Page 27 of Claiming Atlas
“Yes, sir.”
Red climbs out first and Johnny the weasel rushes over to shake his hand. He winces at Red’s grip. Ha. Fucker. I climb out, sliding my shades into place and pulling up the hood of my sweatshirt.
Johnny sidles up beside me. “How you doin’, brother? Long time no see. Bus life keeping you pretty busy?”
“Something like that.”
“Where’s the rest of the crew?’ He leads me down a long, deserted staff hallway, stopping at large double doors. He opens them and pokes his head out to make sure the coast is clear before leading me onto the casino floor. Red follows close behind us.
I hurry to keep up with Johnny, half convinced hiding and sneaking around like this will actually bring more attention, not less. Of course, my six-foot-two, three-hundred pound leprechaun-lookin’ security detail might be a bit obvious.
“They coming out tomorrow?”
“Huh?” I look up at the back of Johnny’s head. What the fuck is he rambling about?
“The band?” He pauses, looking back to motion behind me. “I don’t see them behind you.”
No shit?“They’re on the bus. I took a flight early.”
He laughs like I said something funny. “I bet that bus smells like shit.”
I nod. Whatever. Red side-eyes me, then hooks a thumb at Johnny. No shit, Red. No shit. This guy’s a fucking douche. Maybe it’s time to find a new favorite nightclub, but I’m a creature of habit.
We sneak along the wall of the casino, and I keep my head down, hoping I look more like a thug being ledout, than a celebrity being ledin.
As we reach TAO, I hear my name and lift my head. “Fucking idiot,” I curse under my breath. I should kick my own ass for that. There’s a huge line outside the club, and I’ve just alerted them all to my presence by lifting my motherfucking head.
Red grabs my arm at the elbow to pull me inside before I get swarmed, but right as I’m about to duck inside, a group of girls catches my eye. They walk beside the long line of Bangers instead of falling in line behind them, like they know they’re already in and don’t bother waiting in line.
They’re also the only girls whoaren’tstaring at me right now.
“Atlas?”
And not a Cade shirt among them.
“Hold up.” I scan the group of girls until my eyes land on a leggy brunette. Her hair is up in a tight bun or something, and I’m starting to wonder if uptight chicks have become my new thing.
They must have because one look at her and I want to see her hair sprawled out on my pillow and her eyes rolled back in her head as she screams my fucking name.
I look down at her shoes and smile. Leopard and at least a mile high. I think I’ll let her fuck me in nothing but those shoes.
Her stems are covered in jeans that might have been painted on. I want to peel them off.
Her sweater is white and hangs off her shoulders, like only her giant titties are holding the fabric in place. If I’m lucky, I’ll get to see those perfect tits in a matter of hours. Tops.
Who am I kidding with thisif I’m luckybullshit? I don’t need luck when it comes to chicks.
I quickly scan her friends, but none of them are dressed in anything that even remotely indicates they’re fans of the band. Not a single studded belt or rock shirt among them.
So, bonus: she’s not a Banger.
Don’t get me wrong, I love our fans. They pay our fucking bills. They give uslife. But sometimes it’s nice to know a woman wants to fuckAtlas, not justanyone from the band.
She meets my gaze, and her eyes widen just slightly. She tries to play it cool, but it’s obvious she knows who I am. Her friend elbows her in the ribs, further proving my assumption.
Damn. She’s a Banger after all.
I think I’ll still let her fuck me. She’s too hot to turn away. Let’s just hope she doesn’t call me Chris like that chick in Detroit last summer. What a boner killer that was.
