Kozy Kills - Atticus and Jericho - Part 3 (Patreon)

Unedited and unbeta'd. Hopeyou enjoy. (You can find the other chapters under the tags)

Unedited and unbeta'd. Hopeyou enjoy. (You can find the other chapters under the tags) 

Jericho 

Jericho rolled along the gravel drive of the murder cabin with a very grumpy Atticus riding shotgun. A faded blue van already sat parked outside, leaving just enough room for Jericho to slot in beside it. He turned in his seat to address his husband.

“Are you gonna sulk all night?” Jericho asked, chucking Atticus under the chin gently.

Atticus flicked his gaze towards him with the same level of hostility as Boots did when one of the boys tried to carry her around. But his freckles couldn’t be appeased with a little physical affection, at least not tonight. The handjob in the car on the way up had proven that. Even post orgasm Atticus—his fourth of the day, Jericho might add—had done nothing to stop the thunderstorm brewing in the seat beside him.

“I’m not sulking,” Atticus said, sulking.

Jericho tried not to laugh. “Tell that to your face, freckles.”

“This is all your fault.”

Jericho barked out a laugh. “How so?”

Atticus gave him a sullen look. “You were the one who mentioned the plug in the first place.”

“You were taking credit for that plug just a few hours ago, now its all my fault for putting the idea in your head? Wow,” Jericho said, dragging out the word, then shaking his head, unable to hide his mirth. “I’ve never seen someone get off so many times and still be this cranky.”

“It’s not your ass that’s been used and abused for the greater part of twelve hours,” Atticus reminded him.

Jericho grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him into his space. “You didn’t have to put the plug back in after I fucked you senseless at your father’s house. You chose to.”

Atticus turned a delicious shade of pink. “I didn’t want to be…leaking. Do you have any idea how full I am right now?”

Jericho couldn’t stop the growl that erupted at Atticus’s almost bashful words. “No, freckles. How full are you? Tell me?”

Pink turned to crimson as he stared pointedly out the window, ignoring Jericho’s request.

Fuck, he loved this man. He didn’t get how others didn’t see how much fun Atticus was without even trying. The more closed off and disagreeable he was, the more Jericho wanted to break him down and make him beg.

“Come on. Don’t be mean. It’s our date night,” Jericho reminded, nuzzling the spot just behind one red ear. “As soon as we kill this guy, I promise I will make you feel so good.”

Atticus somehow ignored him harder.

Oof. From pillow princess to ice princess in record time. “Again, baby. You could have just taken the plug out when we were at the mansion.”

“And done what with it, exactly? Stuck it in my pocket?”

“Sure. They already caught us fucking in the bathroom, how much more embarrassing would that have been?” Jericho shrugged, then added. “Well, embarrassing for you. I don’t give a shit.”

“Can we just get this over with?”

Jericho sighed, placing a lingering kiss on Atticus’s cheek. “Sure, freckles. Let’s go kill this fucking guy so I can turn that frown upside down for good.”

Jericho wanted to try to sympathize with his husband, he really did. But watching Atticus edge himself for hours was pretty much the highlight of his week, maybe even his month. And as much as Atticus whined and pouted and acted like he was pissed, deep down Jericho knew he thrived on this, loved feeling like he was just a toy for Jericho to play with.

Which is fine with him. Jericho was never more turned on than when Atticus let him use him in whatever ways he saw fit. Even all this bratting he was doing now was just foreplay, all part of the game. If Atticus had wanted to stop playing, he really could have just ended it when he was bent over the bathroom sink at the mansion. But he hadn’t. Because he loved this, loved the sensation, loved the attention, loved being able to pout and sulk and wind Jericho up.

And they both knew.

But that didn’t make Atticus any more comfortable. Apparently all it took was a few unpaved roads to make their bathroom quickie at Thomas’s no longer enough to nullify Atticus’s current condition. If Jericho had spent the last hour with a toy up his ass, vibrating and jolting with every dip and rut in the road, he would have been out of sorts too.

“Look at it this way, baby. You can walk in there and take all your frustrations out on the piece of shit who helped torment your dad. That should be fun…right?”

“I guess,’ Atticus muttered.

“I brought your favorite granola bars and your latest AMA journal just in case you get bored. I don’t mind finishing up for you.”

“Thanks,” Atticus managed, somewhat begrudgingly.

Arsen, Seven and Lake waited just inside the cabin. There was also a man dangling from the rafter by his wrists. He had a rag wrapped tightly around his head and his lower face was coated in dried blood. His socked feet barely grazed the floor, causing him to balance on his big toes. There was something seriously wrong with the man’s ankles. He stared at Jericho with beady reptilian eyes, just…watching.

“Oh, hey,” Arsen said, as if they weren’t all casually chatting around a man swinging at the end of a rope like a worm on a fish hook. “We didn’t know how you would want him, but he would not stop trying to run away. So we…improvised.”

Seven grinned, kicking the man’s ankle, drawing a guttural shout from him from behind his gag. Still, the man wasn’t scared. He was pissed.

“Can’t run if your feet don’t touch the ground,” Seven said, giving the man a shove and laughing, delighted, as he began to twirl.

The man—who, according to Thomas, was named Jimmy Lee Jones—closed his eyes like he was trying to pretend they weren’t there.

“What’s up with his feet?” Atticus asked, tilting his head to study the man’s misshapen limbs.

Seven shrugged. “We may have also broken his ankles.”

“Just a little bit,” Lake said with a grin. “You know, just in case.”

“Just in case?” Jericho prompted, looking at each of the three boys. “In case what?”

Lake grimaced and pointed to his pant leg. “In case he tried to impale one of us again.”

“He stabbed one of you so you decided to hobble him?” Atticus asked. “But his hands are tied. Why so…extra?”

“It wasn’t his hands that were the problem,” Seven said, grimacing. “It was his feet.”

“He stabbed you with his foot?” Jericho asked, looking at his husband to see if he was just as confused. From the look on his face, he most definitely was.

“The fucker was packing a hidden weapon,” Lake said, glaring at hanging man. “He got me with a fucking razor he had on the end of his boot.”

It was only then Jericho noticed the tear in Lake’s bloody jeans. “What?”

“I’m not fucking kidding, bro,” Lake said, pointing to the expensive, but insanely ugly, turquoise cowboy boots sitting on the counter. “There was a razor on his boot. Like some kind of Bond villain or some shit.”

Jericho walked to the counter and picked one up, examining it closely. They appeared to be snakeskin, probably custom made, weirdly flashy for a serial killer. There was, in fact, a razor custom fit onto the toe. Lake was right, he was like a caricature of a bad guy.

What an asshole.

Atticus grabbed his pack from Jericho’s shoulder and snatched Lake by the upper arm, dragging him to the large wooden table and forcing him to sit. Jericho took in their captive. He wasn’t much to look at. He had a sparse hairline, a deceptively doughy face and thin lips. He wasn’t as young as Jericho expected either, easily pushing sixty.

His clothes—dark jeans and an embroidered button-down—were filthy and sweat-soaked. As Jericho took him in, Jimmy’s eyes popped open, returning Jericho’s gaze.

He didn’t look like much. But these guys never did. That’s how they got away with so much. He was the kind of person who you wouldn’t usually notice if not for bizarre manner of dress. But if you made the mistake of making eye contact, you’d instantly know there was something…missing in him.

The man continued to blink at him owlishly, eerily silent.

“Why’s he so quiet?” Jericho asked suspiciously, glancing between Seven and Arsen.

Arsen shrugged, making his Russian accent comically heavy. “He would not stop screaming, so I tell him if he don’t shut up, I cut out his tongue.”

“And that worked?” Jericho asked.

Arsen scrunched up his face in a way that instantly made alarm bells go off in Jericho’s head. “Not until a provided demonstration.”

“What the hell does that mean, Arsen?” Jericho asked, amused and concerned in equal measure.

Arsen smirked, staring at the hanging man. “I just…took a bit off the top.”

“A tiny bit off the top? It’s not a haircut, kid. Explain?” Jericho questioned, watching Atticus cut up Lake’s pant leg with bandage scissors, revealing an angry one inch gash across the boy’s thigh.

“You know that expression ‘it’s on the tip of my tongue?’” Seven asked with a snicker. “He won’t ever be able to say that again.”

Jericho snorted, shaking his head.

Lake hissed. “Ow, man. Be gentle. I know you like it rough but some of us are…delicate.”

Atticus was on his knees in front of the boy, pouring a clear liquid over the wound.

“It’s just sterile water,” Atticus said, cheeks going pink even as he pretended to ignore Lake’s comment.

Jericho hid his smile. There was a time when Atticus would have been furious at the boys’ teasing. But not now. Now Atticus was a cream puff, letting the older boys get away with almost as much as the younger ones.

Atticus used a combination of glue and steri-strips to hold the wound together, fussing over Lake like he was one of their smaller children. “You need to be more careful. If he’d managed to kick just a little higher, he could have nicked your femoral artery. You would have bled out before we even got her,” Atticus lectured, though without any real heat behind it.

They’d all come a long way in learning to live in each other’s worlds. The kids—especially Felix—had given Atticus a really hard time in the beginning and Atticus had pretended he didn’t care. But Jericho knew it was a lie. Atticus not only wanted to be accepted, he needed it. He needed that validation he was only just now starting to get from his father and brothers.

He had that with their little found family. He’d die if the kids knew it was Atticus who insisted nobody miss a weekly family dinner, if anyone knew it was Atticus who fretted about sending the boys out on assignment. It hadn’t happened overnight but—over time—Atticus had truly become the perfect step-father to Jericho’s lost boys. And now to their own kids. Their own kids.

Sometimes it seems unreal. Jericho couldn’t have imagined in his wildest dreams that Atticus would ever have agreed to throw away their perfectly happy, organized white-furniture life, for two little hellions with sticky hands and a million issues.

Atticus was a better father than Jericho. He’d never believe it if Jericho said so, but it was true. It was Atticus who kept up with their schedules and dressed their wounds. It was Atticus they ran to when they had a nightmare.

Jericho wasn’t even mad. It honestly just turned him on how good Atticus was at literally everything. Each day, Jericho grew more and more convinced that Thomas had made a mistake with his husband. Atticus loved him. He loved their boys. All of their boys. He was no psychopath.

Jericho pulled himself from his thoughts as he heard Lake say, “But he didn’t. And I didn’t. It’s all good, freckles.”

Atticus pinched the boy’s uninjured thigh at the nickname, causing him to yelp, before standing. He pointed at each of the boys. “You guys get home. It’s late and I know two of you have classes tomorrow.”

The three boys exchanged looks, then nodded warily, making their way out the door as Atticus added, “Be careful. Those roads are treacherous at night.”

Seven laughed. “Yes, mom.”

Atticus gave him the finger, but he was smiling.

Finally, Jericho turned back to the man currently rotating like a bloody ballerina in a music box. “Looks like it's just the three of us.”

Jimmy mumbled something behind his gag, but didn’t scream or cry or shout. Maybe the boys had taken more of his tongue then they’d thought? Or maybe Jimmy was the type determined to die with dignity. They’d see about that.

Jericho tugged Jimmy’s gag down. The man continued to stare back at him with those beady eyes.

“Really, not going to put up any fuss at all? Where’s the fun in that?” Jericho asked, setting him swinging once more.

Jimmy remained silent, blinking the sweat from his eyes. His heaving chest was the only indication Jericho had that the man was nervous. Or maybe he was just slowly asphyxiating from having his arms above his head. Either way…he was suffering and that was a start.

Atticus stomped across the room towards the hanging man, jabbing the bandage scissors into the soft skin just below the man’s ribs, earning a shocked, pained shout from the man. “My husband asked you a question.”

Jericho smiled. Freckles was feisty tonight.

“Why bothah,” the man managed, his tongue clearly swollen.

Jericho sighed. “What do you want to do, babe?”

Atticus went back to the counter, hopping up onto it then wincing and sliding back off quickly. Jericho stifled a laugh, earning a glare from his husband.

He gave Jimmy a thorough once over. “I’m already bored,” he said, frowning. “We have August’s saw right?”

Jericho nodded. “Yeah. What are you thinking?”

Atticus tilted his head, eyes flicking to the right like he was deep in thought. “I say…just start at his ankles and work your way up until he bleeds out. I can help if you want?”

“Nah, freckles. You just sit there and look pretty. I’ll be with you soon.”

“I’ll stand,” he said, deadpan. “Besides, I want to help,” Atticus insisted.

“Thanks, freckles,” Jericho said, smiling fondly. “If it’s dismemberment you want, it’s dismemberment you shall get.”

Jimmy made a noise of disgust, even as he dangled on his tip toes, then spit blood directly onto Jericho’s t-shirt.

Jericho stared at Jimmy for a long moment. “That’s just rude.”

Atticus sighed, giving Jericho a prissy, smug look. “And this is why we buy your kill clothes in bulk at Costco.”

Jericho scoffed. “We go to Costco cause you like to eat the samples and buy your granola bars in bulk.”

“All those things can be true at the same time,” Atticus said, sulky.

God, Jericho wanted to fuck the pout right off his face. “New plan, freckles. Let’s play a game. Hmm?”

Atticus shrugged, but smiled. Was he thinking of their first time there? “Sure. What did you have in mind?”

Jericho pulled a knife from his boot and cut the rope that held Jimmy’s arms over his head, watching with a bit of satisfaction as he fell to the floor. “Help me put the tarps under the table and over the surface.”

Together the two of them spread the plastic they always stocked in the murder cabin, then they dragged the squirming man to the table, placing him face up and securing his arms and legs to each table leg until he was starfished across the blue tarp. Jericho also wrapped rope around Jimmy’s chest and torso, earning a puzzled look from Atticus.

Jericho grinned. “You’ll see.”

Atticus shook his head, but said nothing.

“Okay, now where were we?” he said to Jimmy. “Oh, right.”

Jericho removed the cordless saw from the bag and hit the button to make sure it was sufficiently charged for what he needed. Getting through bone was sometimes too much for the saw if the battery was low. It tended to slow the process down.

For the first time, Jimmy looked leary, eyes following Jericho, or more to the point, the saw Jericho held.

He began to walk around Jimmy’s body, singing as he tapped the saw blade against each limb as he went. “One potato” Head. “Two potato.” Hand. “Three potato.” Arm. “Four.” Foot.

Jimmy’s eyes went wide as Jericho looked to Atticus who tied a tourniquet around the murderer’s ankle without even being asked. Jericho gave Jimmy a satisfied look, then hit the button, the saw firing to life.

August kept the thing in perfect condition, but sawing through an ankle was hard work, especially with all the screaming. By the time Jimmy’s foot hit the floor, Jericho was sweating.

“Well,” he said, cracking his neck on either side, then wiping his forearm over his now sweaty brow. Jimmy was making this whining keen, almost like he couldn’t help himself. Blood oozed from the stump sluggishly, but not enough for the man to lose consciousness. His already pasty complexion was now a disconcerting shade of bluish gray, like some disease-ridden Victorian child in an old movie.

“Round two?” Jericho asked Atticus.

Atticus looked at Jimmy, who shook his head frantically.

A slow smile spread across Atticus’s face. “Yeah, go ahead.”

“Five potato.” Hand. “Six potato.” Arm. “Seven potato.” Head. “More.” Hand.

“No, no, no, no, no,” the man begged, his words mangled.

They ignored the man. Atticus tied the tourniquet just above where Jericho would need to disarticulate the hand.

“Please. Just kill me. Just kill me,” he sputtered, his head jerking from one side to the other to look at Jericho and Atticus like he wasn’t sure which one was in charge. “Just fucking kill me.”

Atticus walked to the head of the table, planting a hand on either side of Jimmy so he could loom over him. “Do you even know who I am?”

“Should I?” the man barked.

“Oh, you most definitely should,” Jericho said. “Atticus Mulvaney.”

“Technically it’s Navarro-Mulvaney,” Atticus said. “But that’s splitting hairs, I suppose.”

Jimmy frowned, then they watched as the pieces started to click together. “You’re Thomas Mulvaney’s son,” he said, words slurred from either the tongue injury or maybe the blood loss. “All this for revenge? Your father won. Why not just leave us alone?”

“Because you’re a murderer,” Atticus spat.

“I’m not the one carving up a person in the middle of the woods,” Jimmy gasped.

“No, but you do like to hurt people,” Atticus said, still staring down at the man. “I read your file on the way up. Electricity, right? Metal bindings. Jumper cables.”

“So wh-”

“If I had known, we could have done the same to you. It would have even been sentimental.” He looked at Jericho with a fond smile. “Remember? Was that the first guy we tortured with the boys?”

Jericho grinned. “Yeah, in the garage. Then we cut off his toes and cauterized the wounds.”

Atticus sighed wistfully, pulling away from Jimmy. “Time really flies.” He looked down at Jimmy’s hand, now a grotesque shade of purple, then winced dramatically. “Oh, that doesn’t look good, Jimmy. I think we might have to amputate.”

“Do you want to do the honors,” Jericho asked.

Atticus seemed to think about it, then looked down at his henley and jeans, making a cutely disgruntled face. “These are twelve hundred dollar jeans. I don’t want to ruin them.”

“Okay, princess,” Jericho said, not in a teasing way.

Jimmy’s lip started to curl, but then Jericho’s blade met his wrist bone and suddenly listening to a man call another man princess didn’t seem like his highest priority.

After about ninety seconds, the hand hit the tarp with a wet thunk, making Atticus grimace. Jimmy was no longer pasty white but a rather unflattering shade of blue. He wouldn’t last much longer. “Do you want to turn the iron on, freckles? We could cauterize the wounds if you want to keep playing.”

Jimmy’s eyes bugged out of his head. “Please, no.”

Atticus glared at Jimmy. “This isn’t as fun as I hoped it would be. Let’s finish this and try to salvage date night.”

Jericho raked his gaze over his husband. “What’d you have in mind, baby?”

Atticus walked around Jericho and squeezed his shoulders in a way that made him groan. “Well, I was thinking…we can fuck in the shower here, than get takeout from Manny’s and eat it in front of the tv. We have a bunch of grown-up shows to catch up on.”

There was a time when Atticus hadn’t even owned a television. Now, he had a whole list of shows he couldn’t miss. It was crazy how far they’d come. “Sounds good. Let’s order ahead when we’re closer so we can go home and enjoy one more kid free night.”

Jimmy noticeably relaxed, eyes sliding shut, seemingly at peace.

Atticus noticed immediately, his jaw tightening. “Know what, baby? I changed my mind.”

Jimmy’s eyes flew open, his face a mask of horror.

Jericho raised a brow. “Yeah?”

Atticus nodded. “Cut off his ears and then we’re done.”

Jimmy’s eyes went impossibly wide as Jericho said, “Anything for you, babe.”

Atticus took in the blood on Jericho’s clothing. “I’m going to go start the shower.”

Jericho looked down at himself. He was covered in blood, bone fragments and God only knew what else. He stole a kiss as atticus passed, then slapped his ass, earning a yelp and a glare. “Meet you in there.”

Jericho turned back to Jimmy who was too close to dead to even scream. He gave it a shot when he lost the first ear, but wasn’t even conscious for the second. Jericho kept the tourniquets in place and just held his hand over the man’s nose and mouth until he stopped moving.

Once he was certain he had no pulse, he cut the ropes and gathered everything on top of the body—including his clothes—before tying it up into a neat bundle.

When he opened the bathroom door, Atticus was gloriously naked, his skin flushed, freckles obvious.

Jericho gave a grunt of satisfaction, then shoved Atticus under the water, following right behind him. They took turns washing each other between needy kisses, taking far more time than needed. They’d installed an extra large water heater for a reason. Jericho traced the muscles of Atticus’s back as he stood in front of him, finally letting his hand slide between the globes of Atticus’s ass. He gasped as Jericho applied pressure to the base.

Fuck. Jericho was already painfully hard. He needed to be back inside his husband. “Are you too sore?”

Atticus didn’t answer, just spread his legs and bent forward, pressing his forehead on the tile. His cock throbbed. “You’re so good for me, baby. Bending over like a good little whore.”

Atticus moaned, the sound echoing on the tile.

Jericho took his time, pulling at the plug but not removing it. When Atticus arched his back, Jericho almost freed it, but then fucked it back into him a few times until Atticus was panting.

“Does it hurt?” Jericho asked, fucking Atticus with the silicone toy, biting his shoulder to keep from ripping it out and slamming his cock back where it belonged.

“Yes,” Atticus hissed.

“But you still want me to fuck you. Don’t you, princess?”

“Yes,” Atticus managed, breathless.

Jericho pushed the plug back into place, then rubbed his already hard cock between Atticus’s cheeks, his skin already pink from the hot water. Jericho’s hands slipped around his hips, sliding along the v of his abs, but stopping short of his cock.

Atticus whined, rutting back on Jericho.

“So fucking needy,” Jericho chided, dripping with condescension. “Look at you. Such a slut. How many times have I fucked you today and still you’re rutting against me like a bitch. You need my cock that bad? Need me to fill you up again? Huh, little slut?”

Atticus groaned. “Yes,” he whispered.

Jericho stifled a groan. “What was that?” he taunted. “I couldn’t quite hear you.”

Atticus threw a look over his shoulder, locking eyes with him. “Fuck me, Jer. Please?” Jericho’s mouth fell open at his husband’s sudden boldness. “Fuck me so hard I feel it for a week. Breed me. Fill me up one last time.”

“Fuck, baby…”

Atticus dropped his head back to his forehead. “You promised you’d fuck me until it was leaking out of me. You promised. You promised.”

Fuck. Jericho grabbed the base of the plug and pulled it free unceremoniously, driving his cock into Atticus’s sloppy hole before the toy even hit the tile floor.

He groaned long and low, gripping Atticus’s hips tightly, holding him in pace so he could pound into him, setting a brutal pace from the outset, the sound of skin on skin could be heard over the rushing water. Jericho trailed one hand from his hip to Atticus’s hair, tangling in the wet strands and wrenching his head back, giving him leverage to bounce Atticus off his cock. “Fuck, freckles. You’re so hot inside, so sloppy and wet. You were meant for this, meant to be fucked and bred like a whore. My whore.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Atticus chanted. “Your whore. Just yours. Only yours.”

“That’s right. Just mine. I keep you well-fucked, don’t I, princess? You don’t need anyone else. I give you what you need. Fuck you full every night.”

“Oh, fuck. I’m so close,” Atticus wailed, his hand sliding towards his own flushed cock. Jericho snagged his hand and secured it behind his back.

“Uh-uh,” he taunted. “You can either come untouched while I fuck you or come when I’m finished using you. The choice is yours.”

Atticus rarely came without help, but that was part of the fun. Atticus needed Jericho to be a little mean, to bully him just a little. His neurotic, fussy scientist needed to feel like a well-used whore before he could come. And that suited Jericho just fine.

Jericho dropped his head between Atticus’s shoulder blades, sparks firing behind his closed eyelids every time he drove into that perfect wet heat. He wasn’t going to last. He could already feel that tell-tale heat spreading through him, jolts of pleasure cracking through him with each thrust.

Atticus just took it. He let Jericho use his body for his own pleasure. He always submitted so beautifully. He was so beautiful. So perfect. His perfect fucking husband. His perfect fucking whore.

“Fuck, baby. I’m gonna come. Gonna fill you up again.”

He clamped down on Atticus’s shoulders, his release punching out of him so hard his knees almost buckled. Even after he emptied himself inside, he continued to grind his hips, shivering at the oversensitivity that followed.

Atticus just waited, chest heaving. Waited for Jericho to give him his reward for being so good for him. He slipped free of Atticus’s body, spinning him around and shoving him up against the shower wall.

He dropped to his knees, swallowing Atticus down, even as he forced four fingers back inside, causing Atticus to make a strangled sound and grip Jericho’s hair tight enough to burn.

Atticus didn’t wait for Jericho to bob his head. He was too far gone. He held Jericho in a death grip and fucked himself deep into his throat, forcing him to relax or choke. Atticus watched him intently as he forced himself deeper, then ground himself back against his clever fingers, moaning like a whore every time Jericho hit that bundle of nerves.

“Fuck, Jer,” Atticus panted. “I’m so close. I’m so close. Please. Please.”

Jericho groaned around him, letting Atticus fuck impossibly deeper with each roll of his hips, using his fingers to abuse his prostate with intent until his husband became a babbling mess. “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” Atticus chanted, throwing his head back hard enough to crack against the tile. “I’m—”

That was all the warning Jericho got before Atticus flooded his mouth with his bitter release, his whole body shuddering. He pulled free and slid down the wall until he was sitting in front of Jericho, leaning his head against the tiles as he sucked in heaving breaths.

Jericho swallowed, then caught Atticus’s mouth in a filthy kiss. “That was so hot, baby. But, for real, are you okay?”

Atticus gave a breathy laugh. “I’ll live. But it's all handjobs and oral for the next few days. My ass is off limits.”

Jericho pouted. “Entirely off limits or can I at least kiss it and make it better?”

Atticus rolled his eyes. “As if I could stop you.”

They stood, turning the water off, taking their time drying off between kisses, then pulling clean clothes. When they exited the tiny, steamy bathroom, they stopped short. Jericho’s heart started rabbiting in his chest.

The body was gone.

Everything was gone.

Jericho crept closer to the now empty table, frowning when he saw the slip of paper. He picked it up, sagging with relief when he recognized the handwriting.

Had to circle back. Forgot my phone. We tried to let you know, but you were otherwise occupied. You’re right. Freckles is loud. We tossed the package in the lake for you and cleaned up so you guys can finish your date night.

~Arsen

Atticus looked at him. “I think I’ve had enough excitement for one night. Can we go home?”

Jericho nodded, then remembered to ask, “What do you want to do with the…” he pointed to the bathroom where the toy still sat in the shower.

Atticus gave him a smug look. “Leave it. It will be great revenge for all the stuff my brother’s have forced us to endure over the years.”

Jericho laughed. “Whatever you want, freckles. Whatever you want.”

“I want our couch, carbs and trash tv,” Atticus said.

Jericho shook his head. “I cannot believe those words just came out of your mouth.”

“Is that not what we agreed upon?” Atticus asked, prissy expression coming back, spine straightening.

“Lower the defenses, freckles. Yes, that’s exactly what we agreed upon. It sounds perfect.”

Atticus deflated against him, muttering, “That’s what I thought.”

Jericho laughed. “Let’s go home, princess.”