Gripping the steering wheel, Atticus took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
One beer. That’s it.
Forcing himself to get out, he opened the door. He took his time, not wanting to rush.
He looked around.
He checked to ensure he had his cell phone.
Checked again.
Locked the truck.
Made sure it was really locked.
Checked for his wallet.
Pulled out his wallet.
Opened it.
Put it away again.
And while he was wasting time, more vehicles pulled into the parking lot. None of them belonging to Slade or Carson, thank God.
But at this rate, there wouldn’t be a stool at the bar.
***
Carson sat at a table near theback wall, watching the door.
He hadn’t told Atticus when he would be there, but he expected to see the man by now. Based on Atticus’s history, he came in before the crowd, usually grabbing a beer at the bar and chatting with Rafe or Mack for a little while before moving on to talk to others he knew.
Yeah, it was safe to say Carson had spent too much time watching the man. Far too much since it had been for weeks on end now. Last night was the first time Carson got up the nerve to approach him, and that was only because he’d indulged a little more than he should have.
He wasn’t doing that tonight, though. Carson wanted to show Atticus that he was serious about whatever this was going on between them. Since Atticus had spent most of the day with Slade, there was a good chance Atticus was ready to leave him in the dust. Carson wouldn’t necessarily blame him. Certainly not if Slade had told him how shitty Carson had treated him.
And he had. In his defense, he’d gotten so caught up in the game, so addicted to the high that came from watching Slade with other men. He hadn’t intended for that to happen, but even now, there was a familiar tightening in his groin when he remembered the first time. It had been right here in this bar, in fact.
“Hey. Who’s your friend?” Carson asked as he walked up to Slade.
He’d spent the past ten minutes talking to people, watching as the blond guy approached Slade, clearly interested based on his body language.
Slade glanced at Carson and then back to the stranger on the bar stool next to him.
“Name’s Phillip,” the guy said, reaching around Slade to shake Carson’s hand.
Carson returned the gesture, then smiled at Slade. He could tell Slade was confused. Couldn’t blame him. Technically, Carson was here with Slade since he’d extended the invitation, and Slade had accepted. Not to mention, Carson didn’t make a habit of introducing himself to people. Certainly, not random people who were sitting beside Slade.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Phillip said, watching them closely.
“Oh, no,” Carson told him before Slade could say otherwise. “We’re just friends.”
That seemed to please Phillip because his brown eyes glittered as they once again shifted to Slade.
“Friends,” Slade grumbled, clearly not as keen on the idea as his new friend.
Friends who fucked each other, sure, but friends nonetheless.
