Page 27 of Atlas

Willa

Atlas said surprise him, so I’m making soft boiled eggs. They rumble against each other in the pot on the industrial gas stove. It was hell on earth getting it up here from the main floor, but I couldn’t let it die a dusty death where I found it sitting and rusting. A little cleaning up and five guys from Atlas’ club to sweat and curse as they moved it, and it was good as new.

Not everything can be made new so simply.

I can’t stop thinking about Atlas in the bathroom. I wasn’t sure what came over me when I decided to tie him up earlier. Well, I do know. Last night he was getting too inside his head, I saw the look on his face, the way he was retreating into himself. Tying him up was a way of forcing him to be in the moment. If he’d objected, then I’d have released him straight away and probably be mortified. But it seemed to do the trick. However, now I’m worried about what comes next.

I flip the back bacon over, the pink has darkened nicely on both sides, the yellow cornmeal edging turning a golden brown.

Lynette used to tell me that a little bit of self-doubt goes a long way towards self-preservation. It was her nice way of sayingstop and think for a change.Unbeknownst to her, I’ve been doing just that from a very early age. We just think differently.

The eggs reach the end of their seven minutes, and when my phone timer goes off, I drain them, hopefully the yolks will beperfectly jammy. I pop six slices of rye bread into the toaster and press them down.

Should I have waited? Atlas’ heart is still a graveyard, haunted by the past. He’s not someone who makes a decision overnight. He’s no poet, but he is a deep thinker. He needs time to adjust to this, but I also don’t want to give him too much space or he’ll start second guessing himself and inserting doubts, planting land mines all over what could be good and beautiful.

He emerges, wet hair slicked back behind his ears, walking sin and good enough to eat… again… right as the toast pops up.

“Good timing.” I try to sound casual, but the words probably come out sounding anything but.

I put four eggs, the whole pan of bacon, and the six pieces of toast onto his plate. It looks like a feat for twelve, but I noticed how little he ate last night at his parents’ house, due to the uncomfortable conversation, no doubt. He worked hard yesterday, and we have metric fuck-ton of work to do unloading that trailer into the back shop area this morning.

“These are still in the shell?” It sounds more like a question than a statement.

“Yeah. Soft boiled.”

“That’s exciting.”

My stomach is a wreckage of butterflies, nerves, and anxiety brought on by all the second guessing, but the storm goes quiet when Atlas steps past the island, bypassing his plate, and covers my hand. I study his fingers, work roughened with short, blunt nails.

Finally, I tear my eyes from our hands, straight to his face. He brushes his other hand over my jaw in a sweet caress that heats my whole body and pebbles my nipples under my long sleeved black shirt.

“I’ve never told you how sexy those pants look on you.”

“They’re just cargos. Work pants.” Made of duck canvas, they’re thick and durable. I wear them for all my unloading and for at least half of my picks so that I don’t destroy my regular clothes.

“Mmm. I’d love to take them off you.”

My heart explodes. He could be trying to claw his way back behind his walls, but instead, he’s intentionally reaching out to me.

“Sit down and eat before your breakfast gets cold.” I shudder at the thought of goopy, congealed yolks.

“That’s what the microwave is for,” he protests.

“Easy there, slugger. Microwaved eggs explode and toast would turn to leather. Save some strength for unloading. You’ll need it.”

His cock rams into my stomach as he presses closer, tugging my lower lip between his teeth. The thought of him without boxers on under those jeans threatens to turn me into an animal, so I force myself away.

“You’re hungry. Eat. Please.”

He curls around the island reluctantly, pulling out a stool and arching his huge body over his plate, but when he tucks into his food, he eats like he hasn’t had anything for weeks.

He’s finished long before I make myself a few slices of bacon and toast, and walks to the fridge like he lives here, gets out the store bought cake in the silver tray, and starts in on that with a fork while leaning casually against the counter.

I know that we still have so much to sort out and talk about, but this gives me hope. It would make me feel a thousand percent better if I knew that he had hope too, a balm to all his inner aches that he disguises so carefully.

***

After breakfast, Atlas backs the trailer up to the single loading dock door that’s left. It opens up to a large space in the back that’s closed off from the rest of the store. There are several workbenches back here with carefully arranged tools, as well as a large sorting and storage space. I can work on anything that needs some TLC before it goes out onto the floor. Most antiques need some love, whether it’s repair or just cleaning.

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