He could feel himself starting to turn red. “That’s not the point.”
“What is the point then? You work all the time. You are at Thomas’s beck and call. You have zero vices. You’re essentially an android just waiting to mirror the next stranger you meet. Maybe you aren’t even into him, maybe you’re just treating him the way he wants to treat you?”
Atticus gave it the consideration it deserved, but then dismissed it. Mirroring people was second-nature to him, but he had an awareness of it. He did it when it served his needs. It was useful for acquiring grant money, networking, and convincing the world that he wasn’t dead inside. “That’s not how that works. If I could just figure out what this feeling is, I could just move on with my life.”
“I mean, how would you describe your normal mood? Like, do you feel happy or sad? I know you feel irritation and rage. I’ve seen it first-hand. But when you’re not around other people, how do you feel?”
His brows knitted together. “I don’t.”
Noah’s jaw dropped. “You don’t?”
He shrugged. “Why would I?”
Atticus watched as Noah tried to connect the dots. “So, when you don’t have somebody whose behavior you can mirror, you just shut off? You don’t have a show that makes you happy or music that makes you feel relaxed?”
Atticus frowned. “What? Why would fictional characters make me happy? And music is simply a collection of notes. It’s pleasant, I guess.”
Noah scrunched up his face. “Oof. Okay, we don’t have to unpack all of that, but I’m going to say this. If this guy makes you feel anything at all, maybe you should just lean into it and see what happens. Worst case scenario you have really great sex…or really mediocre sex. Either way, you got off. This could be really good for you.”
Atticus wanted to dismiss the idea just because it was Noah who had it, but maybe he was right. Maybe once all the tension had released in the form of physical intimacy, maybe then he could just forget about Jericho once and for all and get back to his normal life.
“I’ll think about it.”
* * *
Atticus did think about it. He thought about nothing else until almost nine o’clock that night. Calliope had found Jericho with little effort. Atticus had his address five minutes after he’d called. He was a mechanic. Owned his own shop in a rough neighborhood on the other side of town, a shop he apparently lived over.
Atticus had told himself he would wait a few days just to make sure this was really something he wanted to do and not him just having some kind of midlife crisis. Instead, he paced about his too-silent apartment thinking about the weight and taste of Jericho’s dick until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He switched into a pair of black joggers and a gray hoodie, making sure he left his expensive watch at home. When he couldn’t think of anything else to distract himself, he ordered an Uber. No way he was leaving the Volvo to get stripped down to the frame and scrapped for parts.
The ride to Jericho’s was excruciating. He opened his mouth at least a dozen times to tell the driver to turn around, but he snapped it closed each time. Jericho had told him the ball was in his court. He’d said that. Sort of. But he hadn’t asked him to show up at his house unannounced. But Atticus hadn’t invited him to his office for oral sex, so he supposed that made them even.
Once the driver dumped him outside of the door just to the side of the office, he stood there with his finger hovering over the buzzer, trying to convince himself to turn around and go home but, instead, standing there like an idiot. When a group of rowdy teens walked by and gave him a strange look, he finally jabbed at the button on the call box.
Almost immediately, a harsh rasp came through the speaker. “Yeah?” Had he woken him? Maybe he should go. Still, he stood there, willing the words to come. “Hello?”
He had to say something. “It’s me—um, Atticus.” Silence stretched between them for so long that he finally just said, “I’ll go.”
There was the distinct sound of a lock disengaging. “It’s open.”
Atticus pulled the door open, taking the steps two at a time. The staircase didn’t end at a door but spilled out into an open space with a glass wall that looked down into the workshop below. There was a couch pushed against the glass and a fairly expensive television sitting on a coffee table at viewing distance. There was a small kitchen tucked away in the corner and closed doors on either side of the space. Bedrooms maybe.
Jericho was standing in the small kitchen space, shirtless, barefoot, those same jeans from earlier slung low on his hips. The colorful sleeve tattoo bled onto his shoulder and covered half of his chest. He had a beer in his hand and he looked…hot, but also rough, like he’d somehow fought a war since Atticus had seen him just hours ago. He floated closer, uncertainty growing as the distance between them narrowed until they were standing just a few feet apart.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Jericho said, eyes glassy. “Definitely not this soon.”
Atticus shrugged. “Me neither.”
“You probably shouldn’t be here right now,” Jericho warned, taking another swig from his beer bottle.
Atticus’s brow hooked upwards. “Why’s that?”
Jericho pressed fingers against his eyes, rubbing hard. “I’m just… I’m not in a good headspace right now.”
“Then why did you let me up?” Atticus asked, not offended, just genuinely curious.
When Jericho raised his head again, his expression was bleak. “Because part of me doesn’t want to be alone. Part of me wants to take my bad mood out on you.”
Goosebumps erupted along Atticus’s skin, his nipples hardening and cock stirring. He stepped into Jericho’s space. “Okay.”
