Page 80 of To Have and To Hold
The fresh air helped reduce the buzzing in his head. Enough that he was able to walk to the door.
He took several deep breaths, fumbling in his pocket for his keys. He frowned when he came up empty.
“Son of a bitch.”
Evan pulled out his phone, found his text message app, and shot a quick message. He stood there, silently, patiently.
A minute later, the front door opened.
“Evan?”
He smiled.
“What are you doing here?”
His brain was swimming, but not so much that he couldn’t make a coherent sentence.
“You’re the most beautiful woman in the world. You know that?”
“Oh, God. You’re drunk, aren’t you?”
His smile didn’t fade.
It still didn’t falter a minute later when Becs let him into her house.
Chapter Twenty-One
Slade was built like a brick shithouse and weighed a fucking ton.
Atticus knew because he’d spent the past fifteen minutes trying to drag his drunk ass into the house. He’d passed out in the backseat, and when he roused as they were helping him out of the truck, he pretty much told them goodnight before he closed his eyes and fell into the equivalent of a drunken stupor coma. He was so out of it that he didn’t even open his eyes when Atticus knocked his head into the doorjamb.
On accident, of course. Mostly.
Regardless, the guy was going to feel like shit tomorrow, while Atticus was left feeling like shit tonight. Technically, he felt pretty damn good, seeing as he was in the same house with both Slade and Carson, but he was still holding onto some of the residual anger caused by seeing Slade’s ex-wife pawing at him like he was a tasty treat all night.
Now, here Atticus was, standing over Slade’s bed as he and Carson watched the man sleep. He’d stopped snoring, but Atticus didn’t know if that was good or bad.
“We really should try to get some aspirin and water into him,” Carson suggested.
Atticus took that as a cue to rummage through Slade’s medicine cabinet in the bathroom. He found all kinds of shit—a thermometer, tweezers, eye drops, Calamine lotion, and an unopened three-pack of toothbrushes. But no aspirin.
He looked under the sink but only found a Costco-worthy package of toilet paper. He then checked the closet. It was there he found Slade’s medicine stash, neatly displayed on one of those plastic spinning trays on one of the shelves. He had antibiotic ointment, allergy medicine, an antidiarrheal, more eye drops, some Band-Aids, and an open box of condoms. No aspirin, no Advil. Not even Tylenol.
When he returned to the bedroom, he shook his head as Carson walked into the room carrying a glass of water.
“I’ve got some at my house.” He passed the water to Atticus. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Atticus set the glass on the nightstand closest to Slade and stood there, staring down at him. He didn’t intend to do it, but he found himself brushing Slade’s hair back from his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” Slade mumbled, leaning toward Atticus’s touch.
“You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for.” And that much was true. Had Slade been sober, Atticus had a feeling tonight would’ve gone very differently.
Slade grabbed his wrist before he could pull his hand away. He held him gently, bringing Atticus’s hand to his mouth so he could press his lips to his palm. The sensation was quite possibly the most erotic thing he’d ever felt. He wasn’t sure why that was, but clearly, the very center of his hand was an erogenous zone.
Slade’s bloodshot eyes opened. “Don’t leave me.”
“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he assured him, ignoring the warmth that floated through his bloodstream.
