Page 11 of Claiming Atlas
And one I’d like to make.
I’d regret it, of course, and he’s probably a Grade A prick in person, but—
“I’ve sent him a personal invitation to the event. I trust you’ll be there.”
Her words pull me out of my fantasizing about Atlas, slamming me right back into the here and now. “Dammit, Coll, I meant it when I said I’m finished after Friday’s show.”
Shetsks. “You can be finished afterSaturday’sshow. I’ll send you the info. Don’t let me down.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she’s gone. That unmatchable silence that only a cell phone can give you replaces Collette Rhone, and I’m left standing here with my mouth open. I inhale a deep breath, then put the phone away.
Fine.You win, Collette.I’ll do one last show, but after that, I’m done. Retirement starts in forty-eight, no, seventy-two hours.
Grrr. How does she always get what she wants?
I no longer do the lap dance rounds, but I always go out and make myself visible to the crowd. No one wants a girl they think is untouchable, especially in this industry, and even if I’m a headliner, actually connecting with the audience is half the battle. And it takes real deal face time.
I spritz some Exotic Coconut in the air, then walk into the cloud of body spray so it just dusts my skin, close my locker, and head out onto the floor. I try to ignore the new spring in my step and the unmistakable flutter in my belly, but Banging Cade is in town this weekend, and I’m going to get a personal introduction to at least one of the guys.
There are certainly worse ways to kick off my retirement.
Chapter Six
Atlas
I’m not in my room five minutes when there’s a knock at the door. I look at my phone and growl. It’s two-fucking-thirty in the morning. “Red?”
Where is that fat fuck?
I leave the master suite and walk out into the main room, then call down the opposite hallway. “Red?”
His voice comes back too muffled to decipher what he says.
“I don’t pay you to sit on the shitter!” I shake my head. “This better be good.” I open the door to the concierge we passed downstairs. Hands outstretched in front of him, he presents me with a thick white envelope. “For you, Mr. Reynolds.”
I reach for the envelope but pause before grasping it. “The room’s not under Reynolds.”
