Chapter Twenty-Eight
Carson hesitated at Slade’s front door.
For some people, it was the middle of the night. For him, it was just after four, which meant the start of his day.
Granted, he was usually not attempting to sneak into other people’s houses before dawn. He wasn’t looking to get shot or arrested, so he tended to steer clear of such situations.
In his defense, this was all Atticus’s fault.
He seemed convinced that Carson was drifting and Slade was self-destructing.
And fine, perhaps that was the case. Carson would admit he wasn’t putting forth much effort to make this work.
Slade made it difficult because it was clear he didn’t trust him.
And since Atticus was determined that this was an all-or-nothing relationship, Carson found his heart wasn’t in it as much as he initially thought.
So, yeah, Atticus had a right to be skeptical about where this was going.
He didn’t blame the guy for wanting to keep it casual.
That wasn’t Carson’s intention initially, but Slade also hadn’t been anything more than a fantasy that played out in his head when he was with Atticus.
When they introduced the flesh-and-blood man, it just wasn’t playing out the way Carson had envisioned.
But as Atticus pointed out, they were supposed to be moving forward, so this was Carson’s attempt at doing that. His last-ditch effort, perhaps.
He checked the front knob, noticed that it was unlocked.
To go in or not to go in? That was the question.
Fuck it. He was going in.
Turning the knob slowly, he pushed open the door and stepped inside the house. There was no security alarm to halt his progress, no dog looking to protect its territory. No, here in small-town, small-crime Coyote Ridge, most people slept with their doors unlocked and their windows open.
Probably not the sanest thing to do, but it worked in Carson’s favor right now, so he wasn’t complaining.
Slade’s house wasn’t much different than his own as far as layout. There was no fancy entryway, no foyer to hang your coat. There was a single closet behind the door, and the rest of the space was the living room, which was currently dark. Not even a lamp was left on in the corner.
To the left was the kitchen, which appeared to be dark from where he was standing, but that didn’t stop him from being quiet when he closed the door behind him.
Straight back was a single hallway that led to the primary bedroom, which Slade occupied.
To the right, another hallway, this one leading to the second bath and two additional bedrooms. At one point, there’d been a total of four bedrooms, but Slade had knocked down walls and combined two smaller rooms to make a large one to accommodate his workout space.
Carson glanced in the kitchen, confirming no one was in there, before heading for the hallway.
He didn’t stop until he reached Slade’s bedroom door.
It was closed, as usual. He was the only person Carson knew who closed the door, even though he lived alone.
Of course, he now had a roommate, but still.
He told himself he wouldn’t care if he opened that door to find Atticus sleeping in Slade’s bed. Why would he? This was what he wanted, right? To fulfill his voyeuristic dreams.
Funny how a couple of weeks ago, that probably would’ve been the case. Now? Not so much since somewhere along the way, Carson’s heart had started disconnecting from what he thought of as his happily ever after.
Then again, this was what always happened. He lost interest quickly, and usually it was of no fault of the men he was with.
But that was a problem for another day. Right now, he had a single goal in mind, so he pretended it didn’t matter.
Deep down, it did. Not because he was jealous that Slade was with Atticus or vice versa.
No, his jealousy stemmed from his being left out.
He didn’t want to be left out. He wanted to be as much a part of this as the two of them, but the reality was, he couldn’t be since they lived under the same roof, and he didn’t.
Which was the very reason he was there now. Creating a space where he could belong, even if for only a small portion of the day. Because if he couldn’t get that much out of the relationship, he wasn’t sure why he would even bother.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.
The room was pitch black, giving him no clue as to how many bodies were in that bed. He was committed one way or the other, so he closed the door and walked over to the bed. Since he hadn’t bothered to get dressed, it took only a moment to slip off his pajama pants and slide under the blankets.
The sheets were cool, telling him Slade was the only one in here. The relief that came stole his breath and made his heart thump a little harder.
He pulled the blankets up and scooted toward the center until he was spooning behind Slade.
“I’m surprised you decided to join me,” Slade mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.
Carson didn’t respond; not sure he wanted to ruin the illusion. There was no doubt Slade thought he was Atticus, and the wound that acknowledgment created was deep and painful.
He slipped his arm over Slade, pulling him back until his body heat seeped into him. Unable to resist, Carson pressed his nose to the back of Slade’s neck and inhaled his musky scent. The man smelled good. He always smelled good.
When Slade pushed back against him, Carson kissed his neck, trailing his lips lower, gliding over his shoulder. His skin was smooth and warm, and his taste ignited the lust Carson had always had for this man.
As much as he wanted to roll Slade over and slide into the heat of his body, he couldn’t. Not until Slade realized he wasn’t Atticus. And the only way to do that was to wake him up fully before he molested the man.
Carson relaxed once more, tightening his hold, hugging Slade from behind.
He liked this. The familiarity. He’d missed this since their breakup.
It was rare for Carson to become familiar with anyone because his relationships were generally short-term and at arm’s length.
For a reason. When he tried to get serious, things never worked out.
He’d been slightly disappointed when Atticus had taken everything off the menu except for sex.
He understood it, even agreed with it. But he’d been hoping for more.
Hoping he could want more. Sex was the easy part.
Too easy, sometimes. Carson had thought there might be a future for him and Atticus, him and Slade.
After his last conversation with Atticus, the illusion was fading, which was probably why he was there, in Slade’s bed.
Attempting to see if there was anything left to salvage.
Slade’s hand covered his, their fingers linking before Slade pressed Carson’s palm to his chest.
“Why’re you here, Carson?”
So he does know who’s in his bed.
“Because I miss you,” he admitted.
“You mean you’re horny?”
Leave it to Slade not to believe him.
Carson attempted to pull his hand back, but Slade tightened his grip. Asshole. That had been his plan all along. Not to show affection or intimacy by holding his hand, but to keep him from pulling away when he shot one of his all-too-familiar barbs.
Two could play that game.
“I said it right the first time,” Carson whispered, pressing his lips to Slade’s shoulder.
He bit back the other words that threatened to spill—more explanations, more apologies—because Slade wouldn’t hear them, no matter how loud he was or how many times he repeated himself.
Slade was far too determined to cling to the past, to continue punishing Carson for all his misdeeds.
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” he said, feeling relief when Slade’s grip loosened, but he continued to hold his hand. “I wanted to see you, so here I am.”
“At five o’clock in the morning.”
Technically, it was almost 4:30 a.m., but Carson didn’t correct him. Instead, he said, “I wanted to see you before you went to work.”
“See me? Or were you hopin’ to find Atticus in my bed?”
Carson heard the doubt in Slade’s tone, but that didn’t explain why Slade was still holding his hand, keeping him close. Every now and then, his thumb would brush over his, gently, reverently.
“Will you just give me this, please?” Carson pleaded, not wanting to fight with him.
“Let me guess, you thought Atticus was in here, and you needed to know for sure? Or better yet, you already fucked Atticus, and he told you to give me sloppy seconds.”
“Goddammit, Slade.” Carson jerked away, flopping onto his back. “Why the fuck can’t you just let the past go?”
“Why can’t you just be honest with me?” Slade retorted. “We both know who you really want and that you’re willin’ to take the consolation prize—me—when he’s not available.”
Carson sighed. He didn’t bother telling him that Atticus was likely asleep in his bedroom, and he could’ve gone there instead. It wouldn’t matter what he said or did. It wasn’t like Slade would believe him.
He was starting to think the man would never be capable of forgiving him.
Atticus rolled over to look at the clock.
His alarm was set for six because he needed to run an errand before he went to HQ, and now that he had a case to work, his priorities took precedence over sleep.
4:37 a.m.
What the fuck?
Frowning, he rolled back over, intending to utilize the time he still had. He barely got the blanket pulled up when he heard a gruff shout from the other room. It was followed by a slamming door.
Throwing the blanket off, he got to his feet. He considered grabbing his gun but opted to leave it. One day, that would be a bad idea, but he recognized the voice, so he knew that all-too-familiar tantrum wasn’t coming from a stranger in the house.
Atticus opened his bedroom door and stepped out into the hallway, nearly colliding with a very pissed-off Slade.
“Where were you?”
Atticus frowned. “What?”
“Carson’s in my bed. I know he’s not here for me.”
Oh, brother. Not this bullshit again.