Page 12 of Claiming Atlas

His eyes widen and his mouth falls open, then closes, like a fish out of water gasping for breath. “My apologies, sir. I...” He stammers as he struggles to come up with something that will excuse his blunder.

I wave my hand and take the envelope. “Whatever, man, it’s cool.” I narrow my eyes. This guy doesn’t look like he’s into rock. Maybebuttrock eighties bands and shit like that. “You’re a fan of the band?”

His cheeks flush.

That’s a yes.

He starts gushing about Banging Cade, and this is usually the point where sound starts to fade away into background noise, so I open the envelope to distract myself. Black cardstock, thick and textured, with one simple question imprinted in metallic purple:Think you’ve seen it all?

Yes. I have seen it all, thanks. And that’s cheesy as fuck. I try not to groan or roll my eyes; that would be impolite while this dude talks about the band. He goes on and on, and though I nod or murmur my assent, I’m only half listening. Okay, not even half. I flip the card over and read the back.

Let Us Titillate Your Senses

Titillate. Ha.

Find out what happens when westripyou of your sight...

Will your other sensesriseto the occasion?

I tilt my head. They’ve emphasized strip and rise. Which could be overkill, but they’ve managed to grab my attention. I quickly scan the rest of the details. The event is in two days, Saturday night, and our show’s not ‘til Sunday night, so my social calendar is free to be filled up with whatever or whoever I want.

I’m not one to pass up a good time, and I’ve got nothing to lose.

If they—whoevertheyare—think whateverthisis will surprise or shock me, they’ll have to put in an insane amount of effort. I mean, I’ve had my dick sucked while the Mona Lisa watched.

More likemoaningLisa.

Ha.

But, whatever. I’m down to give them the chance totitillateme.

So, yeah, I’llriseto the occasion.

I smile and nod at whatever the guy in front of me is saying, then hold up the invite. “Who sent this?”

The concierge blinks a few times, like I’ve just cut him off mid-sentence—which I probably did—then gives his head a quick shake. “It was brought over by courier just after you checked in, Atlas.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Sorry.” He gives a curt nod. “Mr. Reynolds.”

With a sigh, I roll my eyes. “Name on the room is Flintstone.”

He pales. “Yes. Mr. Flintstone. My apologies.”

My lips twitch when he says the name out loud. I crack myself up. Last time I booked a room, it was under Jetson. I had to start Googling old ass cartoons, but there’s been no lack of silly names to use. This guy stares blankly, like he doesn’t even know who the Flintstones are, but like I give a fuck. As long as I’m amused, yeah?

I look at the envelope. I hadn’t noticed before, but it’s addressed to Mr. Reynolds, not Mr. Flintstone, and beneath it is the room number. So they knew who I was as well as who I’d booked the room under.

Well, color me intrigued.

I pull out a Benjamin and hand it to the concierge. “It was nice talking to you, bro. Keep this room stocked with Dom, candy—but none of that licorice bullshit, and peanut butter pretzels, and we’ll forget the little name mix-up. Deal?”

He smiles wide and bobs his head up and down like an eager toddler. “Absolutely, Mr. Flintstone. I’ll have a bottle of Dom Perignon sent up immediately.”

I shake my head. “Nah, I’m beat, man. Bring it around ten tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, sir, ten o’clock. I’ll have that sent up tomorrow at ten. Would you like orange juice with tha—”

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