When we get to the door to Lyncoln’s room, Sarge tells me to wait a moment. He talks back and forth on his radio device.
“They aren’t quite back yet. Do you want to wait out here or in his room on a chair?” Sarge asks kindly. “I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“I guess I’ll take the chair option. My feet are killing me,” I say honestly. I don’t think I will be able to wear heels ever again, let alone on Monday morning for class. “If whatever happened tonight doesn’t kill me, I think heels will.”
He opens the door for me with a chuckle and says, “Let me know if you need anything. I don’t think it should be too long.”
I turn on a lamp and walk around Lyncoln’s room. I feel like a spy or something. I have a hard time not curling up in his bed while I wait. I’m sure his pillows smell exactly like him too.
He doesn’t have many things out in his room. His counters are clean. I grab a bottle of water out of the fridge and see it’s almost empty too. Either he doesn’t spend much time here, or he’s a neat freak. There is only one personal possession in the whole room, a picture of his mom, Wyatt, and I assume Wyatt’s mom--his cousin, on the dresser. Other than the smell of his cologne, it’s the only thing that lets me know I am in the right room.
I try to sit in a chair but soon realize that his are just as uncomfortable as mine. Feeling exhausted but still worried, and seeing that it is now three in the morning, I grab a pillow and curl up at the bottom of his bed. Getting in his sheets seems like crossing the line and may send a way wrong message when he returns, but the bottom of his bed seems like a safer zone.
The pillow smelling like him is oddly comforting and I drift off, waiting and hoping he is coming back in one piece.
****
Hearing a noise and what sounds like my name being said faintly, I wake up and remember where I am. I look at the clock to see that it has only been twenty minutes. I sit up and hear the door open and close. It must be Lyncoln coming back. He is moving quietly, doing something and trying not to wake me though he must obviously know I am here. His back is to me as he faces his closet. He takes off his jacket and with only the lamp as light, I can see some small red splatters on the collar of his white dress shirt.
As he finishes hanging up his jacket and begins loosening his tie, he turns and we lock eyes. I see his deep blue-brown eyes full of concern for me even though I was the one safe and sound. Time stands still as we just stare at each other for a moment, taking each other in, and then before I know it, I am flying across the room at him.
He catches me in his arms and our mouths find one another before our bodies even do. He kisses me roughly. My feet not touching the ground, he continues kissing me and backs me up until my back hits the wall. He puts me down carefully and then wraps one arm around me and rests the other on the wall beside me as he deepens the kiss. By the time he pulls away, I am completely out of breath.
“Hey,” his velvety voice whispers, seconds later.
I feel tears spring to my eyes. This man is exasperating. He is cold and quiet and moody, yet I know he wouldn’t hesitate to take a bullet for me.
Seeing my tears, he asks, “Regs? What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
Not being able to answer, I just put my head on his chest and cry. He runs one hand through my hair and the other back and forth on my back. He just lets me cry there for a moment. I hate myself for losing it. I’m not at all a pretty crier. And we went from making out to me bawling my eyes out in approximately 2.4 seconds. How attractive.
When I have calmed down a bit, he says, “It’s going to be okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
Sniffling big ugly tears and snot, I finally find my voice, though it sounds higher pitched and a bit shaky. “I know I’m safe, you jerk. I was worried about you. Are you okay? What were you thinking?”
I see the blood splatters again and my face pales.
“It’s okay, Regs. It’s not my blood.” He runs his hands up and down my arms as if trying to warm me. “Promise, not mine.”
“What were you thinking? You can’t just take off like that. You could have gotten killed,” I sniffle through my tears.
He leans in closer to me, evaporating my anger as he does, and whispers, “I was thinking that if anything happened to you, I wouldn’t be able to handle it.”
He kisses me again, this time softer and quicker. I move one of my hands to his shoulder and he flinches.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” He shrugs knowing that I caught him flinching. “Promise.”
“Don’t you dare run out on me like that and then lie straight to my face,” I demand, staring him down unwaveringly.
He half-smiles. “It’s just a graze, babe. Not even a full graze even. Maybe more like a graze of a ricochet.” He nods to his shirt where I see a small tear.
“From a bullet?!” I ask, my voice going up an octave.
He just shrugs.
“Sit,” I say and point to a chair.
He does so but is holding back a smile and mumbles something about me being bossy.
I lean over him, take off his tie and vest, and unbutton his shirt so I can get to his shoulder. Why didn’t he tell someone so they could bandage it up for him? It may not have needed stitches, but at least some antiseptic so it doesn’t get infected. Between our animals and ourselves and having to take care of small injuries, we all become first-aid handy in Omaha. And I’ve learned from experience that sometimes it’s easier to treat it right away than to ignore it and wait for it to get worse.
Three buttons down his dress shirt, he puts a hand just above my knee on the back side of my leg and I realize I am undressing him. In his room. In my pajamas. At four in the morning. If anyone saw us, this would look bad. Very bad.
“Well this isn’t exactly how I envisioned it, but I‘ll take it.” He grins as if reading my mind. “And I like these,” he adds, feeling the fleece on my shorts by my upper thigh then moves his hand down my bare leg back to an appropriate spot around the back of my knee.
I glare at him though my body goes tingly and finish unbuttoning his shirt. As I go to pull it over his left bulging shoulder, he winces slightly.
“Sorry,” I whisper apologetically, gently pulling it down the rest of the way.
He’s actually right. I see a spot maybe a half inch thick of pink skin where the bullet grazed. Other than looking like it’s tender, it really isn’t that bad. Not even bleeding. Almost kind of looks like it could’ve been from a burn, not a bullet. If that bullet would have been six inches lower, however, it could have hit his heart and he probably wouldn’t be here.
Now that he is shirtless before me, I’m having trouble focusing. His muscles are perfection. I can’t help but run my hand down his bulging neck muscles to where his wound is. I shake my head and remember I was going to get a first-aid kit. He smiles with eyebrows raised as I quickly spin around and go into his bathroom. I am able to find the kit fairly easily since it’s in the same spot as in my bathroom.
Setting the supplies on the coffee table, I grab some antiseptic cream and put it on my finger. Putting one hand on the other shoulder, I gently rub the cream into his wound.
He doesn’t wince or say anything although I know it must be a little sore. He just stares at me with those intense dark eyes and that “I know you” look. His hair is slightly ruffled and I wonder if it was from our smooch fest or from before. Oddly enough, he looks more vulnerable and attractive to me now than he ever did before.
This is the real Lyncoln.
I grab a cloth bandage and place it on the wound and finish fixing him up. I sigh, handing him some Tylenol and head to get him some water so he can take it.
“Come to think of it, I’m very hurt. I’ll be hurt as often as you like if you take care of me like this,” he says with a confident grin as he watches me return and hand him the water.
I smile back at him but shake my head as I busy myself picking up the wrappers and putting everything away while he takes t
he Tylenol. And I know he probably wouldn’t take it if I didn’t hand it to him, so in a way, he’s just humoring me.
I avoid his eyes as I get everything back where it belongs. He could have died this evening and was probably very close to doing so but is acting like it isn’t a big deal. Does he have a death wish? If he really cared about the people in his life as much as he thinks he does, would he be so risky?
As I put the first-aid kit back in the bathroom, I turn to find him leaning against the bathroom door, still shirtless, with his muscular arms crossed one over the other, watching me. “What’s on your mind, gorgeous?”
I sigh, wishing he couldn’t read me like a book. “If you really did care about me like you say you do, you would think twice about putting yourself in a situation where you can get yourself killed. Look at that spot, Lyncoln.” I put my hand lightly on his bandage and slowly move my hand lower to his heart. “Six inches lower and you wouldn’t be here.”
He shrugs. “But I am. I’ve had closer calls than that if it makes you feel any better.”
“No. That certainly does not make me feel better.” I pause, shaking my head. “What about your mom and Wyatt? If you don’t care about me enough to think twice about it, at least think of them.”
“I do think of them. That’s why I sent them home early when I knew there was a threat. That’s why we got the President out. That’s why we got everyone downstairs. Ten more minutes and we would have had an assassination or worse on our hands. We originally had it all under control anyway. They were essentially in our trap and we were just waiting for them to come in. But then something happened and they got farther than they should have been able to.” He leans in close, taking my hand in his and whispers, “I do care about you that much, and I do think twice. Your safety will always precede mine no matter how many times I think about it.”
“Fine. It can precede yours, but you still don’t have to risk your life every chance you get. You are a Culling candidate, you should’ve been with us. What are you trying to prove? You hear of possible danger and just go running towards it? Why do you do this? I just don’t get it.”
This time he shuts down on me, turning away and walking to the window, ignoring my question.
“Just go,” he says softly and it stabs me like a knife.
“No. Talk to me, please. I want to understand. Henry says that loving you involves knowing that you might not come back in one piece but loving you enough to let you go anyway. Why? Why does it have to be like that?” I plead.
“Ask Henry.” He keeps his back to me but stiffens as he says his name.
I wrap my hands around his waist in a backward hug in a last-ditch effort to get him to talk to me. “I’m asking you.”
He doesn’t move my hands or turn but just lets out a deep sigh. “Because I couldn’t save my dad.” He almost chokes on the words.
I give him a minute. I don’t move. I don’t say anything. I just keep holding him and waiting for him to tell me. If he was ever going to tell me the whole story, it’s now. I’m sure by now he’s aware that I know the basics of what happened anyway. I just need to hear from him why he is this way, if his reason is what I suspect. If there is even the smallest chance that we end up together, I need to know if it would be like this all the time. I need to know if I will always be wondering if he is coming home or not.
“When I was thirteen, he was murdered by some drifters. My dad was the head of defense, Taggert’s job.” He pauses and I can tell this is painful for him to recall. “Two drifters broke into our house and tried to take him, probably to torture him for information. It woke all of us up. I woke up to mom screaming.” He pauses again. “When I got to my parents’ bedroom, they were telling my dad he had to go with them or they would kill him. He told them he was already dead anyway and made a move to get one of the men’s guns. The other man shot him in the head. No one noticed me coming in the room, but I tackled one of the men to the ground and took his gun. We struggled for a while, but I pinned him to the ground and somehow shot him in the chest. He was the one that had shot my dad. Mom went after the other guy, but he took off. They never found him.”
I fight back tears as I think of the confident and bold thirteen-year-old boy, barely older than Wyatt, who had to go through that anguish. I still don’t really know what a drifter is, other than they are obviously the bad guys. I can’t imagine waking up to that and watching your own father get shot in the head.
“Had I been there earlier…” Lyncoln starts and I can hear the emotion in his voice.
“They still probably would have shot him. They were either taking him or killing him and he knew that,” I try to reason with him.
He grabs my arms and turns around to wrap his arms around me. He doesn’t look at me, just holds me and rests his head on mine as he finishes, “So yeah, sometimes I take unnecessary risks, but I will gladly do it if it spares another family the pain I have had to live with. I will never forget the moment the life left Dad’s eyes. Not ever. And now? Now, I enjoy hunting the enemy down. I love the chase. I love taking down an opponent. It’s an art. An art I have mastered. An art that may be turning me into a monster.”
“You are not a monster.” I shake my head and move to look at him. My eyes are overflowing with tears by this point, and a few spill onto my cheeks.
“I’m glad you don’t think so,” he says softly as he wipes some of my tears away with his thumbs.
“But what about your family? Your future family? Your wife and kids? Do you want to put them through never knowing if their dad is safe?” I shake my head, imagining a few dark-haired, blue-eyed children.
“If and when that happens, I will stop taking the unnecessary risks. It seems unlikely, though,” he says sadly.
“What do you mean?” I ask surprised. By law, it will happen eventually, even if it isn’t with me, as tough as that is to swallow right now.
“I never even knew I wanted all that until I met you. And when you choose Henry, it will gut me,” he starts. I try to argue but he puts a finger to my lips to shush me, “I don’t know how I will ever get over you. I promise I will try to not be as careless. And I won’t run into even more danger when you choose him. I’m not that dumb. But know that even when you choose him, I will always protect you. I will always be here protecting you.”
He leans down and kisses me softly on the cheek then adds, “Thank you for taking care of me. We have to be up in a few hours. Go get some sleep, sweetheart.”
Not knowing what more to say, I know he’s probably right though this doesn’t feel anything like the end of a conversation. I should go get some sleep, but I don’t feel like leaving him. Before I turn to go, I reach up on my tippy toes and give him a quick kiss on the cheek, trying to convey my jumbled up emotions.
Back in my room, it’s almost dawn by the time I fall asleep.
But maybe, just maybe, today will be the day I finally find out what the heck is going on here.
Chapter 18
Things continue as if nothing happened the next morning. No one discusses the attack from the night before because like with everything else we have done so far, none of us really feel like we are supposed to. We head to DIA for defense classes and simulations looking exhausted and confused. Even Attie and I barely talk on the way over, not knowing what to say or how to approach what happened the night before.
A while later, I’m practicing shooting and aiming at different body parts on a target while feeling annoyed and frustrated. Someone could have died last night and they won’t even tell us who these “drifters” are? Nothing? Not a single word? Just business as usual? Our targets are flesh colored which also seems to irritate me. Do they really think this will soften us to actually shooting people?
“Why are you skipping the kill shots?” Professor Bennett asks annoyed as he was apparently watching me the last few minutes.
“Because I don’t know who I’m shooting and why I’m shooting them,” I respond, matching his annoyance
and then some.
“Take the kill shot, Ms. Scott,” he demands.
I turn to stare him down in defiance. I can see the people around us lower their guns watching our exchange. From across the room, I can see Lyncoln give me a warning look. I need to keep my cool. Professor Bennett and I have never had any disagreements before. Remembering poor Julia Collins, I’m not sure he is the professor I want to make angry either.
I glare at him a moment before I do what he asks and shoot the target in the heart, not able to shoot a target in the head after hearing Lyncoln’s story. I spin around, temper fully out, click the safety on, and hand him my gun, ready to walk away.
He doesn’t take it. “Again,” Professor Bennett commands while staring me down, stopping me from leaving. If this is some sort of test, I am most certainly about to fail because I’m tired and annoyed and not dealing with this crap another minute.
“I will when you tell me what is really going on here. Is my family in danger?” I point to the targets behind me. “Will those targets someday soon be real enemies?”
Now more people are standing around watching us though I’m trying to speak quietly. Lyncoln’s warning stare has turned into one of concern and he starts to make his way over to us. Normally those blue-brown eyes do me in and I cave, but not this time. I think of Ashton and wonder if he is even safe.
“Shoot the gun, Reagan,” Professor Bennett warns.
Really letting my temper go for the first time since arriving, I stand my ground and just stare at him in response.
“I’m sorry, did you want to go home?” Professor Bennett sneers.
I turn back around angrily, click off the safety on my gun, and shoot three rounds where the other shot was. I’m actually quite impressed with my shooting though I try not to let him see that. Although they aren’t all exactly precise, they are more so than usual. My temper must help my aim. Note to self.
I put my gun down, done with whatever this is. “At least I could protect my family there. You could be doing me a favor,” I say menacingly, then before I walk away, I turn back to him adding quietly, “How long will it take? Does someone have to die before you finally tell us what’s really going on here?”
The Culling: Book 1 (The Culling Series) Page 36
