Page 4 of Watcher
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.
Chapter Three
WhileAtticusstaredata 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, hewasthe 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. Whatmattered 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.”
