“A final escape, for all of us.”
“You won’t be escaping anything, Mr. McCullough,” Oliver said.
“Oh but I will, Senator.” The same smug smile from before stretched across Ryan’s face, wider now, and a chill ran up Lincoln’s spine. Dr. Fear. And by the look of it, he thought himself victorious. By the sound of it too, his words confirming his twisted logic. “There’s no federal prison here in Apex, is there?”
Escape. He’d gotten it after all.
Carter was stuck in his Henley, embarrassingly so. He’d been back at the house less than ten minutes, had managed to rid himself of shoes, socks, jeans, and overcoat, but getting out of his sweater, with his right arm in a cast and sling, was proving a feat he couldn’t manage alone. All he wanted to do was climb into bed and pass out, the twenty-minute trip from the hospital in Jo’s passenger seat, then the climb up the stairs to his bedroom more exhausting than they should have been, but the nurse at the hospital had given him a parting dose of painkillers after getting him into the sweater, and they’d zapped what little energy his recovering body had left. They’d finally released him from the hospital—his arm casted, cranial swelling reduced—and he wanted a real bed. Not the too-small hospital one. Sleep was right there for the taking.
As soon as he escaped from his goddamn sweater. He cursed Lincoln for bringing him a sweater, then remembered that he didn’t have any casual button-ups. Not to mention the suit bag on the back of the hospital room door. A suit bag he’d ignored in favor of the duffel of more casual clothes. There’d probably been a button-up in the suit bag.
He was cursing himself when the front door opened downstairs. “Carter, you here?” Lincoln shouted from the foyer.
Relief and no small amount of nervousness washed over Carter. Things had been awkward between them the past twenty-four hours as they struggled to find their footing, to determine which direction they were headed. There’d been a brief moment of potential when Carter had first come to in the hospital and found Lincoln asleep with his head by his hip. Carter had threaded his fingers through the silky strands of blond and silver, and Lincoln had woken and looked up with such relief and joy. They’d exchanged quiet his and Lincoln had risen out of his chair and leaned over him. And then the night nurse had bustled in, Lincoln had bustled out, and it’d been professional partner zone ever since. To be fair, Beverley and Kirk had shown up fifteen minutes after that, and it had been debriefs, MRIs, bloodwork, and a stream of other visitors every moment he wasn’t sleeping since.
Conversations needed to be had. But he’d wanted a few more hours of sleep first, enough for the painkillers to wear off and his mind to defog. But he couldn’t do any of that without getting out of his sweater. “Up here,” he called back. “Could use your help.”
Familiar footsteps thumped up the steps and down the hall, then a low chuckle erupted behind him from the general direction of the door.
“Shut up,” Carter grumbled.
Lincoln snickered some more. “You’re in polka-dot boxers and stuck in a sweater. It’s funny.”
“Ha-ha. Now, help me out of this.”
Warm hands landed on his bare flanks, and Carter’s senses were pleasantly overwhelmed. Callused fingertips lightly scratching his skin, the ever-present smell of coffee, the cool metal band on Lincoln’s left hand. “You know,” Lincoln said as he tugged the sweater over Carter’s head, “there was a dress shirt in that suit bag you left in the hospital room.”
“I realized that two minutes ago.” Carter gave his freed head a shake, trying and failing to toss back the curls tickling his forehead.
Lincoln did it for him, his fingers lingering in the tips of his hair a moment longer than necessary, before he dropped his hand, averted his eyes, and angled his face away, hiding his red-streaked cheeks as he continued to work free the sweater. “You were supposed to wear that suit for the press conference this afternoon.”
Carter held his arm steady while Lincoln temporarily removed the sling and slid the sweater the rest of the way off. “I don’t do press conferences.”
“You just helped catch a serial killer that’s been on the FBI’s most-wanted list for two-plus decades.”
“Can’t have my face plastered all over the place. I’m on to my next UC assignment.”
“Already?” He settled Carter’s arm back in the sling. “How’s that going to work with your arm like this?”
“I’ll mostly be running command but can’t be too careful.”
“Who’s your partner?”
“Joint task force gig.” Carter sank onto the nearest side of the bed and breathed a sigh of relief. In front of him, Lincoln shifted foot to foot, looking anywhere but at him. He should let him off the hook, let him get back to his life, one that didn’t actually include Carter, no matter how desperately Carter wanted it to. “Don’t you have a basketball tourney to get to?”
Lincoln lifted his gaze, and it was full of so much—hurt, confusion, desire, hope—that Carter had to look away. “Hey,” Lincoln said softly. He stepped close, between Carter’s legs, and touched his chin, nudging his gaze back up. “You know what Ryan said was a load of horseshit, right? When we questioned him, he actually commended you for conquering your fears.”
Carter swallowed hard.
“And I’m sorry for blowing up at you like I did in the library.” He let go of Carter’s chin and skated a thumb over his cheek. Carter had to close his eyes. Had to bite his lip and hold his breath to hold in his words. “You are an incredible partner.”
Partner.
Carter scooted out of his reach. “Thank you.” He levered himself up toward the headboard and rested there, trying not to appear too winded from the small effort. “Everything square with Ryan? Last I talked with Beverley, he said Ryan had been charged and was being transferred.”
Lincoln cleared his throat. “Yeah, he’s on his way to DC. Case was officially moved there this morning.”
“Larry and Weathers?”
