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“Later, kids,” I tease, wink at Troy, and walk away, leaving the club altogether. Brenner and Taylor are busy doing their own shit tonight anyway.
When I’m outside, I order a car service, then send one last text.
Me: You owe me.
When the Jetta pulls up to the curb, I climb in, smiling the whole way home.
23
Troy
Atlas brings outsomething wicked in me.
Well, that’s not exactly true. It’s already there, lurking in my mind, and for some reason, when he’s around—or when I think about him—this wicked Troy comes out to play.
It’s the Troy who can’t stop thinking about marking him. About kissing him. About opening him up.
When he jerked me off in the bar, my head was spinning, my nerves on edge. Someone would catch us, I was sure of it. But with his hand stroking my cock, his eyes locked on mine, and the promise of getting to soak him again, it was more than I could bear. And fuck if being in public didn’t make it that much hotter.
“You owe me.”
Yes, I do, and now I can’t stop thinking about all the naughty ways I want to pay him back, even as we have our dinner date with Mom and Glen.
I pick at the spaghetti risotto, thinking how nice it’ll be to stop by McDonald’s with Atlas when we’re finished here.
The conversation is pretty typical. Glen drones on about work—some merger his company’s working on. And Mom asks about school. Atlas has been talking about how we hung at a bar together last night, and I keep waiting for him to say,“Oh, and I jerked off your son, Ellie. Got his cum all over me because he’s a messy boy.”But the closest he gets is, “And who gave youthat pretty mark on your neck?”—a subject I’m relieved Glen and Mom don’t want to get into.
But outside of the expected shit-giving, Atlas is being good. At least, as good as can be expected from Atlas. And Glen has set a world record in not saying something douchey to his son, but of course, I know life well enough to know when it’s about to kick you in the balls.
“Madison sure didn’t have your talent in the kitchen,” Glen says as he savors some sauce on his fork.
Mom’s eyes go wide at how inappropriate that comment was. Glen must know it too since he looks casually to his son. It’s like a fucked-up loyalty test, and I can’t imagine why he’d do that since he knows it’s not a test Atlas has any interest in passing.
“I’m sure she had her own set of skills,” Mom says. Always the desperate peacekeeper.
“You’re too nice. She knew that wasn’t something she was good at. She wouldn’t mind.”
Atlas’s face is beet red now, and I’m amazed he’s had enough self-restraint not to say anything, when he finally says, “Mom loved cooking. You know that.”
“Just because you love a thing doesn’t mean you’re great at it.”
Why is this conversation happening? How do I stop this full-speed train from flying off the edge of a cliff?
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything,” Glen says, like he can just erase his comment, which I’m sure only came up because he wanted to plant it into Atlas’s mind…for what reason, I can’t even imagine.
Atlas starts like he’s going to say something, but then bites his tongue. His chair screeches against the floor as he hops to his feet and bolts. I figure he might just bolt out the door, but I hear him heading upstairs.
“I have some cookie-dough ice cream in the freezer if you want that for dessert,” Mom says, pretending that fucking mess didn’t just happen.
But no amount of my favorite ice cream is going to keep me from giving Glen dagger eyes. Glen notices, and says, “He’s too sensitive for how long it’s been. Just histrionics.”
Fucking prick. This is a new low, even for him.
The first weekend Atlas has been in a good mood being here in…forever, and it’s like Glen just wanted to fuck with him to bring him back down.
“I’m gonna go check on him,” I say, pushing my untouched plate away, and get up from my seat. “Think I’m done with my dinner anyway.”
Now I’m being a bit of an ass since I barely bothered to make my plate look like I’d eaten anything.
