Lincoln didn’t second-guess his instinct. He closed the distance between them, lips capturing Carter’s and swallowing his surprised gasp. Carter caught on quick, lifting a hand to Lincoln’s cheek and curling the other in Lincoln’s sweater. He opened his mouth, and Lincoln snuck his tongue inside, sighing, the coffee tasting much better mixed with Carter.
It wasn’t the desperate need that had overtaken them last night, but in its restraint, it was almost as intoxicating. This didn’t feel like the cover. This felt very real. And Lincoln would’ve stayed there longer, reveled in it, if they didn’t owe their boss a call. He pulled back with a last peck to Carter’s lips.
“What was that for?” Carter said, the wistful breathiness of his words more charming than any smile he’d ever thrown Lincoln’s way.
“Selling the cover.” That was fifty percent of the reason he’d gone for it, what had sparked the idea. But what had lit the kindling was the lingering desire to kiss him again.
“Is that all it was?” Carter asked, correctly detecting that Lincoln had only given him half the story.
If Lincoln wanted this to be real—which again, fifty percent, because there were so many factors to consider—and was unwilling to cut off that potential just yet, he couldn’t lie to Carter now. “To be determined.”
“I’ll take that.” Carter stole another quick kiss. “But for the record, I fucking hate slow burn.”
Lincoln laughed out loud, and that, more than anything, he suspected, convinced their audience—and him—that this could be real.
Lincoln’s left hand moved from the top of the steering wheel to the center no less than a dozen times on the short drive from Flour Power to the lab. Carter was counting, and watching with unchecked amusement, as Lincoln navigated the gauntlet of the suddenly packed campus and a student body prone to jaywalking.
“The crosswalk is right there!” Lincoln shouted loud enough to turn a few heads outside the vehicle. But not enough that anyone changed their course.
“They outnumber you, L.” Carter laid a hand over his on the gearshift, and Lincoln jumped a mile, his hair brushing the roof. “And we’re almost there.”
Carter left his hand atop Lincoln’s, anchoring him inside the car, directing his possibly murderous thoughts at him in here and not at the students out there. They waited for the crowd to disperse, then rolled through the aforementioned crosswalk and turned at the next drive. The crush of students thinned out considerably as they circled to the parking lot behind the under-construction lab building.
“There now,” Carter said, once the car was in park. “Was that so bad?”
Lincoln cut him a sideways glare. “Yes.”
Carter laughed and withdrew his hand. “I’ll drive next time.” He moved to open his door but paused, turning back to Lincoln, who was still gathering his stuff from the back. “One, grab my to-go box. Two, when we get up to the lab, let me sweep the room before you say anything.”
“You think we’re being bugged?”
“Can’t be too careful.” He’d checked the Forester last night when he couldn’t sleep, and the Wrangler this morning.
Lincoln nodded and let Carter lead into the building, up the stairs, and into the lab. Carter swept the lab with the scanner, then made a lap around the floor, checking to make sure no one else was up here with them.
“We’re clear,” Carter said as he reentered the lab.
Lincoln was on the far side of the room, munching on a muffin and staring at his laptop. Carter grabbed the rest of the leftovers, then a chair from the adjacent desk, straddling it backward, and rolled next to Lincoln. The screen was full of what Carter recognized as genetic test results.
“Anything?” he asked between bites.
“It’s just a screen right now. It’s more about having a baseline of an Apex founding family member to compare other samples against if we get them.”
“Baxter?”
Lincoln nodded. “And Clyde Weathers and any hairs ERT found at the motel. Larry too if we can get it.”
“The latter is going to be tough.”
“You’ll figure it out.” Lincoln shot him a wink, and Carter would have leaned in to kiss the smirk off his face if not for a notification ding alerting them to Beverley’s incoming call.
Carter tossed the empty to-go box into the trash can and shoved the bag of remaining muffins into his coat pocket. He was righting himself as Beverley appeared on-screen, standing behind his desk. The director looked polished, camera-ready still from his morning presser, but Carter didn’t miss the way he collapsed into his chair or the slump of his shoulders as he peered at the laptop. Carter wondered how many hours it had been since he’d slept.
“Director,” Lincoln greeted him.
“Agents, good morning.”
“Beverley,” Carter said. “What more do we have on Baxter?”
