Sated in Ink

by Carrie Ann Ryan

“Well, I’m a computational chemist,” Ethan said, saying it quickly as if he were afraid that Holland would judge.

  “What type of computation? Like in industry, or do you do research with a university?”

  Ethan’s brow rose, and Holland just grinned, not surprised in the least at the reaction.

  “One of my good friends was a chemistry major in college while I got my business degree. We met in one of our math classes. I don’t remember the type anymore because it was one of those statistics and theoretical mixed hybrid things where they were trying to give less credits for double the amount of material or something like that.”

  Ethan nodded, smiling full-out, an expression that did wonderful things for his eyes. “Well, I work for industry, not so much in the university sphere. So, while I do write papers, I don’t have to teach.”

  “Thank God,” Lincoln muttered, and Ethan mock-glared.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You have no patience for teaching.”

  “I do.”

  “Remember that time you tried to teach your sister how to work her new Fire Stick?”

  “She didn’t understand it, and I didn’t know why. She knows how to use her computer, knows how to use the internet. I just didn’t understand why I had to be the one to show her how to use a little thing that you plug into the back of a TV.”

  Lincoln looked at Holland, and she held back a smile.

  “And that is why he would not be a good teacher.”

  “Fuck you,” Ethan said and then looked over at Holland, blushing. “Sorry.”

  “You’re welcome to curse all you want. I promise. I’m not going to get offended. I usually have a mouth like a sailor, but I’m having a really weird day.”

  The guys looked at her, expecting her to say something else, but she didn’t. She would wait until the last moment if she could. Or not at all. It wasn’t as if she really knew how to explain what had happened.

  “Well, I paint,” Lincoln said, filling the void of silence.

  Holland grinned. “Really? What kind?”

  “Right now, I’ve been working with mostly oils. But I’ve done some acrylics and mixed media, as well. I usually do some sketching and charcoal too, when I’m working on drafts. But right now, it’s mostly oil.”

  “He’s pretty good at it, too,” Ethan said. Lincoln gave him a look that she couldn’t read. Was Ethan being sarcastic? Or maybe Holland was supposed to know who Lincoln was. After all, she liked art, knew art, but she couldn’t remember every artist’s name. Maybe if she hadn’t had so much wine earlier, she’d be a little bit better than this.

  “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But do you want to talk about what happened? Why you’re sitting here in your wedding dress,” Ethan asked, and Lincoln sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  And because that made her smile, because Ethan looked so earnest in his desire to help, Holland figured…why not? It wasn’t like the rest of the people in her world wouldn’t find out soon. After all, they had been at the wedding that morning.

  “As I said, I was supposed to get married today. But, instead, I walked in on my maid of honor, also known as my little sister, going down on my future husband.”

  Both guys just stared at her, their eyes wide, mouths agape.

  “I’ve never seen blush and bashful in that position before, and I never want to see it again.”

  Both guys grinned at her really lame movie joke, but she couldn’t help it, she just wanted someone to laugh. It was either that or break down crying.

  “You know, Lincoln and I were talking about Julia Roberts’ films before we saw you,” Ethan said.

  “Steel Magnolias is a heart ripper. But I didn’t choose my colors because of that. My mom did, actually.” Holland shook her head. “I really didn’t have a lot to do with this wedding. It was all what everyone else wanted. I was just happy to be married, looking forward to spending the rest of my life with Dustin. But that’s not happening. It can’t. He’s a cheater. As is my sister. Honestly, I don’t know what I’m going to do next. So, excuse me while I try not to cry, and maybe find more wine or something. Because if I drink it all away, perhaps I’ll wake up from this horrible nightmare, and I’ll be married, and everything will be fine.” Holland gratefully took a napkin from Ethan and wiped her tears. “I know I look ridiculous. I don’t know why I ran out of the place in my wedding dress. I grabbed my small bag. Not even my big one. So, I don’t even have my phone. Or anything, really.”

  “What can we do?” Lincoln asked. Holland looked up.

  “What?”

  “What can we do? What do you need from us?”

  “I don’t need anything from you guys. I don’t even know you. You let me speak and have some coffee. And I’m grateful for that. I have a little cash. Like a five or something that was in my small bag.”

  “I’m pretty sure we can pay for your coffee,” Ethan said dryly. “Now, you may not know me, but my family and I—and that includes Lincoln over here since he’s my best friend—we don’t just not help people.

  “Oh.” What else could she say? But she did get some information out of what he’d said, even with the crazy double negative. They were best friends. That was good to know. At least for her own mental catalog. She really needed a nap or something. She was losing her mind.

  “Now, do you have a plan?” Lincoln asked.

  Holland shook her head. “I just ran. I saw the smirk on my sister’s face, and I knew that wasn’t the first time it’d happened. And it probably wouldn’t be the last. I couldn’t marry him. My mother screamed at me, called me horrible names and told me I had to get back there, even though she saw exactly what I did. After that, I ran and left everything behind.”

  “Okay, then. If you don’t have a plan, we’ll find a new one,” Lincoln said. He gave her a tight nod, then looked over at Ethan. “Let’s call your brother and see if he still has that condo available.”

  “Condo?” She was so lost, and these guys talked as if they had a plan. She didn’t even know the meaning of the word at the moment, and that was so unlike her.

  “You mentioned that you didn’t have anywhere to go,” Ethan said, pulling out his phone. “My brother has a few properties around. I’m sure you can stay the night at one of them. That way, you don’t have to stay at one of our places and feel weird or even more like we’re serial killers trying to lure you into our webs.”

  Holland snorted, feeling as if she were twenty steps behind again. “Well, I didn’t really think that you guys were serial killers, but it would be par for the course after my day.”

  “We’re not serial killers. However, you know that probably doesn’t mean anything coming out of a serial killer’s mouth.” Lincoln’s lips quirked as he said it, but she didn’t relax. “So, you’ll at least have a place to stay tonight as long as Ethan can arrange it. And if not one of those places, we’ll find you somewhere safe to sleep. Now, why don’t you tell me where you were getting married, and we’ll go get your stuff.”

  Holland just sat there, stunned. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because you need help,” Ethan said, looking down at his phone and not at her. “And I’ve always wanted to save a princess in a white dress.”

  “You have not,” Lincoln said. “Your jokes are getting worse.”

  “They really are. Sorry.”

  Holland just looked between the two of them, confused. “I don’t get it.”

  “You don’t have to get it. And you don’t have to be alone. We’ll help you figure this out.”

  “But how can I ever repay you for any of this?”

  “You don’t have to,” Ethan said. “Or I don’t know, pay it forward or something. Or let us know what happens later.” Ethan just shrugged. “You might not know the Montgomerys, but once you’re in, it’s really hard to get out,” Ethan said with a wink. Holland frowned.

  “If you haven’t guessed, the Montgomerys are his very large family,” Lincoln sai
d dryly. “This guy over here sometimes forgets that not everybody knows about them.”

  “Oh.” She was still confused.

  “Okay, we have a plan. You’ll have a place to stay, at least for the night. We’ll get your things, and you can take some time to figure out what to do. And if you need to talk it out, we’re here. I promise we won’t punch your ex in the face. Or in the dick,” Lincoln said, and Holland burst out laughing. She had thought Ethan was the one with the sense of humor, and Lincoln a little more stoic. But, apparently, they each had layers.

  “I don’t really know what I’m going to do, though. About anything.”

  “You don’t need to make any decisions right now. But if you want to get out of that wedding dress and into something comfortable, we can figure it out. You don’t have to go it alone. That, I can promise you.”

  She looked between them, still confused. But she knew that maybe, just maybe, they were right. Perhaps she didn’t have to do this alone.

  Later, sitting in the back of Lincoln’s SUV as he drove the three of them towards the church, she had to wonder if she was making a mistake.

  What was she going to do without Dustin?

  He was supposed to be her future, her everything. But she couldn’t think about that.

  Because it wasn’t just the cheating. It was the look. Not just her sister’s smirk, but the look on Dustin’s face, too. As if he didn’t care about her, didn’t care about anything.

  As if she weren’t worth it. Wasn’t worth anything.

  She hated that feeling. She didn’t want to feel that way, didn’t want to wonder if he would cheat again or if he was thinking about her sister when he slid inside her. How long had it been happening? And how long had she been the dupe, the one he planned to marry because everyone thought it was expected?

  And how was she supposed to face her sister?

  The woman who always wanted everything Holland had, who was always jealous, even though Holland never understood why. She didn’t understand her little sister, never had. And now, she knew she never would.

  As they pulled into the church parking lot, Holland let out a relieved breath, thankful that she didn’t recognize any of the cars.

  She didn’t know what would happen next.

  But, as she’d thought earlier, and as she looked between Ethan and Lincoln, maybe she didn’t have to do it alone.

  Then she looked down at her wedding dress and remembered. She had to do this alone. She was going to be alone now.

  She had lost her chance at her happily ever after. As that thought settled in, tears slid from her eyes and ran down her cheeks. And she broke.

  She was just so tired.

  So hurt.

  And angry.

  All of it burst like a dam, and her cries came out in hiccupping sobs.

  The SUV door opened, and Ethan slid in beside her, holding her in his arms as Lincoln shifted in his seat to reach back and put his hand on her knee, giving it a squeeze through her dress.

  Though she knew they were there, that this would matter to her later, right then it couldn’t. It couldn’t matter that they were trying to help the crazy lady in her wedding dress. Because if she let it matter, then she’d have to feel beyond the icy layer she’d tried to wrap herself in.

  She had lost everything that day. It was hard to find hope in the darkness.

  And she hated herself. Hated that she’d even had hope to begin with before she walked in on her sister and her fiancé.

  She should’ve known from her experiences long ago that having hope meant it would be a harder fall when everything got ripped away.

  She should’ve learned. But she hadn’t.

  Once broken, shame on them.

  Twice shattered, shame on her.

  Again.

  Chapter 3

  A few months later

  Lincoln McClard loved art. He loved the fact that no matter what an artist did, sometimes, it didn’t portray exactly what was on their mind. Interpretation was up to the viewer, not the artists themselves.

  Artists could put everything into a piece: their heart, their soul…their literal blood, sweat, and tears.

  But, in the end, it was those who were also a part of the art, the viewer, and the observer, that stated what art was—at least, to them.

  But no matter what, the artist was the one that pressed that initial stamp ingenious, that initial stroke of paint or other media. It was their job to do their best to convey what they needed the world to know. But they also needed to know that, sometimes, that wasn’t what happened in the end.

  And Lincoln told himself that often. Because, dear God, some days, he just really hated his fucking job.

  Since when had art become so hard for him?

  He was creative. It had practically been stamped on his forehead by his parents, teachers, friends, mentors, and classmates.

  Ever since he was little with his macaroni necklaces and art projects. Even before they did it in art class itself, he had known he wanted to create.

  Oh, he had done pretty poorly at first. Had spent years learning his craft and separating the good from the bad. Yet now, he felt like he was right back in that spot where it was macaroni and no prospects.

  But, no matter what, he always did his best. Or at least he thought he did.

  He had learned how to paint and draw, had used different media over time, had practiced with clay and kilns and other earth materials. He’d tried as much as he could, attempting to find what worked for him.

  He’d even had a go at glassblowing and sculpting, using metal and casts and bronze.

  He’d worked with almost everything he could get his hands on and knew he would keep experimenting with different things as time went on.

  But, at the moment, he had a commission that he actually had to get done, and nothing was coming to him. Not a single damn thing.

  The only thing the man who’d ordered this piece had said, was that he wanted gray in it. He’d said it didn’t have to be entirely gray—it could be rainbow-colored for all he cared. As long as there was gray to match his wife’s eyes.

  And Lincoln loved that idea. He loved that it would be different. At least, in his mind. Something perfect just for that man and his wife, even if it was going to a huge conglomerate. Some of his art friends weren’t fans of working for ‘the man’ or any form of corporations.

  He made art for money, and he was just fine with that. He didn’t believe in the starving-artists’ deal. The idea that you could only create if you were doing it for the art itself and not to actually put food in your mouth and a roof over your head.

  That was like saying someone who worked in business or owned their own company couldn’t make their own money. But, no, no one ever thought that. In that, as long as they did the work, they were allowed to make money. But an artist had to starve? No, thank you.

  Lincoln growled, threw his paintbrush onto his table, and put his head in his hands.

  Thankfully, there hadn’t actually been paint on his brush, so he hadn’t made a mess.

  Because putting paint on the brush meant he had to actually know what the fuck he was doing.

  But, like always lately it seemed, he had no idea.

  And now, he was having a diatribe in his head when it came to what art was and where his place in the art world should be.

  Honestly, he didn’t know what art was anymore.

  He had been art-blocked. Cock-blocked, art-blocked, all of it. And he knew exactly whose fault it was. And it wasn’t him.

  Even though it was irrational, and he knew that it was probably all his own damn fault, he knew exactly who he blamed.

  Ethan fucking Montgomery. His best friend and the bane of his existence.

  Just because he had loved the man for as long as he could remember didn’t mean that anything was ever going to happen between them. No, nothing was going to happen with Ethan Montgomery. Why? Because Lincoln had long ago been put in the friend-zone.

  Lin
coln had watched Ethan go through men and women over time. He knew that Ethan was bad at dating—he spent way too much time at work and was really terrible at the small details needed for establishing new relationships.

  And that was fine for some people. Lincoln would have liked it. But that would only matter if Ethan actually paid attention to Lincoln beyond just being best friends.

  Lincoln was spending his time thinking about Ethan and how he missed him. The fact that he had seen him just the day prior and already missed his face meant that he’d gone off the deep end. And now Lincoln was wondering what he was doing while being a lovesick fool over a man who was never going to think of him in that way.

  And if he let himself imagine that anything could ever happen…he might just throw up. Because he couldn’t. Ethan was such a big part of his life, the idea of doing anything to mess up what they had, made him want to break out in a cold sweat.

  Lincoln didn’t have a second option. He didn’t have a backup plan when it came to friends and futures.

  Ethan was it.

  Lincoln had a cousin he liked, parents he loved even though they lived across the country, and that was it.

  Those three people. And his best friend.

  And the Montgomerys since, through his best friend, they had practically adopted him.

  So, having lustful thoughts about Ethan probably wasn’t the best idea.

  Even though Ethan’s mom probably would have been happy in a sense because that would mean marriage, maybe even babies, and she’d be able to be a grandmother.

  But that wasn’t for Lincoln.

  And the sooner he got those thoughts out of his head, the better.

  It didn’t help that every time he thought of Ethan, he got hard and couldn’t think of anything else. So, he would just push all of that out of his mind and try to get to work.

  He glared at his canvas.

  No, staring and praying wasn’t going to work. Nothing worked.

  Lincoln stood from his seat, rolled his shoulders back, and was just deciding whether he should go for another jog—or maybe go visit Ethan since he knew his friend had the day off—when the door opened, the sound of keys hitting his ears a moment later.