“Missing something?”

The hell?

I spun on my skates and holy shit.

It was Lincoln. I’d looked up pictures of him. Dark brown longer hair that gave him a surfer boy look. In the photos I saw online, he was always dressed in typical rich boy business casual attire or to the nines in suits. Hair perfectly gelled and slicked back, even if it was longer.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“You fucked everything up,” he said, and his body trembled like he was on day five of detox after a lifetime of hard drugs and alcohol. My eyes searched the room.

Why wasn’t anyone here?

“I didn’t fuck anything up. You did. What the hell are you doing here, Lincoln?”

His hands trembled at his sides, and he lifted one and scrubbed it through his hair. His usual perfect clothes were a mess. Wrinkled light blue polo, denim jeans that looked like they’d been in a ball and not shaken out before he pulled them on.

“What am I doing here?” He shoved another hand through his hair, eyes dancing all over the place. And this was bad. Because no one was here. “Well, I can’t be in fucking Boston anymore. Dad fired me. But it’s not like that matters. He was never going to give me the company or anything from it anyway. No, I was counting on Emmy, but you fucked that up for me, didn’t you?”

Well shit. That explained why we couldn’t find him, at least somewhat. And why he was so pissed.

I took two quick, shaking steps to the lounge, but he held up his hand.

“Door’s locked,” he said and pointed to the room. “And they might be tired.” He leaned forward and, with a manic tinge to his voice, whispered, “I think someone spiked the drinks.”

“You are fucked up.” I took two steps back. This was the guy who beat the shit out of Em? Who made her feel like trash and cheated on her?

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked and his arm swung behind his back and then back out. Straight at me.

Where he was holding a goddamn gun.

A fierce roar rushed through me as reality hit.

Jesus. I stumbled away from him, stick in my hand I held down at my side. If I could keep him far enough away, I could hit the gun out of his hand.

No one but Coach Lamonde and Alix knew I was here. No one was coming.

And this fucked up, drugged mess of an asshole was waving a gun.

“You ruined everything,” he shouted. “Everything! I had her. I had her right where I wanted her, and she would have given me everything, and now, it’s all fucking gone.”

Shit. What did I do with this? I might have been bigger than him, stronger and definitely more sober, but I wasn’t used to being on this end of a handgun. And fuck, I was in my skates. Not like I could out run the guy.