“Christ,” Adam muttered, typing in the code for the room, then quickly pushing the door open.
Atticus couldn’t help but take inventory. The twins were there, side by side, both sitting forward when Jericho entered. August and Lucas were there. Lucas smiled and gave a friendly wave to Jericho, who returned it, earning a scowl from August. Archer sat in his usual seat, booted feet kicked up on the conference table, a glass in his hand.
There was only one person missing. “Where’s Dad?”
Everybody shrugged, looking around at each other, as if one of them might have the answer. When none were forthcoming, Atticus sighed. “This is Jericho. He needs our help.”
Asa cocked a brow, making a show of checking him out. “I can think of a number of things I’d like to help him out with.”
Avi snickered, eyes squinting like he was trying to do a calculus problem. He pointed a finger back and forth between Atticus and Jericho. “Wait. Are you two—” He poked his finger through a hole he’d made with his other fist, his look salacious. Atticus could feel himself turning crimson.
Jericho’s hand encircled his wrist, his thumb stroking the delicate inner skin there in a way that was strangely soothing. “Does it matter?” Jericho asked Avi, the edge in his words and his expression telling his brother to tread carefully.
“Oh, this one’s protective,” Avi said. “Look at him. He’s pissed. Atticus finally got himself a guard dog.”
“Hope he’s better on assignment than Atticus is. We don’t have the manpower needed to clean up after two idiots,” Adam said, staring a hole through Jericho.
“You got something you wanna say, pretty boy?” Jericho asked, inclining his head in a way Atticus found both sexy and alarming.
“I just did,” Adam replied, affect flat. “We can’t afford anybody around here who doesn’t know how to take care of themselves, and your new boyfriend tends to screw things up…a lot.”
Atticus shook his head. If Adam brought up that fucking meat clever incident one more time, Atticus was going to use it dissect Adam’s head from his body. But before he could say a word, Jericho was talking.
“I can handle myself just fine. And the way I hear it, maybe you should worry about yourself. Didn’t you meet your man by fucking up a job and letting him get the jump on you? That was you, right? Seems to me you’ve done some fucking up of your own, so I’d be real careful who you go calling a fucking idiot, ‘cause from where I’m standing, you certainly don’t look like no fucking MENSA candidate.”
“I am.”
Asa and Avi both started laughing as Jericho’s gaze cut to August. “What?”
August gave an almost reptilian smile. “I’m a member of MENSA. Have been since I was four. But you’re right. Adam is an idiot. And he’s going to apologize or sit there and keep his mouth shut.” He threw a sharp look at their brother, who took to pouting as usual. The big baby. August gestured to the two empty seats. “Please, sit down. Ignore them.”
Atticus had never been so…relieved that Lucas had somehow sanded down August’s rough edges. Marriage had been good for him, good for both of them. They were settled, had a routine, a life together. Hell, they were even talking about having kids.
The idea had always seemed claustrophobic to Atticus. Not marriage in general but the intimacy between them. Kendra had seemed safe because Atticus had known he’d never truly have to worry about her wanting to share space…emotionally. Something he’d never be capable of.
But Lucas and August, they were so in tune with each other, they were sometimes one consciousness. Literally. That had always seemed like such an invasive and stifling thing until Jericho. He fit into Atticus’s life so easily. Jericho made Atticus look forward to things. A text. Dinner. A movie. Sex. Until Jericho, Atticus had mostly just been an observer. Permanently benched. But now, after just a few days, they were so immersed in each other’s lives. What would that look like in a month? A year? How intertwined could their lives get before they no longer knew where one ended and the other began?
The door opened and shut with an almost imperceptible click. Atticus’s eyes went wide at the sight of his father. In all the years Atticus had been a Mulvaney, he’d never seen Thomas look anything but his best. Even when his father had gotten pneumonia ten years ago, he’d still looked polished, put together.
The man dragging himself into the room was not the man he knew. He wore sweatpants and a t-shirt. Atticus hadn’t even known the man owned sweatpants. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find out Thomas went to the gym in business casual.
They all stared as he walked directly to the bar and poured himself a drink before plunking down at the end of the table and taking a big sip. He gave each one of them a hard look—the same look August had given Adam only moments before. Nobody said anything, just stared. Even Archer seemed taken aback. But that could have just been because Thomas was stealing the liquor.
Thomas slapped at the button on the speakerphone in the center of the room, barking, “You there, Calliope?”
There was the distinct sound of somebody tsking. “Yes, but I won’t be for long if you’re going to snap at me like that. I’m not one of the kids, bucko.”
Heads all swiveled from the speaker to Thomas, waiting for him to explode. Instead, he sighed. “My apologies, Callie. I have a migraine.”
Calliope snorted, tone unforgiving. “I would, too, if I’d spent the last two days marinating in booze like you’re Archer.”
Archer tipped his glass towards the speaker as if Calliope could see him. “They don’t call it getting pickled for nothing.” He looked to his father. “The key is to never get sober. You have to make your organs afraid. Make them work with the booze, not against it.”
“Can we save the lecture for when my head isn’t pounding?” Thomas asked, tone pleading.
Calliope was the only person who ever seemed to get through to Thomas, the only one who could get away with questioning him.
Atticus pinched the bridge of his nose with the hand Jericho wasn’t holding hostage. “Can we get to why we came?”
