If so, where would that leave them? Would Carson and Slade get together tomorrow and swap stories? Would they use that as fuel for their passion while Atticus was in Dallas?
Atticus pulled back from Carson. “You know what? You two fucking deserve each other.”
He spun around, expecting to order Slade to move, but Slade wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere.
“If I don’t hear from you in a few days, I’ll take that to mean you’re done with me,” Carson said from behind him.
Atticus didn’t look back. He couldn’t.
***
Slade didn’t want to, but he walkedaway.
He strolled out of Carson’s house, away from Atticus, away from the temptation that was greater than he’d imagined it could be.
He understood why Atticus would think this was a game. It felt like one to Slade, too. And Carson was the puppet master, as always.
But this wasn’t a game. Not for him. Slade had developed a fascination with Atticus. Some might even call it an obsession. Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with Carson. But it was too late to convince Atticus of that. Carson had inserted himself between them, and there was no way to purge him at this point.
He tried to tell himself to accept it as he walked across the street to his house. It took tremendous effort not to look back, but he managed. He went inside, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, and headed for the couch. He resisted the urge to go to the window, to look out and see if Atticus was still there. To see whether Carson’s front door was shut.
But while he managed not to look, he didn’t have the same luck with reining in his thoughts.
Imagining Atticus and Carson together … it was a warped and twisted enigma. It turned him on and pissed him off in equal measure. And sure, he was jealous. There was no denying that. But of who? Atticus for getting what Slade had always wanted from Carson? Or Carson for getting the chance to be with Atticus?
Whichever direction it went, Slade knew for a fact his jealousy did not turn him on. Not in the least. It made his gut cramp, and there wasn’t a damn thing appealing about the feeling. He couldn’t understand how this could possibly turn Carson on.
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, attempting to eradicate the mental images of them together.
Slade growled when it was impossible to do. “Goddammit.”
The sound of a truck starting had him glancing at the window. It was Atticus’s. The gunmetal gray truck with shiny wheels was deceiving. It looked stock, but Atticus had tinkered under the hood because it had a distinct throaty purr.
He didn’t look out. He didn’t want to watch Atticus drive away, even though the idea of him leaving Carson’s house offered a glimmer of hope.
Tires squealed on asphalt, and Slade worried about Atticus’s state of mind. Obviously, he was pissed. He had every right to be.
That hope flickered brighter. Atticus had left Carson. That meant there was still a remote chance Slade could salvage things. Of course, six weeks of Atticus being in Dallas wasn’t going to do anything to resolve this situation. More like the opposite. By the time he came back, Atticus would’ve likely moved on.
Maybe Slade should take a page from Atticus’s playbook. He could take the next six weeks to purge all thoughts of Atticus from his system. He’d gotten good at ignoring Carson, pretending he didn’t exist. Provided he could steer clear of the man, he would have no problem.
He took a swig of his beer as he got to his feet. He headed for his bedroom. He pulled off his boots, stripped off his T-shirt, and was unbuttoning his jeans when he heard the rumble of an engine.
Was he imagining it? Or had Atticus come back? If so, whose house was he going to?
Slade stood motionless for a minute, two. Nearly five minutes passed before he accepted that Atticus had returned to Carson’s house.
Figured.
That was the way it worked. He was always the odd man out, left behind for bigger and better things. Ever since he got over his ex-wife leaving him, Slade had tried not to let it bother him. He was moving on. Moving forward. Still, the idea of Atticus rejecting him outright—choosing Carson over him—stung. A lot.
Slade took one step toward the bathroom when someone knocked on his front door.
His gut instantly twisted with both anticipation and worry, but he didn’t waste time. He spun around and darted for the door. He stumbled in his haste, keeping himself upright by slapping a palm on the wall in the hallway. He kept going, his breaths rushing in his lungs.
Not bothering to look, he opened the door and found Atticus standing there. The scowl on his face said he wasn’t happy to be there.
“I’m not here because he told me to,” Atticus seethed as he walked in without waiting for an invitation.
