Chapter 31 Atlas
Atlas
I sat in my car outside the bar, watching through the windows like some fucked-up stalker.
I sensed him close by, which meant he must have sensed me, too.
He’d be a fucking idiot not to. Of course, of all the stupid things he’d ever done, this would be the stupidest. Not to mention the most hurtful.
I could wring his pretty little neck. And when I got my hands on him, I would have to convince myself not to take it too far.
He left us. He fucking left us. Again.
And this was about getting him back, about convincing him that it was reckless and stupid to run off.
He’d always been self-deprecating, convinced he wasn’t strong enough for this life, that he’d be better suited to something easier, more normal. Well, tough.
We didn’t get to choose. We were warriors, and we were fated to be with Marta. After everything, after the liminal and the rituals and that one night of pure, agonizing bliss, nothing could convince me that wasn’t where we were meant to be.
The thing that pissed me off the most, the thing that really twisted my insides, was that he’d left me. All these years we’d spent together, attached at the hip, and he leaves without so much as a goodbye? No. I wouldn’t accept it.
That shit at St. Michael’s had punched a hole inside all of us, and where Marta had filled hers with depression and Wes had filled his with avoidance, mine simmered with rage.
I was angry. All the time. And the only time it abated was when we were together for that one blissful night. That had to mean something.
He rounded the corner at the other end of the bar to set drinks down in front of three people, and the sensation of being near him again sizzled up my spine like I’d been struck by an electrical wire.
His regret and shame coiled deep inside me, mixing with my fury, creating something tumultuous and turbulent.
He must have felt it, too. His back straightened, and he glanced over his shoulder to scan the place. I sank farther into the darkness.
“Atlas?” came the voice inside my head, the one I’d longed to hear for five weeks.
He looked like shit. Dark circles hung under his eyes, accentuating the puffy bags, and his cheekbones were even more pronounced.
Judging by the way his clothes hung off his body, I’d say he’d lost at least fifteen pounds.
Not eating. Just like Marta. Christ, these two were going to give me a damned stroke.
I purposely blocked him, trying to cut off the tether so he didn’t bolt. I knew my brother well enough. Once he realized I was here, he would run. And Gods above, I hoped he did.
After confirming he was, in fact, here, I went to the shitty pay-by-night motel where he was staying and parked around back.
The sign flickered on the dark street, making it seem more like a scene from a horror movie.
And I figured that fit the vibe well enough.
There’d be no sappy rom-com reunion here.
If things didn’t end in blood and violence, it wouldn’t be on brand for him and me.
I easily picked the lock and went inside, closing the door behind me and glancing around the empty space in the dark.
A few of his clothes were folded on the extra bed at the far end, and his backpack lay in the far corner, the light of his laptop echoing through the space.
Figuring I was in for the night, I sat in the cuck chair and waited.
His shift was finished in an hour, so it wouldn’t be too long before he showed up.
While I sat, I let my anger fester. I let it turn into a boiling, rotten thing deep inside me, one that consumed my soul so much it hurt to breathe.
I hoped he put up a fight. I hoped he ran.
I would need some way to get out this excess energy before I dragged him back to Asheville, forced him to his knees, and made him beg for Marta’s forgiveness.
Then, we’d both make him understand that running wasn’t an option, not anymore. He wanted to do these fucking rituals. He was the one who convinced me there was no other way. Now, we had to live with the consequences. He didn’t get to hide his head in the sand and pretend like it never happened.
My thoughts drifted back to that night in the parlor after they’d gone to bed. The vision of my father in the window still haunted me, but his words were part of the reason I came.
Don’t let him go.
Was this what he meant? Had Dad become a messenger of divination in the afterlife?
After all these weeks, I still didn’t understand it.
But I’d made my peace with it. I was the one who was supposed to look out for Wes, and I might spend the rest of my life proving I could.
But that was where Dad’s bullshit ended.
Being better, stronger, faster had gotten me here, sitting in a shitty motel in the dark with half my fucking heart in Asheville and the other half trying to hide from me.
There was no such thing as perfect, and I was fucking exhausted from trying.
Dad could get fucked.
A few minutes after midnight, his sulking presence inched up my spine again, and the key twisted in the lock. I braced myself as the door swung open and he flicked on the light.
“Hello, brother,” I said.
He startled and turned to face me, his features falling into a flat expression.
He must have known I was here. He must have felt me the same way I felt him.
Up close, I saw how the stress of being apart had affected him.
He looked even more gaunt and forlorn, and the emptiness behind his eyes sparked the overprotective drive that had always lived inside me.
I wanted to lash him for leaving me. I wanted to launch myself into his arms and never let him go again.
“Atlas,” he murmured.
I raised an eyebrow. “I’d say it’s good to see you, but you look like hell.”
He gulped, visibly swallowing down his shock and rancid anticipation.
“What are you doing here?” He stayed frozen to the spot, the door still open, the flashing red light from the motel sign adding to the scared aura he threw off.
I gave a sad laugh and tilted my head to the side. “What do you think I’m doing here?”
He glanced at his feet and curled his fingers into fists at his side. “How did you find me?”
“I’ve known you almost your entire life,” I said. “I’d find you anywhere.”
His heart tugged at that, and he bit it back, shoved it away, telling himself he didn’t deserve it.
And wasn’t that a fucking sad song stuck on repeat?
Wes never thought he deserved me. He didn’t think he deserved Marta.
How wrong he was. For there were no three greater fucked-up individuals in this world, and that alone meant we would be best off with each other.
“You’re lucky I found you before the rest of the warriors,” I said. “They wouldn’t have let you finish your shift.”
“Are you here to tell me I made a mistake? That I should come home?” He looked up at me, his eyes rimmed red like tears were threatening to spill over. “If so, you’re wasting your time. I’m not going back.”
“We’ll see about that,” I said.
“You can’t force me back, Atlas,” he said. “I’m doing you both a favor by staying—”
“A favor?” I barked an incredulous sound. “Look at you!” I waved a hand at his general appearance. “How do you think Marta’s been doing, huh? Better yet, how do you think I’ve been doing?”
“I can’t care about that,” he said. “I have to protect you.”
“By running away.” I rolled my eyes. “Typical.”
He squared his jaw, his gaze turning fiery and defiant as the insult landed somewhere around his ego.
Finally. The reaction I wanted.
“This isn’t college all over again,” he said. “We’re not kids anymore, Atlas.”
“You’re Goddamned right.” I stood and stalked closer to him. “We’re adults. So it’s time you start acting like it.”
“A warrior protects his witch,” he said. “This is me protecting her…protecting you…from what’s inside me.”
I leaned in close, bringing my face inches from his. “And what makes you think it’s not already in both of us, too?”
That surprised him. He blinked, and his mouth fell open as he reeled back from me. “What?”
“That’s right, brother,” I said. “Blood bound. Flesh bound. And whatever the fuck that was in that Goddamned church. Marta’s a mess, has been for weeks. And me?” I blew out a sarcastic breath. “It’s taking everything in me not to drag you out to the car by the scruff of your neck.”
Wes winced and looked to the ground again. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t care about your apologies,” I snarled. “I don’t want to hear them.”
“Then what do you want?” His voice came out small and timid, reminding me of all the times Dad had reprimanded him as a child, and he’d have to eat crow to get back in the bastard’s good graces.
But despite it all, despite the rage and the uncontrollable wrath scalding my veins, I still wanted him. He was still the most beautiful man I’d ever seen, and I’d probably go to my grave yearning for the taste of his lips on mine.
“So many things,” I whispered.
“Atlas, I…” He was suddenly so unsure of himself. Perhaps I hated that the most. That I’d made him like this. That we’d done it to each other.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” I said, putting my hands on his shoulders.
The touch coasted through my body like a live wire, and when I slid them up his collarbones to his neck, the feel of his skin made me want to forgo my plans altogether.
But no. I had to stay strong. I had to earn this, to prove to him I wanted him, that he was better off with us than he was out here, wasting away in some shit-hole town in the middle of nowhere. “We’re going to fight for it.”
He furrowed his brows and pulled his lips between his teeth.
“If I win, and I’m going to, I get to do whatever I want with you. Up to and including dragging your sorry ass back to Asheville. If you win, I’ll leave you to your misery.”