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Lincoln twisted in the sheets. He'd been in bed for two hours at least, his ears straining to hear every sigh, rustle, and whisper from the next room. All was silent after the first fifteen minutes, but still he couldn't sleep.
Dinner had been odd. Lincoln didn't have chairs for his table, which was a worktable anyway, not a dining table. He didn't have a dining table. But Kali did. She set it up in the far end of the kitchen, cramped against a wall. With only two chairs, she insisted on standing through the meal. Eventually, at Lincoln's urging, she perched on the kitchen counter. The fact that they were at the table at all felt strange. On the couch, staring out the window, was where he ate. Or, if he was in a particular mood, standing at the window.
The dinner was the first 'home cooked' one he'd had in months. The spaghetti brought memories of childhood. Not of his mother's spaghetti, but of his grandmother's. Ketchup in the sauce.
It wasn't high-end cuisine, but it was better than Kraft Dinner. Better than ravioli. It awakened something.
In his early twenties, Lincoln had gotten a taste for cooking. In his old life, he had recipe books. He knew when an eggplant was perfectly ripe. He appreciated the superiority of aged Parmesan compared to those processed flakes that came in plastic bottles.
He baked bread and filleted steaks and had no processed food in his kitchen. Of course, as work demands grew, finding time to cook got harder. But that's what takeout was for—restaurants with real, whole, organic and free range foods. Cooking his own meals became a treat. An indulgence.
And yet it all, without even a thought it seemed, had been purged along with the rest of Montreal life. It wasn't until Lincoln sat at that foreign table, Theo casting him furtive glances, Kali looking uncomfortable, almost angry, that Lincoln realized he missed real food. Loved real food.
And what would he do in the wilderness? Catching or foraging enough food to live on wasn't likely. So he'd live off the land as much he could and travel to civilization for supplies when needed. Would living that way mean he had to say goodbye to culinary delights? Not necessarily. Maybe it would mean he'd discover new ones. Rabbit. Pheasant. Deer and Moose. Berries. Fruits of the forest.
Lincoln laid a hand on his stomach. It was soft now. Not firm as it'd been for most of his life. He didn't have anything close to a paunch, but his muscles had atrophied in the months of lying on the couch, drinking, numbing away his days. It'd only been a few weeks since he'd bought the lot, started clearing a way to the site he'd picked, and prepping the wood he'd need. Had he had a paunch before that? No way to tell now. Lincoln ran a hand along his arm, flexed. A lot less definition than he was used to. Seeing Andrew had made that clear. Lincoln had always been bigger, stronger. He wasn't anymore.
Did it matter? Should it? Lincoln stared at the ceiling. It had mattered before. Or was that only because Joseph believed it mattered? Joseph emphasized that your body represented your life. How you treated it, what you put into it, reflected what you deserved from life. What you were due.
The world thought the same thing. Beautiful people were the ones who made it. Look like you could take a man in the ring and you'd take him in a business meeting.
It had made sense.
And Lucy had liked his muscles, had run her manicured hands all over them. Her tongue. He'd felt like a god. Maybe that's why he hadn't noticed their slow disappearance. With no one to point his body out to him, with no tongue or fingertips delighting at ...
Lincoln stiffened with the memory. Sex hadn't been part of his new life, of his plans for his future one. And he hadn't thought of it much. Hadn't really missed it. But he wanted it now.
He closed his eyes, remembering snippets. The good times. The amazing times. The last time, which he hadn't known would be the last, and all the moments after. The implication that everything Lincoln had, everything he'd accomplished, was because of Lucy or because he was the boss' baby brother. The suggestion that it was her whispering in Joseph's ear, convincing him Lincoln was good enough, smart enough, encouraging Joseph to give Lincoln chance after chance to prove his worth.
Lincoln's need disappeared. The weight in his gut grew. He'd worked hard. He'd deserved the positions he rose to. It didn't come easily to him, so he'd worked. At first, following in Joseph's footsteps felt like wearing a hand-me-down funeral suit. Too tight. He wanted to wear it, though—out of respect, responsibility, because it was the right thing to do. Still, it squeezed, always, like a boa constrictor's grasp. Lincoln itched to take it off, to run free, slip into clothes that fit.
Until Lucy. Lucy stopped him from loosening that old tie and slipping off the coat. With Lucy, he slept in the suit, ate in the suit. Heck, he bathed in the suit and fucked in the suit. Lucy made him believe it was the perfect fit, believe it was what he wanted.
Lincoln gritted his teeth. Anger flooded over him. She was a liar, and she'd made him believe a lie. Want a lie.
A sigh sounded through the wall, long and feminine. Lincoln's thoughts tore away from Lucy. He felt exposed.
He froze, as if the woman on the other side of the wall could hear his slightest movement, his thoughts.
She was an intruder, but an invited one. How was he supposed to deal with that? She clearly didn't know how to deal with it—one moment taking over the space, making herself comfortable, the next seeming self-conscious and uncertain.
And then to bed. At eight-thirty. Leaving boxes everywhere. Leaving the apartment in a state of disarray.
Without a doubt, Lincoln had been invaded.
A whimper this time. From Kali, not Theo. He was sure of it.
Lincoln shifted toward the wall, put his hand against it. Was she awake? Lying there thinking ... what?
The rustle of sheets.
This was not good. Would not work. Lincoln stared at the wall then shifted his gaze to the ceiling. He didn't know what he'd been thinking, inviting them here. Already he felt off-kilter, stressed, suffocated. He needed to get that woman and her child out of his life.