“Free shots, gentleman?” she offered, already reaching to hand them out.
Lincoln and Seth said, “No, thank you,” at the same time. Danielle looked confused, and Chuck merely rolled his eyes.
“Come on, honey. The rest of us will take a shot,” Chuck said, steering her away.
Seth and Linc exchanged meaningful expressions. Sure, it made them stand out in an uncomfortable way, but they had their reasons for not sharing the other guys’ enthusiasm for booze. Not that any of them would understand. It wasn’t something anybody talked about, and Seth knew Lincoln preferred it that way.
3
Lincoln
Lincoln watched as the tipsy bachelor slithered an arm around the waitress’s shoulders and led her to the group of beat cops chanting and fist-pumping for more shots.It’s strange how time changes things,he thought. Many years ago, when he was a younger, more carefree version of himself, he could have easily drunk any one of these young bucks under the table. Not because he was ever that avid of a drinker to begin with, but because when you’re six-foot-two and two hundred pounds of pure, hard muscle, your tolerance tends to be a little high. He used to clear a six-pack or more in a night easily, and still wake up feeling clear-headed early the next morning. By contrast, it had taken him over an hour to get through one measly beer tonight. And even then, Linc had taken very little pleasure in it. That bitter, hoppy burn that used to taste like excitement to him had gone flat over the years. Even the free shots the waitress brought in smelled like pure rubbing alcohol to Linc’s nose, all the way from across the private room.
Linc shook his head as he watched the younger cops down the shots, pulling twisted faces as they swallowed their liquid courage.
“They’re going hard tonight, huh?” Seth chuckled softly.
Linc nodded and sighed. “I wonder how many of them will call in sick in the morning.”
Seth shrugged. “Better that than come in hungover and drooling.”
Lincoln cracked a rare, warm smile. “True. I’m glad that’s behind me now.”
He could feel Seth’s green eyes boring into the side of his face, but Linc didn’t turn to make eye contact with him. He knew what Seth was thinking about. He knew exactly whose face was swimming at the forefront of the guy’s mind because it was the same for Linc. Situations involving alcohol brought those deeply buried memories to the surface again.
Changing the subject, Linc said, “So what kept you?”
“What?” Seth said, frowning.
“You were an hour late for the party. You always have a good reason. Work or women?” Linc teased.
“Work,” Seth answered. “We’ve been getting more tips from Vice.”
“And they want info in return,” Linc replied, nodding. “At least the departments are talking to each other. Things run more smoothly when we work together.”
“That’s an understatement. But damn, it would be easier to work together if they’d stop sending their greenest rookies to sit in on my case meetings,” said the younger cop. “I’ve got eight years, you’ve got ten, and these kids think they know as much as we do after six months of training.”
“Hubris of youth,” Linc remarked.
Seth raised an eyebrow and smirked. “You calling us old?”
“Not old,” he backtracked, “just well-seasoned.”
The blond man laughed and shook his head, still gripping his mixed drink in one hand. Linc noticed that it was still almost full. It wasn’t just him; both of them struggled with an expectation to drink versus a lack of desire to.
As the waitress walked by with her now-empty tray, her eyes drank in the tall glass of cool water that was Lincoln. He stood tall and imposing with broad shoulders, a barrel chest, biceps that could crunch a soda can, and strong legs. He wore simple, unwrinkled black dress slacks, a black t-shirt with a gray sport coat over it, and shiny black shoes. His intimidating size combined with his stoic demeanor and deep, gravelly voice made him a formidable person to approach. People tended to be fascinated by him from a distance. He looked to be constantly deep in thought, with his stony gray eyes narrowed under his dark brows.
His looks were partly deceiving, though. For while he was physically powerful and stoic on the outside, he was a roiling mess of emotions and memories on the inside. Not that anyone ever got close enough to see that turmoil churning behind those gray eyes. After what happened to Tara, Linc was careful to keep his distance. If he never let anyone in, he would never have to let anyone go. It was a lonely way to live, but Linc had learned his lesson, and he did not intend to feel that kind of heartache and pain again.
So he protected himself. And he stayed busy to keep those more troublesome thoughts at bay. Tonight was not his usual scene. At thirty-four, he was past the golden age of bachelor parties every other month. Most of his colleagues were already settled, save for the younger ones who were still figuring themselves out.
It had been a long time since Linc had been out on a Friday night like this. He had his preferred means of wasting free time. When he was home, he was usually flitting from room to room with an exhaustive to-do list. His house was an ongoing project as he slowly updated appliances, repainted rooms, and refinished floors. Linc liked to fix things, and he was good at it. If something needed a little elbow grease, he was happy to provide it.
Often, he could be found in his sweltering garage, with only an oscillating fan to break up the dense, humid Miami heat, while he spent hours bent over the hood of his beloved cherry-red 1967 Ford Mustang. It had been hardly more than a pile of vintage scraps when he’d first acquired it three years ago. But Linc was never the type to shy away from a big project. He loved to let it consume him, to get lost in the minute greasy details of restoring an old car to its former glory.
If he wasn’t hunched over the Mustang with a tool belt and a shop rag, he was in his home office, poring over case files. Linc had a knack for scanning the files and finding mistakes, little things the team might have missed the first time. He believed in rules and was the kind of man who loved to keep everything organized and clear. He sorted through evidence, compared witness statements, and recorded hours and hours of notes late into the night. He had trouble sleeping, so he used this persnickety work to help his eyelids grow heavy and lull himself to sleep.
On the rare occasion he had enough free time to burn through case files and get tired of working on the house and the Mustang, he would turn to his other favorite activity: strumming the guitar. He had been playing since his teens, though over the years, his jam sessions had become fewer and far between. He never let anyone hear him play, but occasionally he still whipped out the old instrument to strum through his feelings.