Summer
At well past midnight, there isn’t a single text or call from Atlas. And when the screen turns black, my own fractured reflection stares back at me.
My mom used to say, “If you play a game, you can lose.” But I’m not ready to lose just yet.
Taking a deep breath, I slap a Band-Aid between my thumb and index finger and stare at it like it might solve my problems.
I think it’s time for me to utilize that idea I had stashed away about messing with Mason’s business to get Gabriel back here. And I know exactly how to do that.
If the transport department takes a blow, Gabriel will come running home for sure.
The path to revenge through Atlas might seem closed, but I’m not stopping. I’ll find another way to get to those people. But I need them both here.
A surge of determination born of desperation makes me grab my phone and dial a number.
“Summer, are you okay?” Trent’s voice comes out dripping with worry.
Calling his burner in the dead of night probably has that effect.
“That’s not my name,” I say in a low voice.
“But it suits you so well.”
“Was justice ever going to catch up with Mason?” I ask a question I already know the answer to.
Silence.
“Please . . .” I beg. I need to hear it.
“He has everyone in his pocket. I’m sorry.” Trent sighs.
“And the people he works with? Are they all under that umbrella?”
“Not all. Some.”
“Vanguard Horizon?”
“Is this about your friend’s business problems or Mason Holt?”
“What business problems?”
“You don’t know? Montgomery Global Logistics is losing clients left and right. Some of them are on our radar, and they’re going straight to Vanguard Horizon.”
What?
I’m failing as a best friend in more ways than one.
I steady myself, letting my idea percolate with new weight.
One bullet. Two rabbits.
“Are those clients of Vanguard Horizon of interest to you?”
“Maybe.”
Opening the remote server where I stashed the documents, I zero in on one folder containing dirt on that company and its clients.
My guess is that’s Mason’s leverage. Or maybe Atlas put that together.
Doesn’t matter now. Only the contents are of importance.
I could give Trent the foreign affairs, too, but I need the fires here, not abroad.
My thumb freezes over the send button, doubt kicking in at the last possible second.
Endangering Atlas is not a line I could cross.
“Is Mason’s son protected, too?”
“That prick is untouchable.”
“Don’t insult him!” I snap with undiluted rage.
Fuck. That’s all Trent would need to piece together what, or more like who, I’m doing.
“What have you done, Maeve?”
Pressing send, the line goes silent, and I already regret what I did. Would it make Trent come down here and drag me away?
“How on earth did you get all of this?” he says after a long, torturous pause.
I slept with the enemy.
Well . . . almost. He discarded me before even fucking me.
“I’m coming to get you.”
“No! Please, don’t! I won’t do anything else.”
No reply. Is he already on the way here?
“Trent?”
“I gave you a clean slate. I risked a lot to—”
“And I’m grateful. I’m not going to waste the chance you’ve given me.” I will. And I wish I could say I’m sorry. “Are those files of any value to you?”
“They are. But it will take time for me to figure out the best way to use them.”
“I can wait.”
“Yeah, but you can’t stop, can you? This won’t be enough for you.”
Never.
“What else can a girl like me do?”
“I know exactly what a girl like you can do. Stand down! Or do you wanna get yourself killed?”
Nope. But I just might.
“It’s always nice talking to you, Trent.”
“Maeve, wait—”
The moment I close the line, my reflection gives away that sneaky tear my lash line couldn’t hold. Tears of joy for making progress? Definitely not because I got dumped without a word.
Fucking Atlas Holt!
Heartbreak has never felt like this before.
Still wearing the formal dress I got stood up in, I make my way to the bed and collapse onto it. Tucking my knife under the pillow, I hug it like it’s all I have left.
It’s an utter shock when I hear the door of my room open.
Maybe he’s here to gloat. Or collect his prize.
I’ll be damned if I let him touch me after how he played me.
His weight shifts the mattress, an arm snaking around my waist in an attempt to pull me to him. That’s when I strike. I turn swiftly, pressing the blade against his throat just shy of drawing blood.
“Don’t touch me!” I bark. But then my chest locks at the sight of his face—broken, stained with soot.
I don’t need my brain to process anything as my hand acts on instinct, throwing away the knife and cupping his face, searching for an answer in his eyes to a question my mouth hasn’t uttered yet.
“What happened?” I pull myself up before spotting the blood on his white shirt. “You’re hurt.”
I was too self-absorbed, thinking he was playing me, to be there for him, to help him.
“It’s not my blood,” Atlas says with a gentle palm landing on my cheek.
But his words can’t stop my hands from shaking while unbuttoning the shirt to verify he’s indeed unscratched. With that piece of fabric out of the way, my fingertips trace every inch of his skin, making sure there are no cuts and that none of the blood staining his flesh belongs to him.
Once I’ve confirmed that, and only then, I cup his face, running my thumbs on his cheeks.
“You’re okay,” I say in a quivering voice, injecting reassurance into my veins as a much-needed sedative. “You’re okay.”
“I’m fine, love,” he says, pulling me closer for a gentle kiss.
I’m the fucking bunny who got too close to the edge and fell into the trap. My own trap.
I pull away, even though that’s the last thing I want, but the need for answers takes hold of me.
“Whose blood is this?”
The smell of smoke reminds me there are more questions to be asked.
Atlas shifts, leaning his back on the headboard, and I follow right after, sitting on my legs, further inspecting him for any injuries.
“The blood of the man I killed.”
His gruff voice reaches me while his eyes scan for my reaction.
“Did he deserve to die?”
“He did.”
“Guilt?”
He lowers his head.
“Not for him.”
Straddling him, I grip his face again, forcing his gaze on me.
“Tell me what happened.”
His hand slides on my nape, dragging me closer to him, and I close my eyes at his touch.
“You’re the only woman I can tell everything, knowing you won’t run for the hills.”
“I will . . . if you need me to bury someone there.” My words aim to lower the tension, but the look he gives me .
. . I’ve never been looked at this way. Like I’m his world.
“I’m not going anywhere but by your side.
Whatever you did, I’m sure you had a reason.
” I glide my palms over his chest, waiting for him to trust me with the truth.
“I made a series of wrong decisions and an innocent man died because of me.” He pauses.
Only a beat of hesitation, before he tells me everything.
And though I hear the words “pummeling his face until his brain was a bloody pulp”, all I can think of is what a good man Atlas is.
And it’s not my feelings making the excuse for him.
It’s because of the way he takes the innocent life lost to heart.
Pain burns in his eyes while he keeps looking into mine, probably searching for shock, for horror to register there when he stops talking. He’ll find none, as I inch closer to him instead of pulling away.
“The guard’s death is not on you. You couldn’t have known that was going to happen.”
“But I should have!” His words come out sharp, strained by anger. “I should have.”
Then his attention shifts away from me.
“Atlas, look at me.”
He does.
“Every small decision leads somewhere, but that doesn’t mean we’re always responsible for what happens after.
That guard could’ve died in a car crash on his way to work.
Would that be your fault? Is it your fault your cousin is an asshole who chose to do a horrible thing?
Or that this junkie made a lifetime of bad choices that led him here?
Maybe it’s simply chaos—one tiny thing somewhere else set off this whole shitstorm. ”
Shaking his head, he tries to fight my words.
“You gave that guard a job, and I’m sure he was grateful. But the truth is, there are things we can’t control, can’t predict, and can’t prevent. That doesn’t make it your fault. That’s life.”
Atlas looks away from me again.
“Eyes on me.” He’s staring at his bloodied knuckles, which I only now notice, as if he didn’t hear me.
“Please, look at me,” I try again, and his gaze finally meets mine. “It’s not your fault. And the fact you care this much about an innocent life lost shows you’re a good man.”
“A man who lost control in his rage and killed a junkie tonight. That’s the kind of man I am.”
“So? I would’ve probably killed him, too. That’s the kind of woman I am. But killing monsters doesn’t make us bad.”
I shift my legs, pulling away from his lap and getting off the bed. Standing next to it, I offer my hand, waiting for him to take it.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, and I’ll tell you a story.”
Extending his hand into mine, he gets off the bed and follows my lead into the bathroom.
I start pulling the shirt down off his shoulders, before I open my mouth to speak.
“My family . . .”
There’s an instant shift in his expression, and it’s more than a spark of curiosity.
“We were on the run. And we did everything we could to lie low for almost a year. One night, my brother dragged me to a party with him.”
The shirt falls to the ground, and I reach for his belt.
“Long story short, Milo ended up beating a guy to within an inch of his life, for trying to force himself—” I cut myself short, seeing the way his jaw ticks and the veins on his neck pop out like they are one wrong word away from rupturing.
I am not finishing this sentence.
“Give me his name!”
“No.” I glide my palm on his cheek. “He didn’t get to do anything to me.”
As I push his pants and boxers down, the story is the only thing keeping my attention from drifting lower. I slip my hand into his and lead him to the shower.