Atticus trailed his finger from Jericho’s belly button to his waistband, liking the way the skin beneath jumped. “No. No way. My father has this strict moral code he lives by. He’d never cross that line. Aiden left for college and never came back. At least, not for long. Sometimes, he comes home for jobs, but he avoids Thomas. He always avoids Thomas.”
Atticus dipped his fingers below Jericho’s waistband just a bit, making Jericho’s breath hitch as he said, “How do you feel about this information?”
Atticus paused, trying to process if he felt any particular way about it. “I feel stupid for not having realized this was happening. I feel stressed because I know this is going to make my life harder, especially when the paper gets a hold of the dissolution.”
“Why would they care?”
“Because my father is a celebrity. He’s created this carefully crafted lie that we’re all one big, happy family. Every public event we attend is choreographed, an operation he plans right down to the minute.”
“You don’t feel bad for him?”
Atticus frowned, his fingers sweeping upwards. “No. I feel concerned that Thomas might fall off the deep end if he’s hurt and compromise all of us.”
“You don’t care about your father at all?” Jericho prompted.
“I don’t want him hurt. I am grateful to him for all he’s given us. I would…mourn the loss of him. He’s…my father. I don’t know how that translates into feelings of love or affection.”
Jericho’s hand moved lower, his fingertips sweeping along Atticus’s spine. “Why did you follow me into the bathroom this afternoon?”
Atticus blinked at the sudden shift in topic, finding it hard not to focus on his touch. “What?”
“Why did you follow me?”
Atticus frowned. “Because I knew you were upset.”
“And?” Jericho prompted.
“And I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Jericho’s lips brushed the top of his head. “Why?”
Atticus didn’t know where Jericho was going with this. “Because I don’t like when you’re upset.”
“Why?” Jericho asked, softer this time.
“Because I don’t like the way I feel when you’re upset.”
Jericho made a sound that rumbled against Atticus’s ear. “That sounds like an emotion to me.”
Atticus sighed. “I have emotions, just not the kind you’re looking for.”
“I think you’ve just convinced yourself that’s the case.”
“You saw me back at the cabin. Did I seem particularly emotional while you were cutting Trevor into bite-size pieces?” Atticus asked.
“Did I?” Jericho countered.
“Maybe you’re a psychopath, too.”
“Nah, Freckles. I just learned not to waste my feelings on people who don’t deserve them.”
“And who makes that determination?” Atticus asked.
Jericho’s chest rose and fell beneath his cheek. “In my neighborhood, I do.”
Atticus shifted, resting more of his weight on Jericho. “So, you named yourself judge, jury, and executioner?”
“No, I was…nominated for the position.”
