Off Course, page 13
She’d promised herself she wouldn’t even consider a relationship with anyone until she found one who would treat her with respect, someone who would love her and her daughter. Someone who would make them happy.
Not that Evan was that man. But her imaginary version of him was.
Despite his emotional distance, Evan Vaughn was everything Becs had ever wanted in a life partner. And she’d spent plenty of years dreaming up the perfect man, the perfect relationship. She wasn’t an idiot. She knew neither was attainable, but a happily ever after certainly was.
Ten years ago, Becs would’ve turned her nose up at a guy like Evan. Her mother said she was a glutton for punishment. She wasn’t wrong. Becs had self-deprecating tendencies, never believing she was worth something more, something better. Hence spending years with an emotionally and sometimes physically abusive man.
As the cab pulled up to the hotel, Becs texted Evan to tell him she would be going to bed soon and that she was checking in one last time for the night.
His response came as she was in the elevator.
Call me when you get a minute. I need to tell you something.
She read the text message several times while walking the long, brightly lit hallway to her room.
She grinned at her reflection as she got ready for bed, washing her makeup off and brushing her teeth.
Her heart was practically beating out of her chest by the time she was crawling into bed. There was a flutter in her belly that made her feel both giddy and nauseous, not a particularly great combination.
Becs dialed Evan’s number and waited, holding her breath until he answered.
“Hey,” he greeted softly.
“Hey back,” she said with a smile she could hardly contain. “Is everything okay?”
“Yep. Girls did great today. My mom got them to sleep around eight. They asked for pancakes in the morning.”
“Pancakes, huh? I didn’t know you were a pancake guy.”
“I’m not. Kaye’s cooking.”
Becs chuckled.
“How’s the field assignment going?”
“Good.” She leaned against the padded headboard. “Not much progress, but it’s an interesting case. Reese and Brantley did get confirmation that Deck was at the club with Saoirse. They’re convinced Deck hadn’t been working for her.”
“So he was hanging out?”
“Looks like it.” Becs worried her lip for a moment. “What do you think that means? Do you think he was here to meet someone else?”
“Here as in New York?”
“Yeah.” Becs couldn’t seem to see a clear picture. There were too many variables, and none of the pieces were lining up. It seemed the more they learned, the more convoluted it was becoming.
“I think it’s going to require some more information.”
Becs agreed. Now, it was a matter of figuring out where to get that information. They would find it. She had faith in the team. They were good at what they did, especially when they put all their minds together.
“Tomorrow’s a new day,” Becs mused, her smile growing as she listened to Evan breathe on the other end of the phone.
God, she missed him.
“I … um … I wanted to talk to you about … what happened last night.”
Becs felt her elation bubble pop. It was in the inflection of his words, a subtle but undeniable negative tone.
“Sure.” She swallowed past the ball of dread clogging her throat. “What’s up?”
He didn’t speak, but she could hear him breathing.
“Evan?”
“Sorry. I really don’t know how to say this.”
And there it was. The inevitable it’s me, not you speech was coming, speeding toward her like a Mack truck. Becs had no desire to be in its path, so she decided to get there first.
“You don’t have to say anything,” she blurted. “I get it, Evan. I’m not expecting anything from you. That kiss … it was great, but I know it didn’t mean anything.”
“Becs…”
“No,” she said more firmly. “It’s not you, it’s me, I know. I’m not the—”
“Wow,” he grumbled. “I guess now I know where I stand with you, huh?”
“What?”
“You’ve got it all worked out in your head, Becs. You’re just waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“No, I’m—”
“You’re already expecting me to let you down.”
That wasn’t true! It was the other way around. She expected him to realize he could do much better than her.
Her throat constricted. “No. I just…”
“You just what, Becs? You think I’m already having second thoughts.”
“I…” She wanted to deny it, but they both knew it would be a lie, so Becs opted for honesty. “Yes. Fine. You’re right. I think you regret that kiss, and though I’ve been telling myself it was amazing and pretending you felt the same, I know better than that. I—”
“Becs, stop.”
She clasped her lips together, her hand tightening on the phone. She didn’t want to cry, but she felt the urge. It took remarkable strength to hold back the tears, but somehow she managed.
Evan sighed. “You’re right. It was amazing, and up until about ten seconds ago, I was feeling the same. However, I don’t think now is the right time for…”
He left the sentence hanging, and her brain filled it in with a dozen different things. Fortunately, she kept them all to herself.
“I get it,” she said.
Becs was familiar with rejection. Too familiar, really.
The silence lingered long enough to stifle the air around her.
Finally, Evan said, “I’ll let you go. Carly’s doing fine.”
“Wait,” Becs said before he could hang up.
“What?”
“What … um … what did you need to tell me?”
“Oh. Right.” Evan exhaled heavily. “I’ll be there tomorrow. In New York. Brantley called me tonight and told me he needs me there. Kaye’s fine watching the girls.”
Becs’s heart slowed, and she was sure she had forgotten to breathe. Evan was coming to New York. He would be there with her.
And she’d just screwed it all up by being her normal, pessimistic self.
Lovely.
***
As Atticus walked into the hotel room, he was ready to land face-down in his bed.
The night had been a bust. He’d managed to talk to every employee at the club—at least everyone he’d seen—and no one had recognized Decker’s photo. The same couldn’t be said for Saoirse. They all recognized her, but the problem with flashing pictures of famous people was that no one recalled where they’d seen her. More than likely, it had been on their Instagram or TikTok feed rather than serving her drinks personally.
But Atticus had done his due diligence because that was his job. And while he traipsed through the club on the hunt for employees, Slade had spent the majority of his evening drooling over Becs while Becs did her best to blend in with the crowd. It had become apparent about ten minutes in that she wasn’t comfortable in the place, but she was a relatively good actress. Probably would’ve been better if Slade’s eyes hadn’t been burning holes through her the entire night.
Like he said, the entire night was a bust.
Not even the limited information Brantley and Reese had collected would make up for it. They had nothing more to go on than when they went in. Only more questions.
Fortunately, it was time to crash, and it was still early enough Atticus could catch a decent nap before the day started again. Unfortunately, the hotel room wasn’t the kind that had two queen beds in a single room. This one had a separate bedroom space, and the couch folded out into a bed. Atticus had offered to take the couch when they first arrived. It had been his attempt to apologize to Slade for what went down at Moonshiners last night. Slade’s response had been a grunt, which Atticus took as confirmation.
“You need in the bathroom?” Slade asked.
Yeah, this room wasn’t meant to be occupied by co-workers. The bathroom was in the bedroom, which meant Atticus would have to go into Slade’s room if he needed to use it.
“Nah,” he said, figuring he would go down to the bathroom in the lobby if he needed to go before Slade was up.
“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 Slade run back 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?
“I’d prefer not to talk about my co-worker or his kinky sex games, thank you very much.”
“What would you prefer to talk about?”
“You.”
“Didn’t you get enough of me last night?”
“Not even close,” Atticus muttered.
He swore he heard a smile in Carson’s voice when he said, “Is that so?”
“Maybe next time we hang out, we can do it while sober.”
“I think I can make that happen. When do you think that’ll be?”
Atticus stared up at the dark ceiling, grinning like an idiot. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a phone conversation with a man. A man he’d been interested in, at least. Even if he had, he was fairly certain it would’ve been done via text, not speech. That was the way of the world nowadays.
“I don’t know,” Atticus answered. “We’re in New York right now.”
“New York? Seriously?”
“Yep.” Atticus sighed.
“You travel often?”
“The task force does. And since I’m now part of it, I’ve become a wanderer.”
Carson was quiet for a moment, and Atticus didn’t feel the need to talk. He was comfortable listening to the man breathe on the other end of the phone. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine Carson beside him. Only if they were in the same room, he would bet money they would be doing something that required more effort than this.
“I can’t stop thinkin’ about you,” Carson whispered.
The words swam through Atticus’s bloodstream, thickening his cock and making his skin prickle with heat.
“I seem to be having the same problem,” he admitted.
“Yeah?” There was a rustling sound followed by, “What exactly do you think about?”
Jesus. When was the last time a man made him blush? Atticus could feel his cheeks heating, and the tips of his ears were warm.
“I’ll tell you what I think about,” Carson continued, his voice low and sexy. “I think about what would’ve happened if you’d been in my bed when I woke up this mornin’.”
“What would’ve happened?” Atticus’s voice cracked.
“You would’ve been nekkid. It’s my bed. My rules.” Carson chuckled. “I would’ve watched you sleep for a few minutes. When I started pullin’ the sheet down, you would’ve stirred, coming awake slowly. But when I licked your nipple, your entire body would’ve jumped to attention.”
Atticus hummed softly, his fingertip brushing his nipple.
“Are you touchin’ yourself, Atticus?”
“Not yet,” he lied, his voice sturdier than he expected it to be. “But keep talkin’ like that, and I will be.”
“I want you to,” Carson rasped. “I wanna make you come like this. I wanna hear your voice in my ear when you do.”
This was surreal. He’d met the man last night, and for the first time in his life, Atticus had resisted temptation. Was this his reward for it? If so, he was going to begin a life on the straight and narrow.
“Is the room dark?” Carson asked.
“Yeah.”
“Are you covered up?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“I want you to pull the sheet slowly—”
“Blanket,” Atticus corrected, although as soon as the word was out, he wasn’t sure why it mattered.
Carson chuckled. “Slowly pull the blanket down. Let it scrape against your nipple.”
Atticus glanced at the closed door to Slade’s room, praying the man didn’t come out because once he started this, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop. The last thing he wanted was to make things weird with Slade.
He pulled the blanket down his torso, leaving his lower half covered.
“Now lick the tip of your finger and drag it over your nipple. Imagine that’s my tongue.”
Atticus did as Carson instructed, moaning as he imagined the man’s mouth on him.
“I won’t stop there,” Carson continued. “Imagine my lips trailin’ down your stomach while I pull the blanket back to reveal your beautiful cock.”
Beautiful? Atticus wasn’t sure his dick qualified as beautiful. Granted, it wasn’t gross or ugly either, so yeah, he’d go with it.
Atticus’s cock flexed and twitched, tenting the blanket. His hand followed the imaginary movement, pushing the blanket aside and shoving his boxers down until he was fisting his erection.
“I’m gonna take you in my mouth, Atticus. I’m gonna suck and lick until you’re beggin’ for mercy. Is that what you want?”
“Yes,” he whispered. “God, yes.”
“Is your cock hard?”
“So fuckin’ hard.”
“Mine, too. I’m strokin’ it, Atticus. I’ve jacked off three times today thinkin’ about you. It’s drivin’ me crazy. I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you.”
Two months ago, according to Carson’s admission last night. Whether that was true, Atticus didn’t know, but he couldn’t fathom why Carson would lie.
“Wrap your fist tightly around yourself and stroke your dick for me, Atticus.”
He groaned softly, tugging and rubbing while Carson’s smooth, raspy voice sounded in his ear.
“Fuck, I wish you were here,” Carson said, the tension in his voice growing. “I want you beneath me. I want to slide my dick inside you. I want to feel that tight ring squeeze me while I push deeper. I wanna look you in the eye while I do so I can see the pleasure on your face.”
Atticus was going to come. He’d never done this before. Never had a man tell him what he wanted to do to him. Most of his encounters were cut and dry. Fucking for the sake of fucking. Limited pleasure. Nothing like this. The anticipation was building, and Atticus knew even if he came right now, it wouldn’t matter. He would be hard for Carson come morning. He would be thinking about this moment for days.
“I want you to come for me, Atticus. I want you to come when I do.”
He grunted again. “I’m so fucking close, Carson. Oh, God.”
“I wish you were here,” Carson said. “I want you in my bed. Fuck. I need to touch you, to taste you. I wanna feel you.”
