Page 51 of Steady Stroke
Emmett couldn’t stop shaking. “I hit someone. Oh my . . . oh, Allah, no.”
“When I looked at the video the next day and put two and two together, I didn’t know what to do.” Adrian looked like hewas going to vomit, too. “You didn’t remember a thing, and I didn’t want you to find out, so I scrubbed some blue paint out of a dent in the fender, then got the dent fixed. I kept it all to myself. You were already dealing with so much. I didn’t want to add this to the pile of shit weighing you down.”
Everything Emmett knew—Adrian’s video, the timing of the party, Adrian’s reaction to Lincoln—came crashing together into an inevitable conclusion. A conclusion that fractured Emmett’s heart.
“Lincoln’s car.” The words were broken glass in Emmett’s mouth. “I sent Lincoln’s car into that telephone pole.”
Adrian’s nod shattered Emmett’s fractured heart into a million tiny pieces.
Lincoln’s evening text to Emmett went unanswered, which didn’t worry him. He was probably at Off Beat, phone locked safely away in Beatrice’s office. They’d see each other tomorrow, anyway, so he focused on replaying his and Emmett’s bedroom—and bathroom—activities over and over.
The memories turned into one hell of an erotic dream, and he woke up as he blew his load in his boxers. After a shower and clean clothes, he checked his phone. No return text from Emmett. Curious, he shot off another:Still on for today?
It took twenty minutes for a reply to ping back:Practice is still on, yes.
Cool. See you later.
Bye.
Lincoln didn’t let himself get weirded out by the clipped replies. Emmett was still getting used to embracing himself and being open, and Lincoln would be shocked as hell if Emmett didn’t resort to a few old habits. Habits such as keeping a slightdistance. Lincoln didn’t take it personally. He kept himself busy cleaning the apartment until he could leave for Off Beat and not be stupidly early.
The other businesses in the strip mall were in full swing by the time he walked there. He leaned on Off Beat’s door and waited. Cars came and went. A two-door sports car whipped into the lot and into a space directly in front of him.
The driver’s door opened and Van climbed out, scowling behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses.
“What are you doing here?” Lincoln asked.
“Filling in for Emmett, apparently.” Van jangled a set of keys. “You’re using the stage for practice, right?”
“I . . . but where’s Emmett?”
Instead of answering him, Van unlocked the front door and pulled it open. He slipped inside first and keyed a code into the security panel to the right of the door. Once Lincoln was in, Van locked the door again from the inside.
“Okay, what did you do to Emmett?” Van asked as he rounded on him. He whipped off his sunglasses, and yeah, he was pissed.
At Lincoln, for some reason. “I didn’t do anything to him. Beatrice offered to let me use the stage to practice for Unbound, get used to lights and stuff, and Emmett was supposed to help.” Genuine hurt speared him in the heart. “Why did he bail?”
“Emmett told me something similar about your plans, but then he begged me to come in today, instead. He said he had some kind of stomach bug, but that kid’s a bad liar.”
He’s avoiding me. Why? What did I do?
Nothing. Lincoln hadn’t done a single thing wrong. He thought they were in a good place when he left last night. So what—Adrian. Emmett said he’d talk to Adrian and see why the guy had it in for Lincoln. What the hell had Adrian said toEmmett that had him running scared? Lincoln didn’t have any crazy skeletons in his closet.
Van ducked a little to put them at eye level, his scowl softening. “You have no idea why he lied, do you?”
“No. Do you?”
“Nope. I do know he was hung up on you. You turn him down?”
“Hell no.” Lincoln wasn’t about to give Van a play-by-play. “No, when I last saw him we were very definitely, um, together. On the same page. In tune. Whatever.”
Van arched an eyebrow. “You guys hooked up? Good for him. I told Emmett if he didn’t hit that soon, I was going to shoot my shot.”
He blinked hard. “You’re interested in me?”
“Honey, I was interested the first time I saw you on that stage last year. But if you’re this hurt over being stood up for harpsichord practice?—”
“QChord.”
