Atlas
Romanoff’s fat face is glued to his desk, pressed down by Dean’s palm, and I’m impressed at how quickly I went from let’s do this the proper way to violence is the only way.
Summer ignoring my texts and calls for the past day and a half probably has a lot to do with my approach. I can’t even track her anymore.
Or maybe it’s because this piece of shit pushed our buttons with his impossibly high fees and disrespected Dean. I hate dealing with scum like him, but we need this gallery, and a man with dirty secrets is exactly what’s required.
I lean forward in my chair, inching closer to that cockroach I’d like to smash.
“My brothers and I came here with the good intention of striking a deal in a civil manner, and you think you can play games with us?”
“I-I—” Romanoff tries to sob out unintelligible words, when Dean pulls his head up by the sleazy, gel-dripping hair and smashes it against the mahogany desk.
“I haven’t allowed you to speak. Want to know what Dean’s favorite hobby is?”
Romanoff groans in pain instead of trying to answer.
“There’s a gentle soul underneath his rough exterior,” I continue, and Dean glares at me. “He likes making necklaces. Know what his favorite materials are?”
The cockroach’s eyes widen.
“Teeth and nails. Sometimes, when Dean feels especially creative, he adds an ear or two. Real statement pieces. And he always makes the donor wear the necklace.”
Romanoff looks like he’s experiencing early signs of a heart attack, drenched in sweat and choking on his own saliva, and that makes Connor chortle on the side.
“Do you want a necklace of your own, Ivan?”
A muffled “No” slips past the silent sobbing.
“I think he wants one.”
Connor hands me the pliers when I turn his way. He never goes anywhere without torture tools in his pockets.
That cockroach keeps fighting and begging, but he brought this upon himself.
Dean stuffs a piece of Romanoff’s shirt into his mouth to muffle him, and without further ado, I pull off the nail of his thumb slowly, inflicting maximum pain. His eyes bulge, and his face turns as red as a baboon’s ass, strained screams tearing out of him.
Aaand . . . the fucker passes out.
“Seriously?” Connor voices our shared disappointment.
“Pull another one. That should wake him up,” Dean says.
“Or a tooth,” Connor suggests enthusiastically.
“We can’t inflict permanent damage. Not yet. We’ll be working with him. A nail or two is okay. Get him up.”
Dean yanks Ivan upright, and I bitch-slap him hard enough to wake him.
“Wakey-wakey! We’re not done with you yet.”
“Please—” he starts, but Dean bashes his head against the desk again.
“Here’s the deal, Ivan.” Carter hands me the folder.
“There’s enough dirt on you here to bury you.
Years of prison time for financial crimes.
And that’s not even the worst. Maybe if we take your teeth now, we’ll make your prison time more interesting.
You’ll be quite popular amongst your cellmates. But you don’t want that, do you?”
He shakes his head frantically.
“Here’s the deal. You take our very reasonable terms, get yourself a few shiny gold necklaces instead of one fashioned from your teeth and ears, and everybody walks away happy.
The dirt stays buried, including, but not limited to, pictures of you and your many mistresses.
Considering who your wife is, you might not even make it to prison if she sees this folder. ”
I lean closer.
“So what do you say, Ivan?”
He stays silent. It seems we trained him too well.
“Now you can speak.”
“Yes! P-please! We have a deal.”
“But we’re not done here. You owe Dean an apology.”
“I apologize! I’m so, so sorry!” Ivan keeps sobbing, and there’s already a pool of bodily fluids under his face.
“Sorry for what?” Dean roars.
“F-for telling you to g-get me coffee.”
“I don’t accept this apology.”
Dean grabs the pliers from my hand, stuffs the piece of cloth back into Ivan’s mouth, and pulls out the remaining nails on his left hand, ignoring the muffled screams.
“This is an apology I might consider,” he adds, but the fucker has already passed out again.
“Okay, this isn’t even funny anymore,” Connor mutters. “Grandma had a higher pain tolerance than him.”
“Yeah, we know,” Carter chimes in. “We were all in the backseat when Nana drove herself to the hospital with a gunshot wound in her leg while beating the shit out of you in the passenger seat.”
“Eat shit!” Connor spits.
The Nana story always ends with them fighting, and I can’t have this in here.
“Wake him up,” I tell Dean.
He pulls Ivan up, shaking him hard enough to get him conscious again.
“We start in a month. Go against us, and the necklace will be the least painful part. Play along, and we all leave pleased. Now thank us for granting you a more than fair percentage, despite your charming attitude.” I’m taking a page out of Summer’s playbook.
“Thank you!” Romanoff spits as he talks, and I step back to avoid the spray.
And a second later, he blacks out. Again. At least I hope he’s passed out and not dead.
Dean checks for a pulse before we head out and flips the sign to Closed. Don’t want anyone disturbing our new collaborator before he’s regained consciousness.
Fresh air hits us as we step outside, but a vivid splash of red across a billboard makes my vision tunnel like a bull ready to charge.
That color belongs to Summer—the exact shade of dark fiery hair that makes me lose my fuckin’ mind every single time.
Even miles away, she still has me by the balls.
My attention locks on a jewelry store on the other side of the street, and I vaguely register Carter mentioning something about visiting an art gallery nearby, or Connor say he’s up for the best pizza in New York.
Am I actually contemplating buying jewelry as an apology?
She’s not the type to fall for cheap tricks. And I’ve never bought anything for a girl before, not even a fuckin’ piece of gum. Now I’m considering buying diamonds in a pathetic attempt to make her talk to me again.
“Don’t you have places to be?” I mutter when Dean lingers, trying to shake him off, but he grins.
“And miss this? Not a chance!”
“Miss what?” I play dumb, though that never works with Dean.
“You buying jewelry for a girl to beg your way back into her good graces.”
“Fuck off!” I push Dean’s shoulder, but he doesn’t budge.
“Not a chance,” he repeats, before striding for the store. With a frustrated grunt, I follow him. “What’s she mad about? The belt-around-her-neck thing?”
How bad did it look if he, of all people, mentions it?
“Worse,” I admit.
“You’re a real charmer when it comes to her.”
Six hours later, I’m parked near Summer’s dorm. The lights are off.
Where the fuck is she at 8 p.m. on a Monday night?
I sneak inside my pissed-off little demon’s room, searching for those long legs of hers that make the word little feel like a lie.
Her phone sits on the desk, which makes me reconsider the practicality of my gift. I should’ve gotten her a different type of necklace. One with a tracking device inside. Or I should microchip her. Maybe that’d be a bit too much for her taste.
Blue box in hand, blue balls in my pants, I wait for her, all thoughts of where she might be running through my mind. Even a scenario of her being in trouble, which I’m quick to disregard. Trouble doesn’t happen to her when she’s the definition of it.
Summer’s scent surrounds me when I lie back on her pillow. I need her next to me, sharing a bed, fucking her until my dick would rather fall off than surrender, and having her in my arms when sleep dares to steal from our time together.
Half an hour passes by before I decide to text Link, inquiring about her whereabouts. A nearby off-campus pool is the information he provides. For once, I won’t invade her privacy there.
I grab a pen from her desk and write a short note. The blue box goes on her pillow, my message placed carefully on top before I leave.
At home, Dean’s in the living room, watching a movie and eating pizza, so I round the couch and join him.
“No racing or chicks tonight?”
“I was screwing one for a while,” he says calmly, biting into a slice. “Lost interest. I need someone like me. Not someone who’s afraid of me.”
“Sooo you’re looking for a serial killer in the making?”
“Something like that.” He smirks, brow arched. “Or I can wait for you to completely screw things up with your girl and take her.”
“You . . .” My fingers dig into the palms of my hands, fists ready to hammer into his jaw.
“Breathe, sucker! I’m kidding.” He snickers and takes another bite of his pizza.
“Dickhead!”
“Joke aside,” he says, tone shifting slightly, “I still think she’s keeping secrets.
The way she handled Jacob. The way she handled you.
You don’t get like that with normal upbringing.
That being said—” He stuffs a final piece of pizza into his mouth and stands, taking his jacket along. “Get your shit together with her.”
“Where are you going?”
“There’s a race tonight. Who knows, maybe I’ll find my serial killer in the making there. Don’t wait up.”
The door shuts behind him, and I’m left staring at some movie, not processing a single frame.
I recognize who Summer is by her actions, and that’s what pulls me in. Whatever else she’s hiding, she’ll tell me in time. A different name. A different past. None of that would change how I feel about her.
What the fuck do I feel for her anyway?