breath, trying not to flip my shit on him.
How fucking dare he.
“The hell are you talking about?” I snarl. My stomach twists.
My brother, the number one person in my life, is telling me the only damn woman who’s ever made me feel something might not be the one for me.
He’s insinuating that the woman I’m falling for isn’t for me.
Bull-fucking-shit.
Realizing he’s hit a nerve, Archer lowers his voice. “She’s on probation for a drug charge.”
“And I was recently released from prison. What’s your point?”
Chapter Twenty
Cassidy
One of the most miserable feelings in the world is not being able to sleep.
Two days have passed since Quinton’s chokeslam visit, and I’ve turned into an insomniac. Even with shutting and locking my bedroom door, the panic that he can barge in at any time haunts me, becoming a real-life nightmare since I can’t actually manage to sleep to have a nightmare. Attempting to sleep has become as much of a pain in the ass as Quinton.
I dreaded calling off work but had no choice. No way could I wear my Twisted Fox employee shirt without my bruise being on display. Luckily, Johnna took my shift with no questions asked.
It’s three in the morning, and I’ve been bingeing Shameless episodes. Just as I hit the remote button that tells Netflix, Yes, I have no life and am still watching, my phone vibrates on my nightstand. My back goes straight. Quinton has instilled a fear in me that rises whenever it goes off. I stretch across the bed to retrieve it and see Lincoln’s name flashing across the screen.
My body relaxes … and then my stomach clenches as I ignore the call. When you’re a romantic at heart, a guy you’re falling for calling in the wee hours of the night is goals. But tonight, there’s nothing but anxiety.
Anxiety he’ll sense something is wrong.
Shoot, he definitely knows something is off, considering he’s calling me in the middle of the night.
A text comes through seconds later.
Lincoln: Just tell me you’re okay, Cass. Text me, call me, email me, tell Georgia, whatever. I need to know nothing is wrong.
I bite into my cheek as I read his text, so many raw emotions running through my head. My fingers itch to text him back. My heart yearns to call him and hear his voice—to make me forget about Quinton.
Me: I’m okay.
I owe him a response. He’s been there for me. If our situation were reversed, if he’d avoided me this long, I’d blow his phone up and show up at his place.
I should tell him what’s going on, but I can’t. If I tell anyone Quinton is my stalker, they’ll want me to go to the police. All that will do is provoke him further. Quinton is stupid and just wasting his time tormenting me. All I want to do is move on from him. It’d be in his best interest to leave me alone, so I can forget he exists.
Too bad all he’s done is left reminders.
The texts.
My throbbing neck.
The ugly-ass bruise painting my skin.
He’s texted me a few times, apologizing for his manic behavior, to which I replied with middle-finger emojis.
My thoughts are broken by my phone ringing again.
Lincoln.
“Are you ignoring me because of Isla?” he rushes out as soon as I answer, as if he’s worried that he’ll only get a second to speak.
Yes, I’m pissed about Isla, is what I want to scream.
Ask how dare he.
Mainly, I want to yell to release all the frustration from the past few days.
I exhale a stressed sigh. “I’m sure you’d be upset if you found some rando guy at my house the day after we had sex.”
“Fair point.” He blows out a breath. “I’m sorry, Cassidy. She showed up out of the blue. I want nothing to do with her. I’ve ignored her for months.”
“Who is she?”
The truth test.
Let’s see how much honesty Lincoln will give me.
“Can I come over? Explain myself?”
His question blindsides me as chills chase up my back. As I run his question through my mind again, my blood warms. If there’s anything that’d make me feel safe, that’d give me a sense of security, it’d be Lincoln.
And fuck you, Quinton, for ruining this moment,
when this perfect man wants to come be with me, to comfort me. You’ve ruined it by scarring me.
“Yeah,” I breathe out. “You can.”
“I’ll be there in ten.”
Not wanting to wake Grace, Lincoln texts me when he’s outside. Tightening the strings around my hoodie, I check myself in the mirror before walking out of the bedroom.
There’s no way I can pull this off. Lincoln will know that something is wrong. My heart thuds louder and louder as I tiptoe down the hall, uncertain of how the rest of the night will go. Inviting him here was dangerous. No doubt Lincoln will question me over my wardrobe choice. Before answering, I turn down the thermostat. If I make it the damn Arctic Circle in here, I can use that as my excuse.
Sorry, Grace.
Taking a reassuring breath, I swing the door open to find Lincoln standing before me. It’s dark, and I can’t see much, but there’s no missing his body language.
Lowering his head, he reaches out and rubs the exposed skin of my cheek. “Thank you for letting me come over.”
I chew on my lower lip as shivers barrel over my skin. Every part of me wants more of him.
“Come in,” I croak, stepping to the side to allow him room.
Shutting the door behind us, he follows me down the hall to my bedroom.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I wait for Lincoln to speak.
He shuts my bedroom door, and his eyebrows squish together as he studies me. “What’s with the sweatshirt?”
Of course that’s the first thing he notices.
I play with the strings of my shirt and glance away from him; my goal is to avoid all eye contact. “Grace likes to keep it cold in here.”
“Bullshit. Georgia used to complain about how warm she kept it when they were roommates.” He eyes me skeptically.
“Maybe she’s had a change of thermostat heart.” In need of a new subject, I tap the space next to me before slapping my hand against my knee. “You wanted to explain yourself?”
I hope my tone isn’t bitchy, but regret rushes through my thoughts. I knew Lincoln would be suspicious of the hoodie. If we don’t talk about another subject, that conversation will stray back to what I’m wearing. The problem is, I don’t know if I can deter him from it all night.
Straight Up Page 15
