Page 89 of Roses in Summer

“Avoid your neighbors for a few days. They’re probably scarred from his pale ass.” Lincoln huffs as he flips the lock, turning around to face us again. He leans back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest, staring at Bianca with a hard look on his face. “You want to tell us what’s going on?”

Bianca’s eyes flit from Lincoln to me and then back to Lincoln. “Oh no. Does anyone want to tell me why Simmons is acting like a second big brother, or do I need to fill in the blanks?”

I’m sober now. Absolutely sober. And also annoyed.

“Go to bed, B. We’ll talk in the morning.” I sigh, my voice as resigned as I feel. Bianca opens her mouth, no doubt tempted to argue with me, but something on my face must indicate that I’m not in the mood for whatever verbal sparring she’s gearing up for. With a nod and a hitch of her shoulders to adjust the blanket, she turns and disappears into her bedroom and shuts the door quietly behind her.

Lincoln and I stand quiet for a moment, listening to the banging happening just behind her door. It takes a few minutes for Bianca to settle, and once there’s no sound emitting from her room, I turn to Lincoln.

“Are you staying?”

“Yes.” One word, that’s all that’s needed for me to bite down on my lip and walk to my room, leaving the door open for him to follow me inside.

I make it to my bed when I hear the soft shutting of the door, followed by the click of a lock. When I turn around, Lincoln is in the same position he was in at the front door, except this time, his green eyes blaze. With a silent challenge, I unbutton my top button and work my fingers down my collared shirt, moving slowly as I stare at him.

I’m on the final button when his words still my fingers. “I’m not touching you tonight.”

Swallowing at the rush of disappointment, I finish my final button and shrug the shirt off, leaving me in a bra and ivory pants. “Okay.”

“You’ve been drinking,” he supplies, though I didn’t ask for it. “And if I put my hands on you, I won’t stop. I’ll tear down every goddamn wall you’ve built and sink into you. But I won’t do that when you’re drunk or even tipsy.”

“I’m not; I didn’t drink much.” It’s a lame explanation, and I know it’ll do nothing to change his mind. Though, truthfully, his morals are a turn-on.

“Good. That means you won’t be miserable and hungover in the morning. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

I laugh at his statement. “It’s a queen. We can share.”

His head shakes before I finish my sentence. “Give me a pillow and a blanket, and I’ll be fine.”

Huffing, I reach behind me and pull the first pillow I find and offer it to him, along with a throw at the foot of my bed. It may be the beginning of a humid summer in New Jersey, but in my apartment, it’s a balmy sixty-eight. There’s no way that Lincoln will be comfortable with a thin throw on the hardwood floor.

I don’t argue with him though. Instead, I finish undressing, stripping down until I’m in my bra and boy shorts, and walk to my dresser to grab an oversized T-shirt.

“Fuck,” I hear Lincoln mutter while his eyes burn into my skin, overheating me with their perusal. Turning back around, I find Lincoln still standing by the door with a clenched jaw and even tighter fists at his side. Like a magnet, I let my gaze fall to his pants and bite down on my lip at the bulge inside his jeans.

“Stop looking at me like that, ciern. Put on the shirt and get under the goddamn covers.”

His deep voice startles me, and I jump to action, catching the shirt he tosses at me and pulling it over my head before diving under the blankets. My bra pinches me and I stall, debating the merit of removing my underwear and bra for comfort, or preserving the shred of modesty I have. I shift again, and the underwire bites into me, making my decision for me. Lowering my eyes, I reach beneath the shirt and unhook my bra, pulling the straps through the sleeves of the shirt before kicking off my boy shorts and shoving them toward the foot of the bed.

I try to be as inconspicuous as possible, but based on his smirk and raised brow, he knows exactly what I just did. I stop fidgeting, and my stillness and covered position seem to give him permission to move, and he stands from the door, slowly moving to my desk where pictures of me, Liv, and my family are on display, along with books, my laptop, and a collection of rose-themed stationery.

“You writing a lot of letters, ciern?” he muses, fingering the thick paper.

“No, but I like how it looks.”

“Why black roses?”

I shrug, blushing under his scrutiny. “I started growing Black Magic roses after I took an intro to botany class, and part of the course was the language of flowers. CeCe was always into it, and she would talk nonstop about the meaning of this flower and that, but I never paid attention until I had to.”

“What does a Black Magic rose mean?”

I look away from him as I answer. “Strength and to stop living in darkness. New beginnings and…” I pause, clearing my throat before I continue, “Revenge.”

“Good. You deserve vengeance.”

I nod, leaning back against my pillows as I do. “I’m not the only one.”

Most people would press, ask me what I mean and seek more information. But Lincoln’s not most people. Instead, he sets my stationery down, turns to face me, and offers me a tight smile. “No, you’re not. But you’re not alone, ciern. And remember, you’re a fucking thorn, not a rose.”

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