Variable Onset

by Layla Reyne

  “Agent Warren, I’ve got Senator Kirk on the line too. Is Agent Monroe with you?”

  Carter glanced up at Lincoln, whose bright pink cheeks made him deeply regret not going with option one or two. But then Lincoln straightened his spine and cleared his throat. “I’m here, sir.”

  “What’ve you got for us?” Kirk asked.

  Lincoln propped an elbow on the table and raked a hand through his hair. “It’s been an interesting night here.”

  From there they handed off the conversation back and forth, filling Beverley and Kirk in on everything that had transpired since their last check-in, including the events at the police station. Beverley asked the same question Carter had earlier—whether they thought this was Dr. Fear or not—and they walked them through the reasons they thought not. Kirk seemed convinced, Beverley not so much, but he deferred to the experts.

  “Anything on your end?” Carter asked.

  “We’re still narrowing down the suspect pool based on your prior information,” Beverley answered.

  “We needed that vehicle information to narrow it faster,” a distressed Kirk added.

  “Ollie,” Lincoln said, “We’ll figure it out. We’re close. The records fire tonight proves it.”

  “We’ve got less than twelve hours, L, and now those police records are gone.”

  “We won’t know the full extent of the damage until the fire is out. The chief will call us. Even if the police records are gone, we still have the archives at the library.”

  “Or,” Carter said, “we can find the person who attacked us, and that person can lead us to the copycat or to Dr. Fear.”

  Lincoln was already nodding. “The café, tomorrow morning. The attacker won’t be able to hide the signs of that altercation. They’ll either be there or someone who saw them will be.”

  Another idea was forming, but Lincoln wouldn’t like it one bit. Would probably hate Carter for it, but it was the best, fastest way to a break in this case. Even if it would destroy any possibility of going back to that moment of a few minutes ago when eight years of longing had nearly been erased.

  Carter swiped the eraser over the board. “Except tomorrow is Sunday. That’s not where everyone in town will be.”

  Lincoln understood immediately, his eyes narrowing and the tips of his ears reddening with anger. “Oh, no. We’re not having this argument again.”

  “Where’s that, Agent Warren?” Beverley asked.

  Lincoln lunged for the phone, but Carter snatched it first and held it out of his reach. “The local church, and they’re down an accompanist.”

  “That’s perfect, L,” Kirk said. “You can play—”

  “Not another damn word, Ollie.”

  Their byplay didn’t matter. Beverley was sold. “Good. Report back when you know something. In the meantime, I’ll get you some backup. I’ll email you the details.”

  The line went dead, and Carter thought he might be too any second, judging by the murderous glare in his partner’s eyes.

  “You asshole,” Lincoln seethed. “You set me up.”

  Carter held the phone out to him. “Whatever it takes. Your words.”

  Lincoln snatched the device. “Except you didn’t give me a choice.” He turned on his heel and marched toward the master without a backward glance.

  Carter filled his glass with another shot of tequila and toasted to a long, dark future of wanting something—someone—he’d still never have.

  Chapter Ten

  Lincoln stepped into the church and didn’t immediately burst into flames. He supposed the near-death by fire last night must have counted for something.

  “The tips of your hair aren’t ablaze,” Carter said, as if reading his mind.

  “The amount of product in yours, you’d be first.”

  Truth be told, Carter looked like a movie star this morning, eyes bright and skin tan with a sharp suit on and his curls slicked back, ready for some red-carpet occasion. Or rather, white carpet in this case. All of which made Lincoln extra snippy. He was supposed to be pissed at Carter, not lusting after him. Which only reminded Lincoln of the private problem he’d had to deal with in the shower earlier. After a restless four hours of sleep haunted by dreams of near-kisses and where those near-misses might have led, he’d woken up hard as a rock. And while relief in the shower had solved the physical issue, it hadn’t solved the emotional one—in which he both loathed and lusted after his partner. If, as a result, he’d been a little harsh on Carter this morning about picking up all the shit he’d left strewn around the house, it couldn’t be helped.

  Carter smirked, as if he knew about the ongoing war between Lincoln’s head and dick. Lincoln lifted a hand to flip him off, and Carter muffed it before Lincoln could extend his middle finger. “Church,” he chided.

  “Fuck—”

  Lincoln was cut off by the plague of locusts descending. “Carter! Lincoln!” Susanne greeted them. “What a surprise!”

  “We didn’t expect you,” Jennifer said, “especially after last night. The whole town is talking about it.”

  “Especially after that,” Carter said, “this was the place we needed to be.”

  Lincoln squeezed his hand. Hard. Then instantly regretted it, Carter’s wince and the scratchiness of his bandaged hand reminding Lincoln of his roughed-up knuckles. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” Carter said through a grimace.

  Lincoln skated his thumb over Carter’s knuckles, apologizing with actions as well as his words, hoping together they’d be more believable. He’d been such a bitch this morning, he couldn’t blame Carter if he didn’t.

  Green eyes flickered to him, a gentleness there Lincoln didn’t deserve. Hand still in his, Carter stepped behind him and looped an arm around his front, pulling him back against his chest.

  “How are you two?” Lydia asked, joining her friends.

  “Little worse for wear,” Carter said. “But alive. Thankful for that.”

  “Do they have any idea who did this?” Susanne asked.

  “Larry’s looking into it, but if you see anyone who looks like they might have done this—” Carter flashed a bandaged hand “—be sure to let him know.”

  “Of course,” Susanne said. “Everyone will be on the lookout.”

  For the attacker or for them? Every pair of eyes in the church seemed to be on them. They needed to move this along. “Like Carter said, we’re just glad to be alive.”

  “And you’re okay too?” Jennifer asked.

  He could tell by her smile that the ask was genuine, and he returned it, as warmly as he could muster, the heat at his back helping. “Yes, thank you.”

  “No hand injuries?”

  He lifted his hands as much as Carter’s arm around him would allow. “I’m good, thanks.”

  “Excellent.” Jennifer’s smile grew wider, but then it dimmed, and she looked around them as if something was missing. “But he didn’t bring his guitar, Suz.”

  Oh, so that was why she was so concerned about his hands. Genuine, my ass. “Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I think we’ve had enough excitement and attention. We just want to blend in.”

  Carter squeezed him tighter. “Aww, come on, honey. Shouldn’t we sing His praises today? And you can play more than just the guitar.”

  He’d swing back a heel, right into Carter’s balls, if all those eyes weren’t on them still.

  “Can you play piano?” Lydia asked.

  “He can,” Carter said.

  “How—” He tried to wrestle free, to no avail. Even with a sore shoulder, Carter had a good twenty pounds on him.

  And then Carter mortifyingly began dragging him backward. “Give me just a second, ladies,” Carter said. “Let me see if I can talk him around.”

  Lincoln let Carter lead him into the lobby vestibule
. It was only right he spare the townsfolk from the blistering rebuke he was about to unload. Carter released him, and Lincoln let loose. “Talk me around?” He put a hand to Carter’s chest and shoved him back against the wall. “Swear to God, if I had my gun on me, I’d show you talked around.”

  Carter raised his hands. “Okay, apologies on that one.”

  “And for setting me up.”

  “I didn’t set you up.”

  “Bullshit.” Lincoln stepped closer, making sure Carter could clearly see his glare, could hear the fury in his voice. “How do you know I play more than guitar?”

  “Because I googled Lincoln Monroe and found articles about an amazing musical prodigy from Los Angeles. And then all those mentions dry up after you graduated from LA County High School for the Arts.”

  Because after years of tossing his guts before every show, he and his body had decided enough was enough. Just the mention now of his Fame High days was enough to stoke the stomach upset he’d been ignoring in favor of his anger. Fuck, he was going to toss his coffee-for-breakfast right here in the church. Then he’d burn for sure. He shoved Carter aside and pressed both hands and his forehead against the cold stone wall, trying to force down the rising bile and beat back the suffocating heat of impending sickness.

  “Fuck,” Carter cursed beside him. He laid a hand on the small of Lincoln’s back, then slid it up to rub over his shoulders. “I’m sorry, L, truly. I didn’t realize it was this bad. You don’t have to do this.”

  “But I should.” Lincoln turned and fell back against the wall, eyes closed, head tilted back, as he struggled to rein in his insides. “Up front, from the chancel, I’ll have a view of the entire congregation, and you can scout while I play. There’s a whole FBI team set up at the hospital waiting for us to bring them a suspect.” Beverley had texted them that morning with the contact information for the Richmond team providing support out of a closed area of the county hospital. “And if Dr. Fear is also here, it draws his attention to us more. That’s what we wanted, right?”

  “Not worth you puking onstage.”

  “It will be, if it saves Ruby.” He lowered his head and opened his eyes.

  “Back when I played baseball—”

  The non sequitur didn’t throw Lincoln as much as the choice of sport. “You played baseball?” Carter seemed built more for football.

  “Are you imagining me in tight pants, Professor?”

  “No, but now that you mention it.”

  Carter chuckled and leaned a shoulder against the wall next to Lincoln. “I wasn’t in one place long enough to play most team sports, but in high school, a coach saw me throwing a ball around with one of my foster brothers who was on the team. I was on the team a week later.”

  Carter was a foster kid. That was one explanation for the sealed record Lincoln had run into eight years ago when he’d tried to research the class menace. But that wasn’t the point, and Carter wasn’t done with his story.

  “I was a closer, the guy who—”

  “Comes in at the end,” Lincoln said. “I went to UNC. SportsCenter is a mandatory course.”

  “Great, you get the sports questions at trivia night.” Carter smirked when Lincoln’s middle finger twitched again. He sobered, though, as the memory pulled him back in. “I spent seven to eight innings of every game feeling like I was gonna throw up. Waiting to go in.”

  Not exactly the same but pretty damn close. Lincoln had heard stories of athletes experiencing something like stage fright too, especially hockey players who were predisposed to throwing up in their helmets. Or maybe that was just in The Cutting Edge. Also beside the point but his mind tended to wander when he was nervous. “How’d you make it go away?” he asked, striving to get back on track.

  “Coach told me that when I went out there I was the number on the back of my jersey. Not Carter Last-Name-of-the-Week. Not the weird foster kid. Just the pitcher, Number 3. Told the PA guy to announce it that way too.”

  Lincoln got where he was going. “So I just need to be Mr. Polk?”

  “That’s right.” He pushed off the wall and stood in front of Lincoln. “Not Lincoln Monroe, musical prodigy.” As he straightened Lincoln’s jacket, vest, and collar, the backs of his hands brushed Lincoln’s jaw, the scratch of the bandages distracting him in a good way. “You’re Professor Lincoln Polk, the new university librarian, who is also gifted at music and gifted with a smoking-hot husband.”

  “Cocky,” Lincoln said, rolling his eyes.

  Then righting them as the backs of Carter’s fingers brushed his cheek, intentionally. “There he is.”

  “Did you keep playing?” Lincoln asked, genuinely curious, and genuinely trying not to think about where Carter’s touch and this closeness between them could lead, in a fucking church.

  All those thoughts died with the death of Carter’s smile. He dropped his hand and stepped back, out of Lincoln’s space. “I was moved before the end of the season. Foster brother didn’t like that I took his spot on the team.”

  Lincoln’s chest ached, imagining a teen Carter conquering a fear, only to be uprooted for that success. He pushed off the wall. “Carter—”

  Carter cut him off with an extended hand. “Ready, Mr. Polk?” The smile wasn’t exactly forced, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either. It was a cover.

  Which was what Lincoln needed to sink into, for Ruby’s sake. And for Carter’s. He slid his hand into his partner’s, squeezing gently. “Ready, Mr. Polk.”

  Ready only lasted the ten minutes it took the minister to call the congregation to order and introduce him.

  “Good luck!” Susanne said, looking the part of proud schemer.

  Jennifer’s “I can’t wait to hear you play” was a tad more genuine but Lincoln has having a hard time being generous when his heart wanted to beat out of his chest. Or was that his stomach trying to escape?

  Carter stood and stepped out of their row into the side aisle. Lincoln followed, and nearly tripped over his own feet. Carter’s hand drifted over his lower back, steadying him. “You got this, Professor.” And steadying him further.

  Professor Polk, he continued to repeat to himself with every step closer to the piano positioned on the raised chancel, in front of the choir and beside the waiting soloist and choir director, across the stage from the minister’s pulpit. He managed the few stage stairs without incident and exchanged quick introductions with the soloist and choir director. “What are we playing?” He purposely hadn’t looked at the program. Better to be in the moment than worrying about the notes he’d potentially fuck up.

  “‘How Great Thou Art,’ to start,” the soloist said.

  “Wendy usually does the first verse a cappella,” the choir director said. “And then the piano and we come in at the chorus.”

  Lincoln let out a held breath. That he could do, with his eyes closed, if need be. “I’ll give you a note to start?”

  “Perfect,” Wendy said with a warm smile.

  He carried that warmth with him to the bench, sitting behind the piano. Recalled Carter’s big warm hand at his lower back as he adjusted his sweater and collar. Felt the warmth of his stare as he spread his fingers over the keys. The ivories, and his insides, didn’t feel so cold.

  * * *

  Carter liked to think it was his words and his touch that kept Lincoln upright on his way to the front of the church. For this part, Carter remained in the side aisle, pretending to admire his husband who spoke briefly with the soloist and choir director. It wasn’t totally an act—he was admiring Lincoln in his pressed slacks, his starched collared shirt, the rainbow argyle vest and sport coat he wore over it—but Carter was also observing the choir that stood behind him and the congregation that filled the pews. The entire town really was here, and Carter didn’t spot a bruised face or roughed-up hands on anyone. Granted, the former could be covered with makeup, the lat
ter with gloves or a scarf, but no one struck Carter as suspicious.

  A note sounded up front, and Carter whipped his gaze back around. Lincoln was seated behind the piano, sans sheet music. He straightened his back, tested the pedals with his feet, and spread his fingers over the keys.

  The soloist sang the first verse of “How Great Thou Art” a cappella and at the chorus, the choir joined her. As did Lincoln. Carter had to lean against the nearest pole, his knees going embarrassingly liquid. He’d been with enough church-going foster families to know the basics. This hymn was one of those, except Lincoln wasn’t playing just the basic notes. Those were there, but so was a whole layer underneath them, creating a sound that was full, bright, and beautiful. Breathtaking. As was the man playing, his pale cheeks flushed and his fingers flying across the keys.

  The magic continued through the next verse and into another chorus, until Lincoln fumbled a note. He recovered so quickly Carter didn’t think anyone else noticed, but Carter heard it. Lincoln’s gaze cut to him, then over his shoulder, toward the back corner of the church. Not wanting to draw attention, Carter waited a beat before glancing over his shoulder. The door behind him was sliding closed, a shadow disappearing into the dark of the antechamber. While Lincoln continued to play and distract the congregation, Carter inched toward the door.

  He glanced at the knob. Fibers were caught in the shank, the same sort of material as the bandages around Carter’s hands. Carter twisted the knob and opened the door, slipping into the dark. As the door closed behind him, Lincoln’s music quieted, and footsteps became audible. Then a door opened, and a shaft of light cut across the room. A person stood over the threshold, the same size and height as the man Carter had exchanged blows with last night.

  The bandages on his hands confirmed it.

  “Stop right there!” Carter shouted.

  The assailant kicked the door open wider, letting in more light, and he turned, hands raised. They shook, as did his voice. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened.” His face was pale and sweat poured from his temples, cutting through the concealer that hid the bruises Carter had left on his face. “I didn’t have a choice. I don’t know—I have to go.”