Chapter 10 #3
Fuck. That answered my question about who drove the flashy death trap to work.
I stopped and stared at the offensive helmet for a long time, imagining all the horrors that could happen to Atticus while riding the scooter.
He could get hit and killed. He could lose control on loose gravel and get killed.
He could get abducted by evil people and—
Unable to finish that thought, I hastened down the hallway and muttered, “The fuck that death machine belongs to him.” I barely slowed down when I approached our security team’s office. “I’m here for the night, Miller. Gotta run something down, but you can cut out.”
“Thanks, boss,” he called out as I continued down the corridor.
Now I just had to figure out where the hell I might find Atticus and demand he stop driving that damn scooter.
I pulled out my phone and checked the online activity calendar but didn’t see an event planned for the evening.
Surely Atticus had something better to do on a Friday night in June.
Or someone. My stomach pitched at the thought, churning unwelcome acid and jealousy.
That realization stopped me dead in my tracks.
I had no claims on Atticus, not on his time or how he spent it.
Or with whom. Ugh. Damnit. I didn’t have any right to demand he stop driving the scooter either, even if it was in his best interest.
I cycled through a few deep breaths when I really wanted to put my fist through a wall.
Once I had a better handle on my emotions, I decided to head over to the library to swap the self-help book for a nail-biting thriller.
I wouldn’t be gone long, and the team could reach me on my phone since I hadn’t stopped long enough to grab the walkie-talkie from Miller.
The arts and literature building was the next one over, separated by an enchanting garden with meandering pathways and water features.
I wished I felt mellow enough to stop and smell the roses, literally, but frenetic energy kept my legs moving because knowing Atticus wasn’t my business and accepting it weren’t the same things. I still wanted to—
Light from the art room’s windows spilled onto the lawn, telling me exactly where I could confront Atticus.
No, not confront him. Reason with him. That’s all I wanted to do.
But I wouldn’t. I removed the borrowed book from my messenger bag as a reminder of my true intention for entering the building.
Return one book and grab another. But when I reached the art room’s open door, I walked through it instead of past it.
Damn it. A glance around the space revealed it was empty.
Relief—definitely not disappointment—flooded through me when I flipped the switches and pitched the room into darkness, except for a small sliver of light coming from somewhere in the far-left corner.
I’d never had a reason to enter the space, but I remembered seeing an L-shaped storage closet on the building specs and blueprints.
Maybe Atticus had left the lights on. Perhaps he was in the closet, putting supplies away.
I told myself to forget about it and leave.
I didn’t pay the light bill, and I didn’t need to orchestrate a run-in or confrontation with Atticus over that stupid scooter.
Nope. That was the last thing I needed, but it was also the thing I wanted most. Huffing a sigh, I switched the lights back on and casually strode across the room.
I wouldn’t raise my voice or issue stupid demands.
I’d just make sure everything was okay. When I reached the door, I discovered why only a sliver of light had spilled through it.
Someone had stuck a ruler between the door and the doorjamb to keep it open.
Setting my stuff on an empty table, I reached for the handle and opened the door.
The ruler fell onto the floor, and I reached down to pick it up when off-key singing reached my ears.
I knew without looking who it belonged to, and it did weird things to my pulse.
Mesmerized, I stepped into the closet and let go of the handle without picking up the ruler or considering why Atticus had placed it where he had.
The door slammed shut behind me, making me flinch.
I tried the handle, but it didn’t budge, not even a centimeter.
Fuck. I’d just locked us inside the closet.
The storage area stretched on in front of me, then turned to the left.
Atticus wasn’t in the main part, so he must’ve been around the corner.
I braced myself for him to dart around the bend to check on the door, but he kept singing off-key.
He must’ve been wearing noise-canceling earphones because I couldn’t hear the music, and he’d missed the slamming door.
I pictured his lean hips and perky ass swaying in time to the music or likely off rhythm if his dancing skills matched his singing talents.
But then I remembered my dilemma. Thank fuck I still had my phone on me, so I called Clint and explained the situation.
We only kept a skeleton crew on campus overnight, and I insisted Clint stay in the guard shack.
“I can wait for you to locate Mazy or Kowalski,” I told him.
“You got it. We’ll have you out in a jiffy.”
I could’ve waited where I was, and Atticus wouldn’t have known about my blunder, but his singing lured me closer.
Yeah, that was it. I was the sailor, and Atticus was the sexy siren in this Greek mythology reenactment.
I rounded the corner, and Atticus let out a bloodcurdling scream that made my ears ring.
He reflexively flung something at me. I ducked in the nick of time, and it soared over my head, landing on the concrete floor with a clang.
I turned to see a small can of paint rolling away.
Atticus leaned against the shelving unit, his eyes going wide with recognition and embarrassment.
I was the one who needed to apologize, and I would do so as soon as my ears stopped ringing.
Putting distance between us, I turned and retrieved the can of paint.
It was pint-sized but mostly full. It would’ve hurt like hell if it hit me in the head, though I would’ve had it coming for scaring him half to death.
When I turned back to Atticus, he was in the same spot, breathing hard and clutching his shirt.
Wide hazel eyes stared at me unblinkingly, and I felt as low as a human could.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“What?” Atticus shouted.
I gestured for him to remove his earbuds, and he snorted as he complied.
“Sorry,” Atticus said, gesturing to the paint can in my hand. “I’ve waited my whole life for the fight reflex to kick in. Sorry you were on the receiving end.”
I extended the can to him. “Eh, I had it coming for scaring you.” Our fingers brushed when Atticus took the paint from me, and that briefest contact triggered sparks I could feel clear down in my toes. Oh hell.
Then we both said, “What are you doing here?”
Atticus snorted and shoved the paint can onto a shelf in front of him. “You first, since organizing art supplies is part of my job duties.”
I looked around the closet for the first time and couldn’t help but compare the outrageous clutter to the tidiness of the property maintenance garage.
The shelf behind Atticus contained every type of paint supply a person could need, but they were haphazardly stored here and there.
It seemed that I’d interrupted Atticus while he was attempting to organize the little pint-sized cans by color on a shelf.
“What kind of art do you make with those?” I asked, pointing to the paint. “That looks like samples you buy from the hardware store to see which color you like best on a surface.”
Atticus notched his head higher. “I have no idea how they got here or why, I just know I can’t take this mess anymore.”
“You don’t have anything better to do on a Friday night?” I wanted to claw the words back as soon as they left my mouth because they sounded more like an accusation than casual conversation.
Atticus frowned for a moment before responding. “I did have better plans. Much better.”
“But…” I prompted.
“You go first. What are you doing in my storage closet?”
“I saw the lights on in the art room,” I replied lamely. “So I turned them off and noticed a shaft—”
Atticus snorted and slapped a hand over his mouth.
Eyes wide, he uncovered those sexy lips and said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to resort to childish behavior.
You said shaft, not penis. I blame my nerves.
” He swallowed hard, and I watched his Adam’s apple move.
“Anyway, you saw the shaft of light coming from the art closet and decided to investigate?”
“Yeah.” I took in his blown pupils and the wildly beating pulse in his neck. “Why are you nervous?”
Atticus blew out a breath. “I’ve been thinking about this moment ever since you walked away from me two weeks ago, and I’m screwing it up.”
“No, I claimed that honor when I scared you half to death.” I cycled through a deep breath and said, “Can we start over?”
“Absolutely.”
I racked my brain for a safe conversation starter and had ruled out banal topics, such as work and weather, when my mouth moved of its own volition. “Hi, my name is Ray. I’m thirty-five years old, a Capricorn, and a complete dumbass sometimes.”
Atticus grinned from ear to ear. “Hi, my name is Atticus. I’m twenty-five, a Gemini, and a complete klutz all the time.” He cocked his head to the side. “Now what?”
“Tell me more about the scenarios you imagined when we ran into each other again.”
“No chance,” Atticus replied. The pretty pink flush spreading across his cheeks told me his thoughts were likely as filthy as my own.
“Pity,” I said with a casual shrug. “I would’ve reciprocated.”
Atticus licked his bottom lip as he searched my gaze. “Are you flirting with me, Ray?”
“Do you want me to be?”
“Yes.”
I stepped forward, bracing my hands on the shelf behind Atticus and boxing him in. “Good, because this is my best flirting.”
“What if I demonstrate my favorite reunion scenario instead?” Atticus suggested. “Would you still reciprocate?”
It was the worst of ideas; it was the best of ideas. It was the end and the beginning, even if I hadn’t known it just then. “Yes.”
Atticus fisted my shirt and dragged me closer until our bodies touched.
He rose onto his tiptoes and pressed his lips to mine, tentatively at first, and then he boldly licked into my mouth, touching his tongue against mine.
A snarly, desperate need detonated in my soul and rumbled through my chest, demanding I take more.
Atticus moaned and melted into me. I angled my head and staked a claim on his mouth like it was my fucking right.
Atticus slid both hands into my hair and whimpered into my mouth.
Nothing had ever tasted so sweet, and I couldn’t get enough of him.
The urge to reach between our bodies and caress his—
Loud laughter ripped through the storage closet like a shotgun blast, and we jerked apart in shock and confusion. I blinked the world into focus and saw Bobby standing a few feet away.
“Well, well, well,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “What do we have here?”