Summer
I’d rather bathe in skunk spray or stomp barefoot through broken Legos than walk downstairs, paraded like his bitch on a leash. But choice? Not an option.
And all I have to show for it is an incomplete safe code I caught in a shard-like mirrored wall piece, and an equally incomplete orgasm.
A couple of steps down the stairs, we find ourselves under the scrutinizing gaze of the crowd. I try to peel myself away from Atlas, but he pulls me closer, grip tightening on my waist to a blue-fingerprints-on-my-skin level.
It’s not as if I care about those people’s opinions.
Like a snake sheds its skin, I’ll leave their whispers behind the second I’m out of here.
What I care about, however, is that none of what he did upstairs affected me in any negative way until this—the way he’s getting back at me by humiliating me in front of strangers.
Unfortunately for him, I don’t just get mad. I get creative . . . and committed. And right now, I’m so fucking furious, my hands are itching to take the taser or the knife out of my bag and let the rage reign.
I enter the crowd with my chin held high in a regal manner, only to trip on my own feet in a not-so-regal fashion, but Atlas’s hold prevents me from plunging headfirst to the floor.
Straightening up, I brush off the stumble. My face will show neither shame nor fear, only fury, poised to break loose.
To hell with everyone.
A shirtless, tattooed psychopath with a godlike body, accompanied by a crazy bitch wearing only his shirt and a belt around her neck. I’m sure we’re a prodigious spectacle, but no one dares snap a photo of our little freak show.
My eyes lock on the door like I’m about to profess my undying love to it, when my escape plan gets scorched by Atlas’s firm grip.
He hauls me to where his friends are gathered, my body welded to his, not a single atom of space between us.
I steady myself, keeping the murderous look in check.
For my plan to work, his friends should find me crazy enough to be with him, but not crazy enough to be able to kill him.
“I want to introduce you to my friends,” he whispers in my ear.
“And I want to introduce you to my knife. It’s stupid and forgets faces, so I’ll have to make the introductions at least a few times.”
“You’re killing me, honey.” He chuckles, guiding us toward the shiny black-and-copper kitchen, which is too clean to ever have seen conventional use.
“Not yet, I’m not.”
We stop near his gang and all but Dean offer welcoming half-smiles.
“These are Dean, Link, and Connor, and the guy with the orange T-shirt coming our way is Carter.”
My besties! Still unaware, but no longer from afar.
Atlas’s introduction stops there. Did that asshole forget my name?
“Summer. It’s nice to meet you all.”
“We know who you are,” Dean deadpans before taking a sip from his beer, eyes pinned on me like he’s trying to uncover where the bodies are buried.
They’re not buried but incinerated.
“But it’s great to finally put a face to the girl who knocked him unconscious,” Link adds, pointing at Atlas.
He’s mentioned me?
“Oh! You know about that?” My gaze snaps to Atlas, wondering how much more he’s shared.
“Hey, Summer,” Carter inserts himself into the conversation with a tone like he’s known me all his life. One line, one warm smile, gives the impression of him being quite an amiable guy.
All of Atlas’s friends being around is an opportunity I must seize. He aims to humiliate me, but I’ll return the favor in full in front of the people who matter the most to him.
“Did Atlas tell you about the little blue pills I had to give him?”
Connor spits his beer, some of it coming out of his nose, and Carter bursts into contagious laughter.
“She’s talking about Advil,” Atlas protests, nudging Dean’s shoulder, who struggles to hide his own amusement.
“No need to be ashamed. It can happen to anyone,” I continue, and my spirits are back up. He can’t rattle me with his shenanigans.
Link coughs, masking a chortle.
“She’s talking about fuckin’ Advil, you morons!” Atlas fumbles to clear his name from the dirt I’m dragging onto him.
“I like you already.” Carter grins at me.
“Well, that’s an entertaining birthday,” Dean says, pulling my attention.
“It’s your birthday?” I ask, and he nods. “Happy birthday! Sorry about the whole . . .” I wave my hand, unsure of what to apologize for first, “. . . everything.”
“That everything is what makes today enjoyable.”
“Atlas failed to mention it’s a birthday party,” I say, opening my bag, scurrying around its contents. “My father used to say that showing up to one empty-handed signals disrespect. But I have a gift for you . . . kinda.”
“You don’t have to,” Dean protests.
I pull out my butterfly knife, using the bottom of my shirt to wipe off the prints.
“What . . . ?” Dean doesn’t give an impression of someone who can’t finish a sentence.
“She’s not going to give you a weapon with her prints on it,” Atlas answers for me.
Is there an undertone of pride in his words, or am I hallucinating?
I pin my attention back on him, abandoning the job at hand. He is starting to get to know me, and that almost gets under my skin in a good way, but I’m still too pissed to spare him anything other than a stabby glare.
Placing the knife in my open palm, I extend it to Dean.
“It’s nothing special, but it has a reinforced fiberglass blade with a polypropylene handle. Passes through metal detectors.”
Dean cocks a brow, and the corner of his lip pulls to the side. Impressed? Because of a simple knife? They all carry weapons, including knives. Why the reaction, then?
“I wouldn’t wanna leave you defenseless,” Dean says with an even tone, still not taking the knife from my palm.
“Well, I know in my current state,” I point at the fashionable outfit Atlas put together for me. “I might look that way, but I can assure you, I’m anything but defenseless. Besides, I have a taser in my bag.”
“You have a taser and a knife, and you didn’t use them on me?” Atlas asks, his tone hitting a pitch higher in surprise.
“The night is still young,” I answer, my eyes doing the stabbing, while Dean takes the knife from my palm.
“She was gonna stab you with a fork,” Connor adds with a smirk.
“Snitch,” I throw at him, and Atlas’s fingers dig into my skin, forcing my attention back on him.
He’s grinning ear to ear. Seems that knock to the head did lasting damage.
Link grabs a beer from the fridge, but instead of passing it to Atlas, who extends his hand, he opens it and hands it to me.
“Thanks!”
I take a sip. And choke on it.
“F-fucker!” I cough out the word, feeling the vibrations inside me, regretting the decision to give away my knife.
The beaming smile on that asshole’s face is a dead giveaway to his friends that he’s behind what just happened.
“I’m taking her away for a while,” Atlas says.
He snatches the beer from my hand, putting it on the counter next to us, as he takes a step forward, forcing me to retreat.
“No! Wait! What?” I’m at a loss for words, but there’s no loss of desire to knock that smugness off his face.
Atlas keeps forcing me to take steps back, and he follows each of mine, not letting even an inch of distance between us.
“I love seeing the animal behind those pretty eyes of yours.”
I’m guessing my I-want-to-smack-you vibes count as that.
“You wait and see how that animal bites,” I snap, as my back hits a wall.
The people around make plenty of room for us, recognizing the predator they have to evade.
Atlas grabs my head, combing his fingers through my hair, and I swat his hands away, trying to get him off me.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Searching for your horns. They must be here somewhere.”
“Very funny,” I scoff, turning away before he sees how my face betrays me.
He did that to mitigate my rage levels, didn’t he? Whether it’s with his touch or with his sense of humor, he knows how to succeed in that endeavor.
“Admit it, I made you smile. More than once, for that matter.” He tries to make me face him, his index finger aiding in that effort.
“Admit it, you were a slippery baby.”
A wicked, lopsided grin stretches across his lips as he casually pulls his phone from his pocket and switches the vibrator back on. My body spasms and I lean forward, bracing on his chest. But then he stops it, giving me the time to straighten up before uttering another word.
“Admit it, you think I’m charming.”
“You are.” His eyes widen in surprise before his expression shifts into pure cheeky delight. “Ted Bundy type of charming.”
“You like me.”
I’ll deny tooth and nail my attraction to him. Too bad my treacherous pussy can’t.
“What horrible taste in men would I have if that were the case?”
“The worst.”
For a moment there, I forget how angry I am, letting the corners of my lips curl ever so slightly, allowing him to see that.
My almost smile falters and disappears when he turns the vibrator back on, making me bury my head into his chest, trying to hide the pleasure overpowering my ability to keep a straight face.
Blood-painted nails dig into the skin of his .
. . oh, God, drool-worthy forearms, and the sensation of that tight knot in my belly builds exponentially fast inside me.
“Stop,” I say but the purr in my tone disagrees with me.
He does, but as expected, his game comes with rules.
“Kiss me and I will. Or don’t and have fun coming in a room full of people.”
Does he want to show everyone I would willingly kiss him, or is he that desperate for one?
“No!”
Atlas notches the vibrations a level up, prompting me to brace onto him once more.
I endure less than I could hold my breath for before I’m forced to plead, as the orgasm knocks on my door, my body not caring in the least I’m in a room full of people.
His take on desire as a torture mechanism makes mine look amateur.
“Stop!” It comes out like a fucking plea I mewl, ragged and desperate.