Chapter Five
It took Atticus much longer than necessary to recognize the feeling gnawing at his gut.
He was nervous. Atticus never got anxious.
That would require shame and/or fear. Atticus possessed neither.
Still, he sat and then stood. Atticus moved spots, trying to find the most casual pose as he waited for Foster.
He felt like a dumbass, especially since he was somewhere different each time Kirkland passed.
By the time the tracker he had an employee place on Foster’s car showed him in the driveway, Atticus was a mess.
He headed for the door, uncaring he paid Kirkland for that.
At least answering the door was better than trying to look unaffected in a carefully placed chair. He didn’t know how to be normal.
It felt like it took forever for the doorbell to ring. He waited to the count of five, and then, through Kirkland shooting him a dirty look for taking his job, before he answered.
Foster stood on the other side, holding the tracker. He tossed it. Atticus automatically caught the tag.
Foster stepped around him and into the house. “Don’t do that shit again. I’m driving one of Beau’s cars. If that had been found by anyone other than me, you’d be having a totally different night.”
Atticus shut the door and tossed the tracker onto the sideboard. “What? You can stalk me, but I can’t return the favor?”
While holding his stare, looking as intense as always, Foster snagged the tag where Atticus dropped it. He put it in his pocket. “Do your worst.”
A smile exploded across his face. He didn’t meet people who matched his insanity often.
As if proving his thoughts correct, Foster backed Atticus against the door. His mouth covered Atticus’ at the same moment Atticus’ back hit the wooden surface behind him.
Atticus gripped Foster’s shirt, doing his best to cling to reality.
Then Foster pulled away and turned, showing his back to Atticus. “Would you like to order dinner or something?”
Atticus would not be dismissed. He swept Foster’s legs and then caught him on the way down. In one swift move, he had Foster on the floor and straddled his body.
Foster’s eyes flashed with humor. “Has anyone ever told you that you lack patience?”
“All the time,” Kirkland said, strolling past.
Atticus growled. “Do you two plan to whip me into shape?” An image of Foster whipping him flashed through his mind.
“I can practically see the images in your head.”
Atticus’ eyebrows rose. “And?”
Foster massaged Atticus’ ass. His voice turned guttural. “You know my kink. That isn’t it.”
Atticus didn’t give up. “I could get someone else to discipline me while you watch.”
Foster’s face hardened. Showing a sexy level of strength, he stood and set Atticus on his feet.
“I also don’t share. Maybe this was a bad idea.
I have a feeling you’ll get bored with me pretty fast.” His hands lifted and fell.
“You likely won’t ever think about me again if I stay. It’s best we forget this happened.”
Before Atticus had time to stop reeling and decide if Foster was fucking serious, Foster was out the door. Atticus stared at the empty place where Foster had been, blinking in confusion. Everything had happened in a flash. Atticus couldn’t keep up with the hot to cold.
“What just happened?”
Kirkland was nowhere to be seen, but Atticus knew the man didn’t miss a thing.
He poked his head around the corner into the front foyer, where Atticus still stood. “It seems you’ve met someone who wants more than sex from you.”
Atticus searched his mind as he held Kirkland’s light brown gaze. “What?” Even to Atticus’ ears, he sounded confused and annoyed.
Kirkland disappeared again. His voice trailed in his wake. “Don’t ask for an opinion and then shoot the messenger. Figure it out for your damn self.”
Atticus’ temper went up a notch at Kirkland’s irritation. What the fuck was going on all around him? His uncle was all stirred up again. Probably because he owed someone bigger than him a lot of money. Not Atticus’ problem. Foster had him confused as hell, and now Kirkland was in a huff.
He pinched the spot between his eyes. All that earlier anxiety for nothing.
He should change and go to Affinity. Atticus could always find a partner for the night there.
He climbed the stairs, heading for his bedroom.
Each step he took, he got heavier. The list of things he wasn’t sick of was a fuck-ton easier to recount than the list of things he was totally done with.
Maybe that wasn’t true. There was only one thing on his list of total disgust: everything.
He stood in the center of his bedroom and fell into his thoughts.
There was something gnawing at his gut, and Atticus couldn’t figure out what.
Obviously, he was enraged about the entire Foster thing.
But there was this other deep emotion dragging him down.
It felt a lot like sadness. That was not something Atticus allowed himself to feel.
All that nonsense had been drained from him ages ago.
Yet here he was, getting swallowed by dark, draining thoughts.
A lump formed in his throat. What the hell was wrong with him?
Kirkland sailed into the room holding a bundle of clothes. He set them on the bed. “The Range Rover has been brought around.” He met and held Atticus’ stare. “You are not a coward.”
Once alone again, he let Kirkland’s words fill him.
He crept toward the bed and inspected the clothes.
It was one of his mission outfits. All black and unrestricting.
Determination built inside him. If Foster wanted to act deranged and stalk him, Atticus could show him what unhinged really looked like.
He could guarantee Foster had never met anyone like him before.
Foster didn’t know how low Atticus would go. He was about to find out.
Foster stayed lost in his thoughts all the way home.
When he pulled into the garage, he didn’t even remember the drive.
He swayed dramatically between thinking he had done the right thing and kicking himself.
That had been such a dumbass move. He could be coated in sweat and begging by now. He was an idiot.
Foster rubbed his chest. On the other hand, Foster didn’t understand what he felt.
The idea of Atticus walking away from him after only one night left him sick.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t taken long for Foster to see exactly where things were headed the moment Atticus straddled him.
Foster had dedicated so many nights to fantasizing and dreaming.
Anything less than everything felt less than not enough.
A single night felt cheap and piddling. Not at all what he had worked for.
God, he was so fucked. He was so very screwed in the head.
He had no idea how long he sat there. Staying in the car solved nothing.
He climbed out and headed for the door. A slight movement caught his attention.
Foster didn’t turn and give away that he had seen.
He focused on his periphery as he made his way inside.
Foster headed for the kitchen and waited.
He grabbed a bottle of water while all his senses stayed locked on whoever sneaked around their home.
In his heart, he knew it was Atticus. No one else had the skills to get this far unseen and past Tracker’s perimeter alarms. Foster drank his water as he nonchalantly pulled his phone from his pocket.
He clicked around, quickly checking the location of the tracker he had placed on Atticus’ most driven car.
It took everything he had not to react when he saw the Range Rover’s location.
It looked as if it was parked in the middle of a field half a mile away.
Foster shouldn’t be happy about Atticus continuing this game, but he was.
Every time Atticus didn’t back down, Foster’s obsession grew.
He headed to his bedroom. Since he was on the main floor, he knew Atticus wouldn’t have to work hard to follow.
He had gotten past the hard part. Foster had to admit, Atticus had balls of steel.
If he had gotten caught before Foster spotted him, he would already be dead.
Now, Foster could intervene on his behalf if he had to.
He had Foster curious, though. Why was he even here?
Inside his bedroom, Foster peeled off his shirt and tossed it aside.
He purposely left the door open while he took his time, gathering a towel and whatnot for his shower.
Foster got the water going before he closed the door.
He hadn’t seen Atticus slip inside, but he felt him there.
He didn’t close the bathroom door. Not only was that pointless, but he had to make sure Atticus got a show.
It was hard as hell not to smile. Fuck, what was it about this guy?
Foster had never thought of himself as a masochist, but damn.
He couldn’t seem to get enough of Atticus tormenting his mind.
When he stripped, Foster didn’t take his time.
He undressed exactly as he would if he were alone.
As he stepped inside the shower, he was grateful for the clear glass.
Hot water hit him from several directions.
Foster closed his eyes and pictured Atticus.
At lunch, there had been times when Atticus’ guard had fallen.
Behind the cockiness was a needy man, starving for something real.
It was like looking into a mirror. The same blast of disappointment hit him again.
Needy or not, Atticus wouldn’t accept more than sex.
Foster had spent too long aching and watching to settle.
He didn’t know if he still wanted to give Atticus a show.
Another thought sneaked in. He recalled exactly how he had felt when Atticus had spent that night stroking himself for Foster’s amusement. The memory alone had Foster’s erection growing. In his entire life, he couldn’t recall wanting anything as badly as he yearned to be in that bed with Atticus.
Foster reached down and stroked himself.
With his eyes closed, he held on to the vision Atticus had created.
His toes curled as he fought for control.
The hand pumping his cock was no longer for show.
He had thought Atticus would be his tonight.
Foster had done nothing except dream since their lunch together.
He already knew Atticus would be amazing.
Pressure climbed his shaft. He was about to look like a two-pump chump, but goddamn.
Atticus watched, and Foster craved. It was such a volatile combination.
Lava burned under his skin. A fiery desire grew bigger.
The passion would burn him down eventually.
Ecstasy tickled his crown. Just like Atticus, Foster had to let go.
A powerful orgasm rocked him. He leaned against the wall.
Atticus’ name fell from his lips in a whisper.
As his temperature dropped, so did his heart.
His disappointment in himself was thick.
Foster had run from that goddamn Russian hell camp, telling himself he would never be weak again.
He would never be at anyone else’s mercy.
Somehow, he found himself a slave to Atticus.
He had to stop. It was time to fucking stop.
He had walked away from Atticus tonight with a final decision made. Foster had to save himself.
He stumbled out of the shower and grabbed a towel. Foster haphazardly wrapped the material around his waist while he went for his phone. Through blurry eyes, he found the number he searched for and hit the call icon. Thankfully, Crisp answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Hey, man. How’s Hawaii treating you?” When their brother Scout had married a Bosi guard who lived at Beau’s property in Hawaii, Crisp and Tidy had chosen to stay as well.
In a horrible twist of DNA testing, it turned out the pair were no relation to anyone at all, while the rest of the gang had blood ties in some shocking ways.
Foster didn’t give a fuck; they were still his brothers.
He had always been closer to the pair than any of the rest. Blood meant nothing when it came to them.
“I’m actually loving it here. I miss you guys a lot sometimes, but you know…”
Yeah. He knew. Things had changed for him. Crisp no longer felt like their brother. He hurt and didn’t want anyone to know that. In Hawaii, he didn’t have to pretend.
Foster didn’t want to get into that now. “How do you feel about me heading that way? There’s never really been anything holding me here. Maybe I can come stay with you guys for a while.”
Crisp knew him. More than anyone, Crisp saw behind his mask of indifference. “I’d love that. But if you need someone to talk to now, I’m here. I have all the time in the world for you.”
A sad smile tugged at Foster’s lips. He sat on the edge of the bed.
There had been many nights, even before their escape, that Foster had spent entire nights talking to Crisp.
No one knew about that but them. Foster didn’t know why he couldn’t let anyone else see him as weak.
Then again, maybe he did know, but he couldn’t relive the nightmares.
Embracing his past with Crisp was better.
“I guess I’ve been missing you a lot these past few weeks. Without you here—” Foster stopped before he said anything that made Crisp feel guilty. Crisp deserved to be where he didn’t have to pretend.
“I haven’t been a very good friend lately. Obviously, I’m always just a phone call away, but I know you. I should’ve reached out.”
Foster’s gaze dropped to the floor. “No. We’re not kids anymore. You shouldn’t have to drop everything for me.” A snort escaped Foster. “Fuck, dude. I’m mentally spent.”
“Book your flight. First one out. I’ll pick you up at the airport.”
A sad smile kept finding his lips. He should feel awkward, but he didn’t. They had seen each other at lows no one should witness. This breakdown wasn’t even a blip in comparison. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll let you go and see what I can figure out.”
“Keep me posted. You know I love you, right?”
“Yeah. You know I love you, right?”
Crisp chuckled. It was a deep rumble that didn’t match his small stature. “Yeah.”
“Goodnight, Crispy.”
Crisp groaned and then disconnected the call. Foster caught himself genuinely smiling. He was making the right choice. Just like Tidy and Crisp, there was nothing for him here. It was time for him to rescue his sanity, before it was too late.