Chapter Nine
We drove to Lincoln's flat in silence, the low-throated growl of my Audi's engine the only accompaniment to our breathing. I parked at the same spot I had the night before, pulled on the hand brake, and started to open my door.
Casey's hand circled my wrist. "Wait. What are you going to say to him?"
"After I apologize for fucking his wife, you mean?"
She recoiled as if I'd slapped her.
I honestly didn't know what I was going to say to Lincoln Davies. In fact, there seemed a better than average chance that I'd punch him first and say something later.
What the hell was he up to? Last night—or this morning, depending how one looked at it—he'd acted as if Casey's refusal to accept my proposal had been as much a surprise to him as it had to me. Now I knew that couldn't be true.
Why was he jerking me—us—around?
"Do you want to know what's going on here or don't you?"
I asked Casey, roughly yanking away my wrist. I didn't like the way her touch still made me feel soft and warm inside.
She sighed. "Yeah, I do."
I got out of the car, and she walked beside me up the path to the lobby of Lincoln's low-rise brick building. I'd never been inside his apartment before, but Casey obviously had. She pressed his call button without even looking at the directory first, and a small, acrid fire started burning again in my chest.
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She said it had been over between them for years, that it had been a foolish, rebellious infatuation that passed quickly, but I wasn't sure I believed her. I'd never nursed any jealousy toward Lincoln before Casey and I broke up—and it wouldn't have occurred to me to be jealous of him afterward if I hadn't started seeing her everywhere on TV and in the papers making cow eyes at him. And now that I knew they'd had a thing for one another once ... well, there was nothing to say the past was really past, except to take Casey's word for it.
And how could I do that?
"Yo." Lincoln's voice crackled across the speaker, which was probably almost as old as the near turn-of-the-century building.
"Linc, it's Casey." She glanced at me. "And Matthew."
"'Bout time. Come on up."
Casey and I raised our eyebrows at each other as a buzz signaled the unlocking of the lobby door. We climbed two flights of stairs, arriving on the third floor landing to find Lincoln leaning against his doorframe, arms crossed over his chest and hands resting on his sculpted biceps, casually dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt.
I hated him on sight.
"So, I see you finally told him," Lincoln said to Casey as he stepped aside to allow us into his apartment.
"She didn't tell me," I growled. "I had to find out from the couple who sat next to us at breakfast."
Lincoln arched an eyebrow at Casey. "You promised you were going to tell him."
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"I was. I just didn't get the chance before we saw this."
She unfolded the newspaper to display the damning headline.
Lincoln's eyes widened. Snatching the paper from her, he skimmed the article, his expression reflecting the same disbelief I'd felt when I'd seen it for the first time.
"Jesus." He sank onto the beige couch in the living room.
"How did your father find out?"
"That's what we came to ask you," she said.
Lincoln dropped the paper and held up his hands. "Hey, I had nothing to do with it. Last night, Casey was my first and last call. And I told her if you agreed to help with the bail, she had to tell you everything. Which now I'm not sure she would have done if it hadn't been for this." He picked up the paper and shook it for emphasis.
"I would have," Casey said defensively. "I was working up to it." She gave me a pleading look. "I always wanted to tell you, Matty. I just didn't know how."
I nodded, but secretly rolled my eyes. I was sure that was true. I was equally sure it didn't matter. If she couldn't bring herself to tell me something as important as this, what else would she hide from me? How could I ever trust her?
It wasn't as if this was a one-off event, either. After all, she also hadn't told her father—
The thought of her father brought me back to the issue that was the reason we'd come here in the first place. "So, how did your father find out? If you didn't tell him, and Lincoln didn't tell him..."
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I let the observation hang there, waiting for one of them to admit to having spilled the beans. It had to be one of them—
didn't it?
They looked at each other as if each expected the other to fess up, then back at me.
Casey shook her head. "I don't know."
"And neither do I," Lincoln said. "But..." he added, slowly coming to his feet.
I looked at him sharply. "But what?"
"When they booked me, they wanted an emergency contact. I gave them Casey's name and number, and when they asked, I told them she was my wife."
Casey gave a little gasp of horror. "You did what?"
Lincoln shrugged. "What else was I going to say? Lying to the police is a crime. I hadn't committed one at that point, and I didn't want to start then."
"You could have chosen someone else as your emergency contact."
"Oh? Who? Your father? Matt here, who I haven't talked to in months? One of the kids from the center?"
Casey expelled a sigh. "You really need to get a life."
"I'm trying," Lincoln snapped. "Why do you think I made you go to Matt? It's past time. I want to stop pretending. And I want a divorce so I can get on with my life. But as long as you refuse to admit we're even married—"
"Look," I interrupted, feeling oddly like an intruder on this argument despite its obvious pertinence to me, "this is all very well and good, but I still want to know how Casey's father found out you'd been arrested early enough last night 57
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to get that article in this morning's paper?" An ugly suspicion trickled down my spine, one I didn't want to give voice to, but one that seemed too obvious to ignore.
Lincoln's eyes widened with dawning comprehension. "He would have had to have known before I called Casey."
I nodded. "Maybe even before you were arrested."
His dark complexion turned ashen. "Shit."
Casey looked from Lincoln to me, her eyes narrowing.
"Wait a minute. What are you guys trying to say?"
I glanced at Lincoln and nodded. He should be the one to tell her what we were both thinking. If I voiced my suspicions, she'd think it was just my well-documented dislike of her father talking. But if Lincoln, who had always been Franklin's ally, said it...
He looked at Casey, his mouth thinning into pained line. "I didn't call your father. You didn't call your father. But someone did."
She rolled her eyes. "Duh. But why would that mean my father knew something before you were arrested?"
"Because there'd be no reason for anyone to contact him about Lincoln's arrest unless he asked them to," I interjected, impatient to cut to the chase. I could see that Lincoln would keep beating around the bush in an effort to spare Casey's feelings, not to mention avoiding the admission that his supposed friend and supporter had put him in legal jeopardy purely for political gain. "And the only reason he would have done that was if he knew beforehand that Lincoln was going to be arrested. If he arranged it."
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"No, I don't believe it. Won't believe it." She looked from me to Lincoln. "You don't believe that, do you?"
"I don't want to, but it's the best explanation for what's happened." L
incoln sighed and scrubbed his face with one hand as though his head ached. "When they pulled me over, the cops found the package with the coke inside of three minutes. It was up under the bumper, which isn't exactly the first place they'd normally look. They had to know it was there, know what they were looking for." He walked over to the counter that separated the apartment's living room from its kitchen and slammed his palms on it. "Your father's re-election campaign is based on righting the systemic wrongs against black people in this city." He whirled back around, his features taut with anger. "What better way to make his point that nothing's changed than to get someone like me arrested?
Finding out you and I are married and outing that information was just an unexpected bonus."
Casey shook her head. "There has to be some other explanation. My father would never do something like that.
He's not that manipulative, that mean."
"And yet you hid your marriage from him for ten years because you were afraid of his reaction." I snorted. "Yeah, you don't think he's manipulative or mean."
"That's different. You're saying he'd do something immoral and illegal just to further his political career. And I'm telling you both, he wouldn't."
Ignoring the heated emotions raging in my chest—anger, disappointment, betrayal—I shrugged. She'd always put her father up on a pedestal. Nothing was going to change that.
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"Whatever happened, it's between you and Lincoln and your father, not me. Although," I added, glancing at Lincoln,
"I would like the lien against my house released as soon as you can get around to it."
Lincoln nodded. "Consider it done."
"I'll be on my way, then," I said.
"What?" Casey and Lincoln asked the question simultaneously.
"This isn't my problem. It's yours. I'm just a third wheel." I strode to the door and pulled it open. "I hope you'll be very happy—together or apart. Either way, it's none of my damned business. Never has been and never will be."
With that, I walked out, shutting the door—and my heart—
behind me.
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Chapter Ten
"What's eating you?" My twin brother, Mark, dropped into the chair beside me at our usual Thursday night table at O'Malley's. "Didn't get laid last Friday like you hoped?"
I cursed under my breath. A lot of people thought having a twin—especially an identical twin—would be great. That a person with a twin was never alone. And it was true. All except the great part. There were times when a man wanted to be alone.
"Who says anything's eating me?" I snapped.
Mark pointed to the two empty pints on the table, then at the nearly drained one in my hand. "Mr. Harp is pretty talkative."
I grimaced and set down the glass I'd been sipping—no, gulping—for the past five minutes.
It had been five days, four hours, and eighteen minutes since I'd left Casey with her husband. Just thinking the word still chewed an acidic hole in my stomach.
Since then, Casey had called me more than twenty times.
Twenty-three to be exact, not that I was counting. I never answered her calls. Never returned them. But I had listened to each and every one at least a dozen times. Not that I was counting.
The one in which she explained that it was her dad's campaign manager who'd set Lincoln up without her father's knowledge. I was pretty sure he was just the one who was taking the fall, but whatever. The one in which she told me 61
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her father had accepted her decision to divorce Lincoln. The one in which she begged me to call her back, even if it was just to tell her it was over. And the one in which she tearfully said she'd always love me, but she understood if I couldn't forgive her.
The thing was, I did forgive her. I understood why she'd done what she'd done—or hadn't done. What I couldn't see how to do was trust her. And if I couldn't trust her, I didn't see how we could ever be together.
Mark signaled to the waitress, who nodded. "Christ, you look like crap. Want to talk about it?"
"Talk about what?" Our younger brother, John, pulled out the chair next to Mark and sat down.
"Nothing," I said sourly. "Mark is imagining things."
Mark's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "The hell I am."
"You look like crap," John observed, leaning back in his chair as if he hadn't a care in the world.
He probably hadn't. The way his love life always seemed to proceed without any complications almost made me wish I was gay, too. Unfortunately, I liked tits and pussy a little too much to consider playing for the other team, even if it meant I didn't have to ponder the complexities of the feminine mind and what the hell went on in it.
"So I've been told." I glared at him and polished off the last of my beer just as Luke and his girlfriend, Lisa, joined us.
Lisa was the only woman who'd ever been allowed to join our regular get-togethers. Originally a friend of John's, she and Luke had been an item for almost four months, and it seemed downright serious. For the first time, I thought there 62
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was a chance my older brother, who'd never met a commitment he didn't hate, might actually settle down and get married.
His obvious contentment as he draped his arm over Lisa's shoulders and drew her toward him rubbed like rock salt in a raw wound. He narrowed his eyes on me. "You look like—"
"Crap. I know."
"I was going to say shit, but same difference."
The waitress arrived with a round of drinks for everyone except me—Mark's whiskey, John's Bass Ale, Luke's Guinness, Lisa's glass of red wine. After picking up the three pints I'd emptied and placing them on the tray, she asked, "You want another?" Her dubious tone indicated that she didn't think I should say yes.
"Bring him another. I'll drive him home," Mark said.
"The hell you will," I slurred. Okay, so I was a little pissed in the Irish sense of the word. But only just a little. In another hour, I'd be fine.
"The hell I won't." Mark smiled his most charming, reassuring smile. "He's not usually a belligerent drunk."
"He isn't usually a drunk," John said as the waitress nodded and returned to the bar. "I haven't seen him like this since—"
"He broke up with Casey," Luke finished when John trailed off.
Mark looked at me with sharp, blue eyes. "You found out she married that guy she's been dating, didn't you?"
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I groaned, but there was no way I could deny the obvious.
It had been splashed across the front page of the paper.
"Yeah," I sighed.
"I thought you were over her," Luke said. "Didn't you have a hot date Friday night?"
"I did." I didn't elaborate.
The waitress appeared and set my fourth Harp in front of me. Her expression was not approving.
"No repeat performance, then?" John asked.
I shook my head and raised my glass to my lips. This was not territory I wanted to explore, even with my brothers.
They didn't need to know what I'd been through this week.
And I didn't want them to think badly of Casey. She might have committed a lie of omission, but she didn't deserve their disdain.
Fuck it all, I still loved her. Would never stop loving her.
"All right, I think it's time you laid off him," Lisa said. Her green eyes softened with sympathy. "You're not making things better."
Finally, someone with a little discretion.
I listened with disinterest as the conversation meandered from one topic to anot
her, nodding or shaking my head when it seemed appropriate but not offering much other than monosyllables. Why had I even bothered to come tonight?
Because not showing up would create more questions than being here.
In the end, I let Mark drive me home despite my initial claim that it wouldn't be necessary. After six pints, even I couldn't deny I was too drunk to get behind the wheel. When 64
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we got to my house, he made me take two Alka-Seltzer and drink a full glass of water, despite my protests that I'd be getting up to piss every three hours.
"Alcohol dehydrates you," he muttered. "Trust me, you'll feel better in the morning if you take my advice."
"Damn doctors," I groused, making a face as I downed the Alka-Seltzer. "Telling you stuff you already know."
He took the glass from me and put it in the sink. "So, tell me you at least got laid on Friday night."
The question instantly made me remember fucking Casey on the counter I now leaned on for support. And then of the following morning, when she'd let me...
I groaned, both my heads throbbing, but managed to nod.
He didn't need to know who I'd been screwing. No one did.
"Must've been one hell of a bad lay."
With a noncommittal shrug, I staggered to the couch. Even after five days, I could still make out the faint scent of Casey's perfume on the arm. I'd probably have to have the damn thing steam-cleaned to get rid of it.
Mark followed me, sinking into the chair and stretching his legs out in front of him. "I can't believe finding out Casey got married has you this fucked up. For God's sake, it's been five months."
"Just back off." I growled the words. "Like Lisa said, you aren't making things any better."
He raised his hands. "All right, all right. I've just never seen you this bad, not even after you first broke up with her.
It worries me."
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I hoisted my legs up onto the couch and laid down, settling my head against one of the throw pillows my mother had insisted on giving me when I moved in. They were a little frilly for a bachelor pad, but as my aching head sank into it, I wasn't sorry I had them.
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