“We need to be up by six,” Slade informed him before closing the door to the bedroom.
Atticus glanced at the clock on his phone screen. Thankfully, it wasn’t quite midnight, which meant if he closed his eyes now, he’d be fully functional come morning.
He tossed the couch pillows onto the floor and shoved the coffee table toward the wall so he could drag the ancient sofa bed out from its hiding space. The mattress unfolded with a bounce. Atticus glared at the paper-thin excuse for a sleeping surface. No way that thing was meant for comfort.
As he was pulling off his shirt, the bedroom door opened. Slade walked out, coming to an abrupt halt when he saw Atticus. His gaze skimmed over his chest before darting back to his face. Slade tossed a pillow and a blanket in his direction, then disappeared back inside the room.
Was it his imagination, or had Sladerunback into the room?
“Thanks,” Atticus muttered before stripping off the rest of his clothes, opting to sleep in his boxer shorts.
At least the blanket wasn’t scratchy.
Atticus clicked off the floor lamp in the corner, then flopped onto the bed. He grunted when a bar hit the middle of his back.
One day, he would have a real bed to sleep in again. One that hadn’t been slept in by God only knew how many other people. As it was, sleeping in a motel room each night was beginning to wear on him. At least here, he felt like he was on assignment. Back in Texas, he felt as though his existence was only temporary.
He grabbed his phone so he could set the alarm for five forty-five and noticed he had a text message from Carson.
Call me. I don’t care what time it is.
Atticus grinned, then pressed the icon to dial the number. A moment later, Carson’s gruff voice sounded in his ear.
“Where’re you sleepin’ tonight?” Carson asked.
“Hello to you, too,” Atticus replied, grinning from ear to fucking ear.
“Hey,” Carson said with a soft laugh. “Sorry. In my head, I’ve been talkin’ to you for a while now.”
“Really?” Atticus liked that Carson was thinking about him.
“I hope the bed you’re in tonight is more comfortable than my couch.”
“Not a bed,” Atticus corrected. “It’s a couch, but it folds out into what they think passes as a bed. Yours is more comfortable than this one,” Atticus admitted, trying to fluff the pillow under his head.
“You could always try my bed on for size.”
That simple invitation had Atticus’s dick swelling. It seemed to do that whenever he thought about Carson, which had been a problem for most of the day. He couldn’t stop thinking about the man. The only time he’d managed to maintain focus had been when he was talking to employees at the club. Before and after, he’d been plagued by thoughts of the sexy cowboy he’d met at the bar last night.
“Or not,” Carson added, sounding disappointed.
“It’s a very tempting offer,” Atticus said, keeping his voice down so he didn’t bother Slade.
“Why’re you whisperin’?”
“Slade’s sleepin’ in the next room.”
“Sharin’ a hotel room with another man. Should I be worried?”
Atticus chuckled. “I don’t know. You think Slade swings that way?”
Carson didn’t answer right away, but before Atticus could laugh it off, Carson said, “Rumor is he might’ve dipped his wick a time or two when he was with the missus.”
Atticus looked at the door to Slade’s bedroom, trying to imagine him with a man.
“Kinky sex games or some shit,” Carson added. “His wife was all about mixin’ it up.”
Hmm. That didn’t track for Atticus. He didn’t see Slade as the sharing type. Then again, from what he’d heard, that had been a long time ago, so who knows?
