Summer
Losing my shit on campus territory wasn’t on my to-do list, but at least no one’s around to witness it.
I got Atlas’s attention, and it went better than expected, yet instead of smiling about it, I’m kicking this gray eyesore like it personally offended me.
My target, being alone and pissed off, was the perfect ‘meet-cute’ setup, because bad experiences tend to stick harder than good ones—a fucked-up evolutionary defense mechanism.
I needed him on edge to make our meeting memorable, and as an added bonus, I left him scrambling for words.
My plan unfolded remarkably well, and I would’ve been celebrating that if it weren’t for this stupid sweater, which was starting to get itchy, and Trent Bane—the FBI agent who got me here—hadn’t called to warn me to stay away from Atlas Holt.
How dare he tell me to move on, live my life, and forget the past!
Like that’s going to happen. But it took him long enough to figure out Atlas attends this university, too.
Swearing under my breath, I pick up the sweater and take exactly three steps before a husky voice makes me stop.
“Haven’t seen you around.”
The sound leads me to dark blond hair and a set of blue eyes.
A dull ache traverses my body at the instant reminder of my ex, but I close my eyes, purging the thoughts of Eli so I can focus on the present.
Of course, this guy hasn’t seen me. Without my eyesore of a camouflage, I look like a completely different person to him.
“You haven’t looked.”
The guy smiles, and an all-too-charming dimple pops.
“I’m looking now.” He’s oblivious I’m immune to his type. “What’s your name?”
Is it worth answering this simple question when I have no interest in him? Against my better judgment, I do offer a name.
“Summer.”
“I’m Will. So, are you giving me your number, Summer?”
“No!”
His smirk doesn’t read as Okay, I give up.
“Fine. No number.” Will raises his hands, then takes a few steps, shrinking the distance between us. “But how about you join me and my friends tomorrow night at Jinx? It’s a local nightclub, and I have a guy who can get us in. What do you say?”
“That you’re not getting lucky with me,” I answer, resuming my stride for the dorm.
“I’m getting lucky simply by looking at you.” He offers a beaming leer when I glance over my shoulder. “Come! You’ll have fun. No strings attached.”
Fun? With him? Probably as much fun as I’d have while playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded gun or a game of hot potato with explosives. Wait! I’ve played the latter with M-80 fireworks, and it was fun . . . up until one of my brother’s friends lost a finger. But who needs a pinky, anyway?
Yet the only person I’ve talked to in over six months is Trent.
“Okay. But your hands stay away from me. Got it?”
He nods with a smirk that suggests otherwise.
“Pick you up tomorrow at eleven?”
“Deal.”
I enter the building, heading straight for my room.
As I close my dorm door, doubt takes root over what I agreed to.
It might be a mistake, but sometimes it feels like I’m going insane being alone all the time.
My brother used to take me everywhere with him, and it was never lonely.
Milo was the center of every event. His personality, as screwed-up as it was, pulled people like a magnet.
I’ve gotten so used to being dragged around, always surrounded by people, that I miss it. In a way.
I miss everything that reminds me of him.
That’s not to say I’m deviating from my goal by allowing myself to go out instead of dealing with Atlas. I’m just taking care of my mental health. Okay. Admittedly, I might be stretching it. An army of shrinks wouldn’t be able to hold the line of my sanity.
Dropping the itchy eyesore on the ground, I kick it before heading further into my room. I need food, a shower, and a few hours of translating documents so I can finish my work on time.
I’d kill for homemade food, but unfortunately, right now I can only order a quattro formaggi pizza.
Sitting on my bed, I take a deep breath, mentally cataloging the events of the day. It’s Atlas’s hand to play now, and I’m betting he’ll shove all-in with a smirk. I snort at the memory of the miserable attempt at an insult his mind concocted.
This is going to be so much fun.
But . . .
Will I be getting out of it alive?
I can’t allow those morose thoughts to prevail, though I’m prepared for the outcome, as long as I get to drag certain people down with me.
What was supposed to be two hours of work turns into more than four before I finally crawl into bed, wanting nothing more than to find my family in my dreams, but not in my night terrors.
The hope that not everything is darker when I close my eyes proves empty when I wake up in a dreamless haze, wishing the past year and a half was the nightmare itself.
But it’s the unattainable dream I’m left with, and the harsh reality I’m stuck in.
A reality in which I have to get up and keep on playing a game with someone I only let onto the mat yesterday.
At noon, I decide to sit in one of the on-campus coffee shops, and it’s no coincidence that my target sits at a table right across from mine, shamelessly staring with a feral gleam which, if I were someone else, would’ve had me running to another city, or more likely another country altogether.
I spare him a single glance, filled with as much disinterest as I would hold for a cage fight between two hamsters.
Scratch that! The hamster fight sounds fun.
But I do feign indifference to Atlas quite well.
Two more times, I catch glimpses of him around campus. He’s following me, giving zero fucks about discretion in his actions. What he has in mind is unclear, but if there’s one thing I do know about men like him, it’s that he won’t simply follow me around in a lovey-dovey style.
Time indeed is relative when the hours until Friday night slip by in the blink of an eye, while my mind is preoccupied with what Atlas may be up to. I can bet my sanity, though it isn’t much to wager, that he stalked me to my dorm.
My eyeliner—better than it’s ever been, cherry lips—inviting desire, my hair in loose waves, and that short blue flowy tie-strap dress with a square neckline—all of the above form my royal flush in the game ahead. If Atlas stuck to me all day, he’ll be on my heels tonight, too.
One step outside the building and Will’s there, waiting like a mistake that’s about to get worse. His dimples might poke holes into his cheeks with that megawatt grin he’s sporting. I bet he thinks he has a shiny new toy to play with.
Will’s compliments don’t even register in my brain as I surreptitiously scan the area until I spot him—the one I actually dolled up for. I knew Atlas would come out for a hunt.
I catch glimpses of him on every reflective surface that serves as my ally, all the way to Will’s car.
My not-a-date introduces me to his friends, who get in the back of the Range Rover, leaving the passenger seat to me, which lets me keep an eye on the black Lamborghini SUV tailing us.
I wanted a fun night, and I might get even more than I bargained for.
Will tries to snake an arm around my waist the moment we’re outside the car, but the bloodthirsty glare I toss is enough to make him retreat. He still smiles, like the chase has just begun. Poor sucker doesn’t have an inkling I’m not playing with him.
Inside the club, we’re led to a booth that seems to be reserved for us, while I scan the place for Atlas. Taking my jacket off, I leave it along with my bag on the leather seat. A couple of minutes later, Will returns with drinks. As if I’ll take a sip.
The place is packed to the brim, and I take that as my chance to escape him when he gets too comfortable beside me, his fingertips suggestively tracing my thigh.
I don’t excuse myself when I slip away from the booth and into the crowd, because another second of his unwanted touch would’ve gotten me kicked out of the club for breaking his hand.
On the floor, I let the music take control, trying to attract my target. Unfortunately, it attracts pests I have to get rid of, including Will, whose arms I literally peel off of me.
Come on, Atlas! Are you gonna make a move tonight?
My question is answered when a set of rough hands clamp my hips, stilling me.
I don’t need to look to know it’s him. His Tom Ford cologne mixed with his own scent—a musky, earthy one that reminds me of petrichor—engulfs me, and my gaze drifts to the tatted forearms and hands, inked all the way to the knuckles.
He’s ready to play. But he doesn’t know whose game this is.