Atticus put the truck in park. “I haven’t decided yet. You live here by yourself?”
“Yeah.”
Atticus stared at the house. “Stable. Good job. Nice house.”
Carson looked at him. “What’s that?”
“Nothin’,” he grumbled. “I was just outlining all the reasons I should leave and never look back.”
Carson leaned forward and squinted out the windshield. “It ain’tthatnice.”
Atticus chuckled.
“You can sit out here and think on it,” Carson told him, reaching for the door handle. “I’m gonna go in and get some water.”
When Carson got out of the truck, Atticus had no choice but to follow.
Well, technically, he had a choice, but something told him not to let this guy get too far away. This was a first for Atticus, and while he was still confused about which path to take, he wasn’t ready to let Carson go completely.
He reached the front porch before Carson had made it into the house. He was listing to the left while trying to get the key to line up with the deadbolt. Atticus helped him along, unlocking the door and pushing it open.
“Thanks.” Carson stepped inside and flipped on a switch by the door. “I don’t usually drink this much.”
Atticus looked around. The house Carson claimed wasn’tthatnice was even nicer on the inside. The furniture matched, the painted walls were clean, and the hardwood floors gleamed. Maybe it wasn’t expensive shit, but it was definitely cared for.
“I knew I’d need some liquid courage to talk to you,” Carson continued as he ambled toward the kitchen.
Atticus followed.
Carson fumbled around but managed to get a glass and fill it with water. He held tight to the counter as though he might fall over if he let go.
“Is the room spinnin’? Carson drawled. “Or is it just me?”
Atticus smiled. “You need to sleep it off.”
Carson set the half-empty glass of water on the counter. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”
Atticus stood in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, watching as Carson headed toward a hallway that led to the back of the house.
“If you go, just flip the lock on your way out.”
Atticus debated, remaining firmly rooted to the floor. It wasn’t until he heard a loud thud that he followed the route Carson had taken. He found the man in his bedroom, a bedside lamp on, his Stetson sitting on top of the lampshade, and Carson draped across the bed, his long legs hanging halfway off, the toes of his boots on the floor.
At what point in his life had he become the caretaker, Atticus wondered as he helped Carson out, turning him so he was on the bed the right way, his head on a pillow.
“I want you to stay,” Carson whispered, his hand sliding under the edge of Atticus’s T-shirt.
Atticus knew he was fucked at that point.
Never in his life had anyone ever asked him to stay. Not ever.
Before he could tell Carson his plan, the man’s eyes closed, and his arm fell listlessly to the side. A soft snore sounded a moment later.
Atticus grinned, then proceeded to pull Carson’s boots off. He wasn’t sure how those jeans could possibly be comfortable to sleep in, but Atticus wasn’t about to help out with those. He was a lot of things, but Atticus had never taken advantage of a drunk man, and he didn’t intend to start now.
Leaving would’ve been the smart thing to do, but he couldn’t. For whatever reason, Atticus wanted to take Carson up on the offer of seeing him again, so he did the only thing he could think to do. He wandered back to the living room, dropped on the cushy leather sofa, and drifted off. If come morning, Carson still wanted to see him again, Atticus would give him his phone number, and they’d go from there.
If not, then no harm, no foul. At least this way, Atticus could walk away without leaving a piece of himself behind. Something told him Carson Briggs was the man who was going to slip under the protective walls he’d built around his heart, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for that.
