7. Atlas
7
ATLAS
T he author picks up his wife—oh no, excuse me, fiancée, that fucking liar—after making her stand twenty minutes in the cold. Watching him kiss her is unpleasant.
Actually, it’s worse than unpleasant.
It’s enraging.
It shouldn’t be. The girl is nothing and no one to me. But I don’t like the way they look together.
For one thing, he’s not quite tall enough for her. I know that sounds biased, but I’m telling you, the proportions are off. He’s a fit guy, but he’s long in the torso, short in the legs, and Elena is all legs. They don’t look right when they stand together.
And he’s so goddamned pretentious.
The way this fuckin’ guy dresses. There must be some shop that makes tweed jerking-off jackets for professors, Nobel laureates, and wri-tahs!
I didn’t like him even before Elena showed up. It’s not just the overly familiar attitude or the bad brunch tips. It’s something in his eyes during conversation when the other person is speaking. Some private amusement, like he’s writing a scene in his head and not really listening.
But now that Elena’s here…my dislike is curdling into something darker.
I don’t like the way he treats her, like she’s something he bought on vacation. Some exotic piece of art he’ll take home to his fucking castle once it’s finished, to lock away where no one else can see her.
He sure as hell didn’t think about feeding her when she arrived.
I did that.
I loved watching her devour her food like a wild animal. I loved seeing her in her normal clothes, face scrubbed clean, as opposed to the painted doll that arrived on the arm of the author.
I could tell she wasn’t actually comfortable in that dress or those shoes. Her fingernails likewise gave her away, bitten short and unpolished. Posh women prioritize their manicures.
Did she dress up for him? The thought makes me jealous.
That must be what she thinks he likes: the short skirt, painted face, false lashes, sky-high heels…
What would she wear for me, to please me?
Not that dress.
I imagine Elena knocking on my door late some night, naked as Venus…
Yeah. That’s what I’d request.
The mental image cheers me up momentarily, but then I remember that Elena will not be knocking at my door, because she’s about to marry somebody else. She’s with him right now, the two of them all alone up at his creepy castle.
Who the fuck builds a castle, anyway?
It’s like he’s trying to show me up. I used to have the biggest place in town. Well, except for the Onyx resort up on the north end of the beach, but nobody counts those interlopers.
My hotel’s still better. For one thing, it’s symmetrical. I’ve seen that jumbled shit he’s building up there—I couldn’t help myself; I drove up once to see what had everybody yakking. Or more accurately, my brother drove me. Dane’s become chipper and helpful ever since he fell in love, which is disturbing. He used to be grumpier than me.
His girlfriend, Remi, source of this newfound cheerfulness, was sitting in the back seat. I offered her shotgun, but she refused to take it, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to argue. I can hardly cram my legs in Dane’s car even with the seat pushed all the way back.
“Why don’t you get an SUV already?” I grumbled.
“I tell him that all the time!” Remi chirped, right in my ear. She was not using a seat belt, leaning so far forward that her face was sandwiched between ours. “He’s too tall for a car!”
“So’s his much taller brother.”
“Not much taller,” Dane muttered. He squinted up the road, trying to decide the correct route to the castle. “I’m not getting a bigger car just to chauffeur you around.”
“You want to see this place, too!” Remi poked him gleefully in the ribs. “Tom says it’s fucking bonkers!”
Even with that expectation firmly in place, we all fell silent when we saw it looming over the trees—the dark and chaotic building, larger than any of us expected.
It had a Frankenstein look, the work of several different architects stitched together by multiple contractors. We’d all heard about the drama. Nothing happens in small towns without weeks of judgment and exaggeration.
“Yikes.” Remi sniffed. “Can’t buy taste.”
She had a right to her slight air of superiority since she’d just renovated and flipped the Blackleaf house for a pretty penny. It looked like a completely different place by the time she was done with it, showing a level of aesthetic skill you’d hardly expect from someone with electric purple hair.
Lorne’s castle wasn’t tacky, exactly. It was more…disturbing. Something not quite right in the angles, the proportions.
I wonder if Elena’s liking it.
I can imagine her eyes lighting up, her cheeks flushing as Lorne shows her around. That whole big place, not built to host a bunch of guests and strangers, but for her alone.
Okay, maybe I’m a little jealous.
Maybe a lot jealous.
I storm through the hotel in a hell of a mood.
Amy’s the only one brave enough to talk to me. “Something wrong, boss?”
“No.”
Yes.
I saw something I want, and I can’t have it…
Over Amy’s shoulder, a small blond figure sneaks down the stairs. The girl makes a neat turn, heading left in the direction of the restaurant.
“You look pissed off,” Amy observes.
“More than usual?”
“Yeah.” She grins. “And that’s saying something.”
Now Mrs. Cross comes furiously hustling down the stairs. When she reaches the bottom, she looks both ways and then turns right.
I smile to myself.
“That’s more like it,” Amy says, missing the intrigue unfolding behind her back and crediting herself for my change in mood. “Can I get you a coffee, boss? Gin and tonic? Completely professional shoulder rub?”
“What previous boss told you there were workplace-appropriate shoulder rubs?”
“I give everyone shoulder rubs!” Amy says innocently. But then she taps her fingernail against her teeth, musing, “Though I did end up shagging some of those people later.”
“Let’s stick with the coffee.”
“You got it, boss!”
As Amy skips away, I can’t help but wish I could hire her on full-time right now. She really does make my days easier. She’s like a little house sprite, popping up at just the right time to make herself useful.
And she brews my coffee perfectly, black as sin with one cream, no sugar.
While she’s making it, I head in the direction I last saw Ivy disappear. Technically this area is for staff only, as the hallway passing behind the kitchen contains the dumbwaiters we use to send food up to the rooms. It’s remote enough that there’s usually no need for a sign to keep guests away, but Ivy has wandered far avoiding her keeper.
Unfortunately, she finds herself at a dead end. I see her, small and pale as a white rabbit and just as twitchy, crouching next to an urn not large enough to conceal her.
Close by, Mrs. Cross mutters, “Where is that little bitch?”
Ivy’s pale green eyes meet mine, the fingers stuffed in her mouth chewed and raw.
“In here,” I say, pulling up the shutter of the nearest dumbwaiter.
In the quickest move I’ve seen her make, Ivy hops inside the small space. I close the shutter just as Mrs. Cross rounds the corner.
Mrs. Cross reminds me of the meanest teacher I ever had. Just like Mrs. Feinman, Mrs. Cross seems to be that inexplicable type of adult who detests children but has chosen to work with them full-time.
She worships the author, her master. But the soppy adoration that spreads across her face whenever she gazes at Lorne Ronson does not extend to his daughter.
“Oh!” she says when she sees me, smoothing back the glassy surface of her hair that’s already pulled painfully tight against her skull. It’s her face she should have wiped, milky sweat running down her temples. “Have you seen Mr. Ronson’s daughter?”
“She was out in the garden earlier.”
Mrs. Cross takes that statement exactly the way I intended and hustles out the back doors.
Before I can tell Ivy the coast is clear, a much different figure appears at the end of the hall. Unlike the skinny Mrs. Cross who strides along with her shoulders up to her ears and her head thrust forward like she’s walking into a strong wind, Elena has the posture of a queen and curves that could feed my eyes for days, let alone my hands or my mouth…
She’s back from the castle.
My eyes immediately check her left hand. When I see it’s still bare, I feel a hot and ugly rush of pleasure.
She’s hurrying a little herself, hunting about. When she spots me, her face softens with relief.
“Atlas! Have you seen Ivy? Mrs. Cross said she ran off.”
As she approaches, I say, “You’re getting warmer…”
Elena pauses, anticipation coming into her eyes at this age-old game. Watching my face, she takes a step backward.
“Colder.”
She bites her lip to hide her smile. And takes two steps forward.
“Warmer. Warmer…”
She closes the gap between us, ten feet away, now five…
“Warmer…”
She stops right in front of me, our bodies inches apart. When she looks up into my face, I’d hardly have to move at all to kiss her.
“Very hot.”
Elena flushes and drops her eyes. It was fun playing along, but now we’re standing too close to each other for her comfort. She tries to step away. I plant my palm against the wall, trapping her in the small space between my body and the dumbwaiter.
Her body tightens, her skin flushes, even her scent changes. It’s so sudden, I notice it like a spritz of perfume in the air—her fear mixed with something else.
That something else does something else to me. It rolls over me like sickness, like famine…
I want her.
Elena whirls around, our bodies pressing together as she snarls, “Let me out!”
She’s furious, and even though every inch of me screams to continue pressing itself against every inch of her, I step back and say with apology, “Of course. You found the prize.”
I open the dumbwaiter, revealing Ivy curled up comfortably in the cupboard-sized space.
“There you are!” Elena gasps. She helps Ivy climb out, though Ivy seems like she’d rather stay, gazing longingly back into the cool, dark space.
I probably shouldn’t have shown her that. Kids love hiding spots, and that’s not a place she should play.
“Thanks,” Elena says, holding Ivy by the hand but not quite meeting my eye.
“Anytime.” I’ll kidnap the kid myself if it gets me another five minutes with you.
This attraction to her is some kind of illness. I’m already hot and weak-kneed knowing that she’s about to walk away from me.
The last half second ticks away. She shifts her weight, starts to turn?—
“What did you think of the house?” I say in desperation.
Elena pauses, not quite turning all the way back to me. She scans the carpet, lashes fluttering against her cheeks. “It’s…overwhelming.”
I love that tepid response. It would have killed me to hear her gush over her future home.
But as she continues on her way, holding Ivy by the hand, my satisfaction collapses into something uneasy…
Because Elena looks afraid.