Chapter Two
The house where Atticus lived was ridiculous for one person.
Well, the place also had staff living there.
Atticus wouldn’t need them if the place wasn’t so goddamn big.
Thankfully, and despite his size, Foster prided himself on how silently he could move in the dark.
He wondered if Atticus had sensed him earlier or if his unease had actually been due to Tracker and Zeus.
Maybe in some small way, he hoped Atticus had felt him.
There was a difference between lusting after Atticus and acting on that desire.
Atticus was full-on insane. Madness always flashed in his intense stare.
He imagined Atticus’ looks distracted people from that truth.
His dirty blond hair bordered on light brown.
While kept long on top, his head was shaved short above the ears and neck, leaving him with shaggy yet perfectly styled hair.
More times than he could count, Foster wondered how he looked first thing in the morning.
The guy probably—somehow—woke up flawless.
Everything about Atticus screamed impeccability.
Yet, he also kind of looked like a dashing pirate. He fascinated Foster.
For someone who should live with the highest of security, Atticus’ house was ridiculously easy to slip in and out. He made Foster wonder if Atticus spent his days wishing a motherfucker would. Foster knew Atticus' schedule. He knew exactly where to hide and wait. Atticus didn’t disappoint.
He arrived at his lessons wearing nothing more than a pair of loose workout shorts. Goddamn, he had a beautiful body. Just the right amount of hair, and abs that looked closer to a normal person’s than these men who cared about nothing more than their physique.
“You’re late.”
At the barked words, Atticus flashed a bright smile at his trainer, Jamal. “I’m worth it.”
Jamal snorted. He moved quickly, obviously trying to catch Atticus sleeping. He pulled off what looked to be the perfect leg sweep, except he wasn’t quick enough for Atticus. Atticus dodged him so easily, he made the move look almost comical.
“Surely that wasn’t meant for me. You’re getting old and slow.”
At the taunt, Jamal went on full attack, doing his best to take Atticus to the mat. He ended up beneath Atticus instead.
“Really? There’s no way you’ve brought your best tonight.”
Jamal finally pulled a move that had Atticus pinned. “Got you, you bastard.”
Atticus’ chuckle sent a chill down Foster’s spine. “Don’t hurt me, Daddy. I’ll come.” He tossed Jamal away from him like throwing the covers off in the morning.
“Fuck, Atty. It’s no wonder you have no friends with lines like that.”
Atticus’ smile took on a brittle edge. Foster might not have noticed if he hadn’t been stalking the fuck out of the guy and studying his every nuance. That insult had hit its mark.
He moved like a predator, circling Jamal. “Who needs friends when you can have enemies. People fuck better in anger.”
“Do they? Or have you just never fucked anyone who likes you?”
“Is this a therapy session?” He flipped Jamal end over end before he finished the question.
From his back, he stared at Atticus wearing an evil grin. “Got under your skin, huh?”
“A person has to have feelings for them to be rattled by words. You won’t find that bullshit here.”
Their sparring was always every bit as mental as it was physical.
Foster always found their training fascinating.
He was about ninety-five percent certain they hated each other.
Foster had no idea why they did this. It was obvious Jamal had nothing to teach Atticus.
Still, they fought, and Foster ate up every move.
His gaze followed every flex of muscle. Every bead of sweat.
The verbal sparring became background noise while he savored every evil smile and flash in Atticus’ eyes.
He couldn’t say why he did this to himself.
Even Foster didn’t understand his obsession.
Everything about Atticus was a mystery. It didn’t matter what facts he learned about the man from watching him.
Atticus’ words never matched his eyes. He made Foster want to know more. Foster wanted everything.
Before he knew it, the training session was over.
Foster stayed in his hiding spot much longer than necessary.
He wouldn’t take chances. Getting caught would be a nightmare scenario for him.
The humiliation might actually kill him.
Like Atticus, Foster didn’t have a lot of feelings about much of anything.
Life was always slightly bland. Watching Atticus was the like getting the oxygen he needed to keep going.
This pastime wasn’t something he could explain to anyone else.
Atticus would definitely want answers if he busted Foster.
That is, if he didn’t skip the questions and just straight-up kill Foster.
The prospect of dying over this bullshit was oddly not even a blip in his mind.
This was the most fun he had in ages. Totally worth the risk.
Foster counted the minutes as he moved silently through the house to Atticus’ bedroom.
Just as he had known he would be, Atticus was still in the shower as Foster slipped into place.
When Atticus emerged in his nude perfection, Foster nearly moaned.
He made Foster want to taste his dick. Foster just knew he was delicious.
His eye-fucking was short-lived as Atticus inspected a bruise in the mirror.
Foster hadn’t noticed the mark. He had been too busy staring at Atticus’ cock.
Now he couldn’t see anything other than the nasty black spot surrounded by yellow and green on his hip spreading to his ass.
The bruise looked painful as hell and couldn’t have happened tonight with Jamal’s performance.
Still, he couldn’t believe how much contact he had withstood tonight with that injury.
Foster had a bad feeling there was way more damage than the superficial.
The mark looked more like a secondary injury caused by something much worse beneath the skin—like something broken.
It took everything Foster had to stop himself from storming from his hiding spot to demand answers.
What the fuck had he done to himself? The rage built inside him until it was nearly boiling.
How dare anything happen to his man? Foster blinked at his own thoughts.
Where had that come from? Atticus wasn’t his, and surely Foster didn’t even want that.
Relationships weren’t for people like them. Right?
Foster was so deep in his disbelief that he missed the first warning signs. The bedroom door flew open, and all hell broke loose.
Goddamn it. A guy couldn’t even eyeball his own fucking body in peace.
Thankfully, he had heard the distinct squeak of the top step feet from his bedroom door.
In a flash, he hit the deck before the first bullets flew.
In one quick roll, he had the gun from beneath his bed.
He took steadying breaths while he got his bearings.
His mind moved as quickly as a computer as he took stock.
He didn’t give the three intruders time to get to him.
Atticus calculated the risk based on direction and firing intervals.
He jumped to his feet and took out all three men in a quick succession of shots.
One. Two. Three. Direct head shots. Their patterns had been too easy to follow.
Only once they were down did Atticus give himself permission to breathe.
He eyed the bodies, ensuring all three men were dead before lowering his weapon.
“I just bought this fucking rug. It’s always something with you bastards.”
Kirkland poked his head into the room. “Is everything clear?”
Atticus waved his longtime butler inside. “It’s fine.” Side by side, they stared at the mess.
Kirkland sighed as if there was always something he had to clean. “Not the new rug. It took ages to arrive from Paris.”
“Right?” Atticus was glad it wasn’t just him. “How fucking rude to get killed on a hundred-thousand-dollar handcrafted piece of art like this. No respect for other people’s things.”
Kirkland released another forlorn sigh. “I suppose I should call a cleanup crew. Maybe the piece will be salvageable if they get here quickly enough.”
Atticus’ annoyance level was through the roof. First, Jamal had been an extra-huge dick tonight. Now these stupid fuckers had bled on his floor and made more work for Kirkland. No one had any class any longer.
“Maybe so. Go make your calls. If it’s ruined, it’s ruined. I’ll send the bill to Butch. The bastard.”
“Indeed.” Kirkland headed for the door. He paused inside the doorway. “Should I have staff freshen another room for you and your guest?”
Atticus thought it over. He was especially tired tonight and extra weary of games. “I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”
With a final nod, Kirkland left him alone.
Well, sort of. “Did any of those shots get you?” He turned and stared at the closet door that stood open barely an inch.
Atticus raised an eyebrow when no response came.
“I’m quite serious, Foster. If you’re dead in there, I’ll be displeased.
I’ll be forced to write a strongly worded email to my uncle. ”
The door creaked open. His sexy giant stepped out. He didn’t look ashamed. Not that he had anything to be embarrassed about. They all had their kinks. Atticus enjoyed pain. Foster was into voyeurism. Atticus didn’t judge and enjoyed feeding Foster’s need.
Atticus’ gaze swept down Foster’s body, inspecting him for wounds. “Good. You only have all your original holes.”
Foster motioned toward Atticus with the LED mask he held. “What happened to your hip?”
“My uncle hit me with his car this morning.” Atticus waved for Foster to follow. “Come on. This room has lost its ambiance.”
Like a dutiful guest, Foster followed on his heels down the hall. A cleanup crew in biohazard suits came up the stairs with Kirkland leading the way.
“He’s good.”
Atticus smiled at the observation. “I only employ the best. In Kirkland’s case, he’s always been with me. There’s no one better.” Atticus led Foster into a room as a maid left. Her gaze never as much as flickered their way. No one ever saw anything under his roof. He closed the door behind Foster.
Foster eyed the room as Atticus locked them inside. “You have a gorgeous home.”
Atticus turned off the lights. “You would know, wouldn’t you? I mean, you’ve seen every inch at least a dozen times.”
Despite the darkness, Foster turned and met his stare as if he could see him as clearly as he could in the daylight. “Do you expect an explanation or apology?”
Atticus snorted. People like them didn’t apologize. That would imply guilt or shame. They possessed neither. “Only in as much as you almost getting yourself killed tonight.”
“I wasn’t in any more danger than you were.”
That was likely true. Foster was competently trained. Maybe not as well as him, but their situations were different. Foster had been programmed to hunt. Atticus needed to stay alive.
Atticus turned back the covers. “Get in.”
Foster didn’t move.
Atticus rolled his eyes. “I’ve lost my last ounce of tolerance for bullshit tonight. Take your fucking shoes off and whatever else you’d like and get in the goddamn bed, Foster.”
Foster moved to the edge of the bed and set his mask on the nightstand. “Did you have that hip x-rayed?”
Despite his usual apathy toward life, he was oddly moved by the soft way Foster inquired about his injury.
“I’m fine. I’m always fine.” Even he heard the bitterness in his voice.
It came from the heart. Still, he didn’t want to minimize Foster’s concern.
“If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll have it looked at in the morning.
Tonight, I couldn’t be more done with this day. ”
Foster toed off his shoes and pulled his shirt up and over his head. “Yeah. I get it. Getting shot at is exhausting on its own. Two attempts on your life in one day is just overkill.”
“It was three, actually. My day has been comically bad.” Atticus circled the bed and climbed beneath the covers.
Foster eased into bed beside him. “How can I help?”
The funniest part was, there was zero sexual innuendo or proposition in Foster’s tone. He seriously only offered his friendship.
Atticus had to clear his throat to respond after it tried swelling closed. “I don’t know.” He sounded like he was at his breaking point.
Foster reached for him and gently towed Atticus into his arms. “Close your eyes. I won’t let anything else happen to you tonight. Get some sleep.”
Atticus nodded against Foster’s chest. He didn’t think he could sleep while tucked against a body he had craved for a while now.
Foster was like a heater. Atticus couldn’t stand being hot while he tried to sleep.
His body didn’t care about any of that. His eyelids fell, and his mind quieted. Exhaustion won.