Atlas
That good-for-nothing wannabe artist, Neville Thorne, ruined my entire month by backing out. He doesn’t want to be a sellout.
Good fuckin’ luck buying stuff with your dignity!
He turned out to be a massive thorn in my ass.
Should’ve known that dickweed would renege.
How the hell would he even have the funds to buy himself out of that contract?
What’s worse is that this time I didn’t ensure a failsafe.
Without him, I’ll have to scramble for a replacement fast, and even then, it probably won’t hit my father’s numbers.
I don’t want to get summoned again. Being in his presence twice this summer and having to drag the guys, too, was torture.
Never having to deal with him again would still be too soon.
I stride across campus toward my car, certain the murder written all over my face is why everyone gives me a wide berth.
A week and a half into the semester, and I’d much rather sit through boring-ass lectures than deal with the shitshow coming my way.
My phone chimes, and I stop to check.
Dean
I had a backup in mind. Meet me at the stadium.
My friend has more aces up his sleeve than a goddamn magician, always saving the day with scenarios that end up better than the original plan.
I turn on my heels, typing in our group chat when I slam straight into . . . a walking dessert. A heady scent hits me, loaded with vanilla, cinnamon, and pure sugar rush. It fills my lungs and stays there, clinging even after I exhale.
The intruder in my personal space is a geeky redhead with waist-length hair braided thick down her back, drowning in an ugly gray sweater big enough to hide two more bodies inside it.
I’ve seen this chick around campus, only noticing her because of her fiery locks. That color tends to steal my attention. But her face was always buried in textbooks, so I never got a proper look.
“Watch it, potato sack!” I bark.
I’m at my peak assholeness today, climbing even higher with that insult.
She doesn’t slow down, unabashedly and unapologetically passing me by. I should brush it off, but I’ve had a shitty day, so I allow myself to be that petty man who strides after, grabbing her arm to stop her. She makes no effort to face me, which pisses me off even more.
“You know, when you bump into someone, it’s only proper to apologize,” I snap.
When she finally turns, I freeze. Behind chunky wide-rimmed glasses rests the kind of flawless doll face that turns rational men irrational, and me .
. . drags me straight into dark fantasies of ruining her.
It’s not like I haven’t seen or fucked plenty of hot women, but her beauty is on another level.
A disruptive kind.
Dark blue eyes narrow at me, snaring me in place.
“Then what are you waiting for?” She smirks. Fuckin’ smirks! “Apologize!”
The audacity of this witch!
“I . . . You . . . girl sack . . .” Girl sack?! “I mean . . . that’s not . . .”
“Are you having a stroke or something?”
Full lips curl with pure mockery. I bet they are delicious.
Her eyes drop to where my hand holds her captive, and I release swiftly, like I got burned.
With a devilish smirk on full display, she pierces through my skull with one last look before turning her back on me.
She’s already walking away when I get to finish the mumbo-jumbo my all-too-stunned brain cobbled together.
“. . . what I meant.”
All I can do is watch her get further away from me, all kinds of thoughts racing through my mind. One sticks harder than the rest.
I see you now.
The ping of my phone drags me back to the actual mess waiting for me, because for a moment, my only concern was forcing my brain and mouth to work properly, and I failed catastrophically at both. It’s Link and Connor typing in our group chat, saying they’ll be joining us at the stadium too.
“Where’s Carter?” I question Connor when I get there, my eye still twitching at the thought of the cringe first impression I left with that redhead.
“How the hell should I know? He can go fuck himself,” he bites out, not sparing me a glance.
This shit between them needs to stop. They actively avoid each other or barely talk when we’re in the house. Never seen them like this. And all that over a piece of ass.
“What’s the failsafe?” I turn to Dean for details.
“I had a feeling that dipshit might fail us, so I contacted this lady—Felicity Stone.”
“I’ve heard that name,” I interrupt.
“Everyone has. She was doing great five years ago, but stopped painting when her husband died from lung cancer,” Dean says.
“And you plan on convincing her to start again?” I eye him, uncertain if it’ll work.
“I already have. She needs the money to send her daughter to college. But she had one stipulation—the Lung Cancer Foundation is to be sponsored by us with part of the profits. I obliged. We have her on board. A well-known name we won’t need to work to hype up is at our disposal.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a fuckin’ genius?”
“You have, but do go on and say it again.” He smirks, smug as a rooster in a henhouse.
“You are a fuckin’ genius.” I slap his shoulder, and I can breathe again, knowing we have a perfect scenario that lets us launder even more than we planned.
“Drinks and dinner are on me tonight. Can you call the gallery and let them know of the changes? I have another fire to take care of before we get back to the house.”
“What are you up to?” Link questions.
“Low-key stalking.” I stifle a laugh.
“Really?!” Link asks.
“First time for everything.” And with those words, I catch myself pacing toward the building, where I last saw my redhead enter. If she has lectures there, I’ll stick around. I plan on figuring out who I’m dealing with.
Leaning against a lamppost, I wait, and about forty minutes later, she finally comes out.
I follow her for the next three hours, staying back, fighting the stupid urge to close the distance. Turns out she’s a business major like me, only she’s a first-year.
She makes her way to the dorms with her face buried in the textbooks, not sparing anyone a glance, loose strands on the sides further veiling her features.
I halt behind a nearby tree when her sweater gets caught in a bush, and a few of her books spill to the ground. And then it happens. The moment she loses the ‘you can’t shake me’ facade, giving in to anger. She throws the rest on the concrete, visibly pissed, and starts pulling the sweater off.
Yeah . . . I’m staring. And drooling.
Face to die for, body that should come with a too-hot-to-touch warning label.
Tank top, curve-hugging jeans, and I can’t tear my eyes away, my hands itching for a touch.
But I don’t have the time to fully enjoy the sight because her top gets stuck on her bracelet, and with an oh-so elegant shout of “Fuck!” she starts beating it into the ground, continuing her tirade with “Stupid fucking sweater!”
I chuckle. Mental note: piss her off again.
She’s fuckin’ adorable when she’s feral.
A scrunched-up nose and bared teeth on that deceptively sweet face of hers are the most captivating view I’ve ever seen.
Once the sweater is on the ground, she kicks it, right before ripping off her glasses and hurling them onto the heap of textbooks.
Then she pulls her braid from her back, letting her hair loose.
Fuck . . . she’s the kind of woman wars get started over.
She stands there for a minute, heaving and mumbling under her breath, before dropping to her knees. And there it goes, the tornado of lust sweeping all thoughts from my mind, leaving only the image of her like that, with my dick in her mouth.
Now I’m getting hard while hiding behind a tree on campus. Perfect. Just perfect.
She gathers her textbooks first, then her glasses, but she doesn’t grab the sweater. Getting on her feet, she kicks it once more before bending to grab it, and I have to bite back another laugh.
Why the hell does she wear that sack if she hates it so much?
Why hide like this?
Doesn’t matter. I found her. She just doesn’t know it yet.