Page 3 of Watcher
“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 aboutninety-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 hadbeen 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.”
