I chew on my bottom lip and wish I could hear him ask that question. You can never tell someone’s inflection in text messages, and I want to know if that was a sad “you did?” or a sly “you did?”
After Deacon left last night—we parted with a quick hug and a wave—I went to my room, thankful Scarlett was done in the bathroom, and got ready for bed. Lincoln was on my mind the entire time. I couldn’t forget the dejected look on his face during dinner. I haven’t known him very long, but I do know he wasn’t himself once the guys showed up. I almost wished I had taken him up to my room to talk privately, asked him if everything was okay, let him press his fingers into my scalp, massage it some more.
Choosing my words carefully, I type him back.
Indie: I did. I didn’t want to be rude. And he was cool.
Lincoln: Deacon is awesome. A great guy.
Indie: I got that last night. Just like Rusty.
Lincoln: Yeah.
I stare at my phone, wondering how I respond to that when the dots appear, indicating he’s texting again.
Lincoln: What are you doing right now?
Indie: Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince my muscles to stop aching.
Lincoln: Lying in bed? If I recall correctly, that would make you naked, right?
Indie: Of course you remember that.
Lincoln: My memory is a steel trap, so don’t say something unless you want me to remember it.
Indie: Good to know and yes, if you must know, I am naked.
Lincoln: So am I, which means we’re naked together. This friendship just leveled up.
Indie: What’s your excuse for being naked?
Lincoln: *shrugs* playing with my ding-dong.
A loud laugh bursts out of me, and I quickly cover my mouth.
Indie: LOL. Why do I envision you just tapping the tip of your dick for the fun of it?
Lincoln: Because you’re right. After I did some jumping jacks in front of a floor-length mirror to watch the old cock bounce up and down, I took it to the sheets to see if I could get aroused just from flicking my dick.
Indie: And the verdict?
Lincoln: Turns out any kind of stimulation works.
Indie: It’s because guys are horndogs.
Lincoln: ^^Facts. So, you’re sore?
Indie: Very. And before you get any smart ideas, no, you can’t come over and massage me.
Lincoln: Ew, I would never. Gross. The thought of touching your naked body makes me dry heave. So much puke. All the puke. I would rather scrape a rusty fork over my scrotum than be forced to touch your naked boddess.
Indie: How flattering.
Lincoln: I just . . . oh fuck, I just threw up in my mouth thinking about it.
Indie: You done?
Lincoln: Sorry, just ran to the bathroom. False alarm. I’m good now.
Indie: Glad to know where you stand.
Lincoln: Got to keep it real, Mayhem. But if you’re not doing anything and you’re sore, I have an idea.
Indie: Does it involve me having to put clothes on?
Lincoln: I mean . . . you don’t have to. That’s your right, but I think nudity is frowned upon in public.
Indie: Ughhhh, you want to do something in public?
Lincoln: It will be worth it, and you know just as well as I do the worst thing you can do for your body right now is lie around doing nothing. You need to stretch out your limbs and get them moving.
Indie: I’m not going for a run.
Lincoln: Neither am I. Meet me outside your place in ten minutes.
Indie: This better be worth it, Castle.
Lincoln: It will be, I promise.
It takes me five minutes to roll out of bed, so when I open my front door to see Lincoln sitting in his Jeep, the canvas cap taken off, I’m not surprised. I’m grateful there are only three steps as I hobble down.
Keeping it casual, I slipped on a pair of leggings and a deep purple tank top. I didn’t bother with any makeup, only a little sunscreen for my already burnt cheeks, and I put my hair up in a messy bun rather than a ponytail.
Lincoln leans over the center console and opens the door for me, holding his hand out and helping me in. Normally, I would have scoffed at the help, but good God, my legs hurt so bad.
“You look like you’re in pain.”
I buckle up and let out a long sigh. “I am.”
He reaches into the cup holder and says, “This is for you. I put in some of my electrolyte tablets that help me the day after a rough workout. It’s strawberry lemonade flavor. Thought that was a safe bet.”
“That’s thoughtful.” It’s nice too. He’s nice. But different nice to Deacon.
He winks and starts his Jeep. “What are friends for?”
When he takes off and pulls onto the road, I ask, “So, any hints where we’re going?”
“Nowhere super special, but thought some fresh air and a walk would help you.”
The breeze filters past me, the open-top Jeep increasing the circulation and the excitement racing through my veins. I didn’t realize how much I needed fresh air until now.
We drive in peace, letting the rock music on the radio fill the silence between us as I stare out the windshield, sipping on my drink. I glance down occasionally to Lincoln’s hand gripping the gear shift, taking in how he expertly shifts. It’s mesmerizing to see his masculine hand hold the gear shift tightly, his forearm rippling when he moves. It almost feels erotic, and I avert my eyes before my mind starts getting carried away.
When we pull up to a parking spot along the boardwalk, I have an idea why he’s brought me here, and I couldn’t be happier.
It’s a beautiful day out. Seventy-five, sunny, with just enough breeze off Lake Michigan that it’s not too cold and not too hot. Sublime.
When he shuts off the engine, he turns toward me. “Want to go for a walk?”
“Sounds like a great idea.”
“Perfect.” He unbuckles himself and instead of opening his door, he pulls himself up by the crossbar and goes through the window, then comes to my side and opens my door. When I give him a questioning look, he shrugs. “Was raised by two moms. It’s habit.” And I don’t mind that at all. Chivalry is not dead.
We both have a water bottle in hand as we join the boardwalk trail that runs along the lake. For a Sunday, the trail isn’t busy at all. A few bikers, some jogging moms with their strollers, but other than that, it’s pretty clear, providing some privacy.
I notice that Lincoln isn’t wearing a single piece of Brentwood baseball clothing, but has on all black with a plain black hat, backwards, and black Ray-Bans covering his eyes. Makes me wonder, does he get recognized often?
If you’re in a three-mile radius of Brentwood, you’ll see his face on a banner somewhere. What would it be like to have to deal with that, especially since it’s just college? It’s one thing when you’re a pro—comes with the territory—but college? Some of these kids are still trying to figure out their skin-care routine, let alone learning how to talk to the press and diehard fans. He’s fairly level-headed. Is that innate or trained?
“Are you incognito?”
“Is it obvious?” he asks with a smile.
“I think to someone else, no, you’re just a regular guy on a walk, but to me, it looks like you’re trying to hide.”
“Just didn’t want to run into anyone today. I honestly don’t mind talking to patrons and fans outside of campus, but today I just wanted some time alone . . . with you.”