Page 76 of Claiming Atlas
“Well, it wasn’t me. And I didn’t talk to anyone yesterday but the driver that got me to and from that little shindig of yours last night, and you were with me for one of those rides.”
She shakes her head and holds up the magazine again, this time so I can see the photo they used. Of course it’s one from the elevator last night when that schmuck accosted us. Her long leg is exposed and her bra peeks out the top of her coat. It was sexy as hell at the time, but in print like that, her outfit makes her look a bit like a...
I stop before finishing the rest of that thought.
She turns the tabloid back around and reads from the article again.“‘Kincaid Summers, whose real name is Kayla Sanders, is one of the top paid performers in Las Vegas.’”
I nod, because this part is true, yeah?
“‘Until confirmation from another source close to Mr. Reynolds, we could only speculate on her other more lucrative ventures. Another woman, who wishes to remain anonymous in order to protect her privacy, was paid to entertain Reynolds in his suite earlier this week. She has confirmed that she works with Sanders at Exotic Direct, a local escort company.”
My eyes widen. No wonder she’s pissed.
She looks up and meets my gaze. “I don’t know what’s worse. Being your fuckingprostitute, orjust another Bangeryou’ve brought into your bed.”
I raise my hands and step toward her. “Kayla, seriously, I didn’t say any of that stuff.”
“But it’s true, right? I mean, of course it is. You’re Atlas Reynolds, aren’t you? The biggest manwhore of them all. You go through women like you go through towns, and who the hell am I to think I’m any different from the last?” She steps backward, bumping into the table, then looks behind her. She doesn’t seem to notice that her Dear John goodbye letter isn’t sitting there with the remnants of her lace thong. “And, you know what; this is so stupid because IknewI’d regret you. Iknewyou were a mistake—” She pauses again, looking back at the table. “Where’s my note?”
I don’t answer her because the breath has left my lungs.
She looks at me again, then swivels her head slowly to look back at the table, and I watch her head move like everything has slowed down to a standstill, and when her eyes land on the trashcan, on the crumpled piece of paper that is the only thing in there, I don’t have to see her reaction. Because Ifeelit. I feel it in every ounce of my being.
She has no idea I read that note so many times I had to throw it away because it hurt too damn much to keep.
I open my mouth to explain, but no words come out, because as she realizes I threw out her note, jumping to whatever conclusion she likes best, I realize what she just said.
She knew this was a mistake.
She knewIwas a mistake.
Nothing matters after that.
“You threw my note away.” She spins around and strides past me.
She threwmeaway. Nothing I can say makes a difference now. I’m just a Las Vegas mistake. One final fuck up before she goes back to wherever she’s from.
Stopping halfway out the door, she turns around and drops the magazine on the floor, then pins me with a stare that could melt Antarctica. “Just another banger, Atlas?”
I swallow the pain that seeps out of my heart and up my throat, trying to strangle me where I stand, because I don’tdopain. “Aren’t you?” I ask her. ‘I mean, you’re a fan of the band, and you just fucked a member.” I shrug when I should be throwing myself at her feet and taking the words back but damn her for making me feel only to make me feel likeshit.
She closes her eyes, releasing a single tear, then looks at me with so much anger I take a step back. “You’re right. I just wanted to fuck a member of the band, and you were in the right place at the right time.”
