Lucas’s eyes were still firmly clamped shut, likely immersed in the tragic last hours of Mercy’s life. “I’m sweating b-but I’m s-so cold. My stomach hurts bad. Like I swallowed a bottle of acid. I’m so thirsty. I try to say something, but my tongue feels too big for my mouth.”
“Somebody’s there with you?” Atticus asked.
“There’s a man there. In scrubs. They’re dirty. He’s dirty. Greasy hair, bad teeth. He’s playing a game on his phone. I can hear the music. It’s annoyingly upbeat. My throat hurts. I try to talk but he just looks up and then back to his game. I hate this place. It was nothing like they said.”
Atticus glanced at Jericho, who was still standing there, dumbstruck. “Like who said?”
Lucas dropped Mercy’s hand, stumbling backwards. “I’m sorry. That’s all I could get.” He turned to the sink, quickly washing his hands before splashing water on his face. “She was very…disoriented at the end.”
“Thank you,” Jericho managed, voice shredded.
Lucas gave Atticus a hard look, then a nod towards Jericho. He was clearly trying to give them some kind of signal, but it was lost on Atticus, as most things seemed to be. Lucas shook his head, giving a slight wave as he left the room.
Before Atticus could speak, Jericho was stomping to the exit as well, forcing Atticus to jog to catch up.
Jericho appeared to have zero interest whether Atticus followed or not. He tried not to take that personally. A woman in a tight black dress and a lanyard walked towards them from down the hall. When she passed, Jericho barked, “Bathroom?”
The startled employee pointed vaguely down the hall, then side-stepped Jericho and scurried away as Jericho continued to trudge down the hall like a man on a mission.
Atticus put a hand on his shoulder, but it didn’t slow Jericho down. “Are you okay? I mean, I know you’re not okay, but are you okay to—I don’t know—drive? Function? Be alone?”
“I’m fine,” Jericho muttered gruffly.
That was a lie. Jericho was most definitely not okay. When he entered the bathroom, Atticus followed, locking the door behind him. Jericho gave him an irritated look just as Atticus realized it was a single restroom with only a toilet and a sink. Did Jericho really have to use the bathroom? Honestly, Atticus didn’t care. He didn’t think it was a good idea to leave him alone.
Jericho’s nostrils flared, but there was a resignation in his eyes. “I can’t do this with you right now.”
He sounded…tired.
Atticus frowned. “Do what?”
Jericho gestured between them. “This. Whatever this is. I can’t…be nice right now.”
Atticus’s brows knitted together. “Have I ever asked you to be nice?”
Jericho slammed his fist into the ugly blue tile. “I’m serious. I feel like I’m two seconds away from snapping. I need to punch something, hit something, rip it apart. I’m so fucking angry.”
Atticus caught his gaze. “You can hit me. I’d consider it a personal favor if you avoided my face. I already get enough shit from my brothers about my botched jobs. But if hitting me will make you feel better, go ahead.”
Jericho stared at him for a full minute, his chest rising and falling rapidly, searching Atticus’s face, like he was trying to read a foreign language. Atticus didn’t see him move, didn’t even register it until he hit the wall, the frigid tiles bleeding through the thin dress shirt. Jericho’s hand was around his neck.
For a split second, Atticus truly expected Jericho’s fist to connect with his face. But instead, he crashed their lips together, their teeth colliding before Jericho forced his tongue into Atticus’s mouth. Atticus didn’t fight him. He relaxed against the wall, letting Jericho take what he wanted. He would let Jericho do whatever he needed to feel better. His father would say it was the right thing to do.
Okay, maybe Thomas wouldn’t have said this particular way of soothing Jericho was the right thing to do, but the sentiment was the same. But this was obviously what Jericho needed. He was frenzied—his kisses gluttonous, his hands brutal, fingers squeezing Atticus’s throat as he nipped at his lips, bit his jaw, tugged on his earlobe with his teeth.
When Jericho guided Atticus’s hand to his zipper, he didn’t hesitate, undoing his pants one handed before plunging inside to wrap his palm around Jericho’s only half-hard cock. The angle was awkward with barely any room for Atticus to touch Jericho the way he wanted, but it didn’t seem to matter. Jericho suddenly buried his face against Atticus’s neck, working himself into his tightened fist as a ragged sob fell from his lips.
It was Atticus who felt like he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know how to make this better for Jericho. All he could do was hold him. He cupped the back of his head, focusing on his panting breaths as Jericho clung to him, desperately chasing his release, his tears hot on Atticus’s skin.
There was nothing sexy about it. It was raw, and sweaty, and even a little painful. Atticus wasn’t even hard. It wasn’t about that. It wasn’t about the sex. It was about…comfort. It was about giving Jericho some kind of pressure release before he hurt himself or somebody else.
Some part of Atticus admitted he was doing this for purely selfish reasons. If Jericho was going to lose it, if he was going to try to fuck his way into forgetting what he’d seen—what he’d learned—it was going to be with Atticus. Nobody else. He wasn’t going to dissect the why of it. If Jericho needed somebody, it was going to be him. Just him.
Jericho groaned, his release spilling over Atticus’s hand. When he made no move to pull away, Atticus just held him tighter. He didn’t know what else to do. Jericho was still crying. Atticus could feel his tears soaking his collar. He didn’t rush him, just raked his fingers through his hair, hoping he found the motion as calming as Atticus had when he was a child. Comfort had been rare back then—something that occurred only in those brief moments where his mother was sober—but he’d liked the feeling. It had been…soothing. Jericho needed soothing.
When he finally stepped back, he wiped at his now puffy eyes with the back of his hands, clearing his throat before reaching down and fixing his clothing. “You want…” His gaze fell squarely on Atticus’s crotch.
Atticus followed his eyes, then shook his head. “No. No, I’m good. For now,” he added lamely.
