Chapter Three
While Atticus stared at a blank screen with nothing more than a flashing cursor, he couldn’t find the will to do his job today.
He had hundreds of dark web offers to deal with.
People always wanted to wipe out their debt, get a full dossier on someone they met, or to hit someone right where it hurt: their wallet.
Those were the jobs he took. He refused to be associated with anything distasteful to him.
Atticus’ actual career was CEO of Cavern Technologies.
However, he was the CEO. He rarely had to do a single fucking thing.
But he had built this multi-million dollar company from the ground up and he would be damned if he didn’t at least show up occasionally.
Atticus needed to personally see the place thrive. Today, he felt none of that.
Every single second of the day before kept playing through his mind.
He always skipped over the bit where he killed three men.
Unfortunately, that had been a common theme throughout his life.
There was always someone who sought to strike at him to get to his money.
That was dumb. None of that mattered. What mattered was the rest of the day…
and night. An entire group of men had treated him like a friend, and then there was Foster.
Atticus had known for a few weeks that Foster sneaked into his house.
At first, Atticus had thought Foster’s actions were driven by a need to protect his family.
With that in mind, he had stuck to his usual boring but stringent daily routine.
His life wasn’t exciting. Death threats aside, Atticus lived the dull existence of a very wealthy man.
He had no one. At least things had been that way before Tracker, but still.
None of the other brothers ever reached out to him to hang out like he always imagined friends did.
Foster was a totally different story. The guy had gotten bolder with each visit.
Atticus had known his every move. In fact, his presence had Atticus stepping up his game with his sparring matches.
So much so that he had finally made Jamal hate him.
He expected Jamal would quit soon. The poor guy didn’t get paid enough to lose fights four nights a week, especially when he was a retired boxing champion.
Jamal had perfected his skills in at least fifty martial arts styles his old trainer had missed.
It wasn’t his fault Atticus had mastered hundreds of fighting techniques long before him.
Growing up, he had to be the best at everything.
Weak men wouldn’t survive his life. He knew Foster understood that.
So Atticus had savored giving him a show on the mat.
The lightbulb moment of uncovering Foster’s intentions hadn’t come until Atticus had given him a different kind of show.
That night had been hot as hell, knowing Foster’s eyes had been on him for every second of the hours he had spent edging.
If nothing else, he had stamina, and once again, he had to be perfect.
Anything less than flawless was a failure.
The one thing Atticus never did was suffer defeat.
Then, there was last night. If he hadn’t been so damn worried Foster might have gotten shot, he might not have shown his hand.
In fact, he imagined it would’ve been quite entertaining to see how Foster followed him to a different room.
With the hours it took to scrub a crime scene, he probably would have spent the entire night trapped.
Instead, Atticus had called him out and then made the dumbest decision of his life. He slept with Foster.
They hadn’t fucked or even kissed. Atticus had genuinely slept.
He was so well-rested, he felt like a new man.
Now, Atticus couldn’t stop thinking about him.
This was new territory for him. Atticus never thought about anyone else.
That was why he was in fucking therapy. He wondered if he’d had some sort of breakthrough or if he simply baffled himself.
Atticus did not sleep with people. They screwed, and he left.
Always in that order. No one came to his house.
That was his sanctuary. Why was Foster different?
This morning, Foster had been gone when he woke. Maybe he hadn’t stayed the night after all. It was possible Foster had slipped away the moment Atticus fell asleep. That had to be it.
Atticus hit the speaker button on his phone and then pressed one. The phone rang forever before Kirkland finally answered.
“Sorry about that, Atty. No one else around here seems to know how to answer a phone.”
Atticus smiled. He could practically see Kirkland’s disapproving look as he stared down any nearby staff. “They don’t answer because you’d have their heads for getting above themselves.”
Kirkland gave a slightly mollified sniff. “I suppose that’s true. How can I be of service?”
“What time did my guest leave?” Atticus knew Kirkland would know. Nothing happened in his home Kirkland didn’t know about.
“He left around five fifteen this morning.”
Damn. He had stayed and then left ten minutes before Atticus' alarm. “Interesting. I suppose I’ll have to hunt down his number.”
“No need. He wrote a phone number on the notepad by the door. I assume it’s his.”
The satisfied grin that stretched across his lips should have been illegal. “Read it to me, and I’ll find out.”
Atticus plotted as he memorized the number read to him. “I appreciate your diligence.”
“Of course.” The phone disconnected. Kirkland knew he didn’t do small talk.
He dialed the number and listened to it ring. “Who is this?”
The growled words were definitely Foster's. It felt like Foster always spoke to him in that tone. “Good. I just wanted to confirm it was you.” Atticus chuckled as he disconnected the call. Let the games begin.
Foster stared at the device he held. That had definitely been Atticus’ haughty voice.
Foster shook his head as he saved Atticus’ number to his phone.
He didn’t know why he had left a way for Atticus to reach him.
Nothing would come of them. It just seemed kind of shitty to bail with no way for Atticus to stay in touch.
Foster didn’t actually know the proper etiquette after last night.
While he had definitely slept with other people, Foster had experienced nothing like his night with Atticus.
The entire affair had felt intimate with zero intimacy.
Now, there was something funny going on with his chest and stomach, and Atticus had just called and hung up.
Atticus confused the fuck out of him. The phone in his hand shook, startling Foster.
Atticus: I’ve known about your voyeuristic visits for a little over three weeks. How long has this actually been going on?
Atticus: Side note. I don’t like talking on the phone. That’s why I cut our call short. I only wanted to make sure I had the right number before I started sending nudes and whatnot.
A laugh burst from Foster after reading the second text. Unfortunately, the first message was the one that stuck. Atticus had known he was there for three weeks. That meant…
Foster: Six. So you mean to tell me that hot as fuck edging session happened with full knowledge I watched?
As he sent the message, Foster already regretted his words. His disbelief had run with his fingers, typing out some sort of fucked-up text damning himself.
Atticus: Yep.
The second Atticus’ response showed on his phone, Foster closed his eyes and groaned.
Atticus couldn’t be for real. Foster had thought that show would kill him.
He wasn’t about to jack off in the closet like some sort of insane pervert.
Like, yeah. He had watched every second, but blowing cum all over the guy’s clothes seemed a step too far.
When he had gotten home, that was a different story.
Atticus: Did I scare you away?
Foster: No, I’m just processing.
Atticus: Take your time. I have three more hours to kill before my next meeting.
Foster chuckled. Only Atticus would tell him to take his time and then give him a time limit.
Atticus: On second thought, you actually owe me nudes. You’ve seen what I have to offer.
The way Foster’s stomach muscles clenched at the idea of what Atticus had to offer had him petrified. But he wouldn’t back out of the conversation and look like a pussy.
Foster: Yeah, I don’t do nudes so some pervert, i.e. you, can make me into an AI porno.
Atticus: I don’t need nudes to do that. Luckily for you, I have some class. Plus, why make a video when I can have the real thing?
Foster blew out a slow breath. Not once had Foster found himself in this position. At least, not with anyone like Atticus. He was more of a one-night-only guy.
Foster: You’re ridiculously sure of yourself.
Atticus: Why have you been watching me?
Fuck. There it was. Why had he been watching Atticus? All Foster had was honesty.
Foster: I don’t know.
Atticus: You have time to think about it. Let me know over dinner. My place. Seven.
Foster didn’t even think.
Foster: I’ll see you then.
An odd sense of disappointment washed over him. Foster enjoyed their conversation more than he expected. They were so different, but then again, they weren’t. Either way, he didn’t want to get back to reality. This was the most fun he had ever had.
Atticus: I tried for thirty seconds to be reasonable. Worst thirty seconds of my life, by the way. But I find myself impatient. Come to my office. We’ll have lunch.
Again, Foster didn’t think. His fingers were on autopilot and knew what Foster really wanted.
Foster: It’ll take me at least half an hour to get there.
He wouldn’t pretend he didn’t know where Atticus worked.
Atticus: I can entertain myself that long.
Goddamn yes, he could. Foster had witnessed his talent firsthand, and wow.
Foster: On my way.
Foster stood and shoved his phone in his pocket.
He jogged down the stairs, crammed his feet into a pair of shoes, and was out the door.
Thankfully, none of his brothers were around to stop him.
He feared for anyone who slowed him down now.
Maybe he couldn’t find the words to explain why he couldn’t stay away, but Foster also wasn’t one to lie to himself.
Atticus had him twisted into knots. Foster had to find out why.