Page 98 of Atlas
“You should sit still and listen,” I say.
Axel pours himself a splash of wine from Damien’s bottle, swirling it lazily. He doesn’t drink it.
“We’re here for a friendly chat,” Axel says, his tone light. “Kasey Green. Sound familiar?”
Damien’s expression barely flickers, but I see it. Recognition. Guilt.
“She didn’t steal your money, so you’re gonna call off the search party,” he continues.
“She took my money,” he growls.
“A few grand,” I hiss. “That’s pocket change to you.”
“And a ring,” he snaps, trying to shrug me off. I grip firmer, glancing at Axel, who doesn’t let the new information change the narrative.
“I’m telling you it wasn’t her,” he says firmer this time.
Damien’s mouth twists. “You think I give a shit what your little club thinks?”
“You should,” I say. “Rue and Kasey are under our protection now. You go near them, even hint at messing with them again, and it’s not the law you’ll need to worry about.”
Axel leans forward. “You’re not the biggest fish in our pond, Damien.” He smirks. “In fact, you’re just a tadpole swimming amongst the sharks.”
“It’s twice her name’s come up in twenty-four hours. First, my ex-wife mentions it, and now you,” says Damien, relaxing again. “Is that coincidence or are you fucking her?” he asks Axel.
“When I plan to take someone down, I always have a back-up plan,” says Axel. “You should remember that.”
“She won’t get Leo back,” he rages.
Axel grins, pushing to his feet. “It was nice to meet you, but let’s not cross paths again.”
As the others head out, I lean closer. “And it was me,” I whisper. “I was the one who fucked Anita, and man, she loved every second of it.” I slap him hard on the back and head out.
Rue
I’m half asleep when someone taps on my bedroom door and a second later, Atlas peers around it. “Hey, can I borrow you for a second?”
I push to sit, glancing at the clock. It’s almost nine but it’s so noisy downstairs, I doubt I’ll be sleeping properly any time soon, so I stand. “Sure, what’s up?” I ask, hating there’s still tension between us.
“Follow me,” he says, turning and heading back down the hall.
We head up to the next floor, right to the end where there’s a locked door. He produces the key and unlocks it, glancing back at me as he opens it. “Trust me?” he asks.
I nearly turn back. Because I don’t trust him. Not yet. As if he realises all too late the impact of his words, he winces. “It’s a nice surprise,” he mutters.
He leads me up a narrow metal staircase, his hand hovering like he’s ready to catch me if I trip, though he doesn’t touch me. At the top, he unlocks the rooftop door with a key I didn’t even know he had.
And then he pushes it open. Warm light spills out.
I blink.
The space is transformed. String lights zigzag between rusted metal beams. There’s a thick old rug on the ground and two giant beanbags with mismatched cushions in the middle. A couple of lanterns flicker at the corners. Someone’s dragged a little firepit up here, not lit yet, but the promise is there.
And in the centre, like it’s waiting just for me, is a crate with a coffee mug perched on top and a stack of books next to it.Old, worn paperbacks. Covers with cracked spines and creased corners. My fingers itch to grab them and examine them.
I step out slowly, my boots crunching against gravel.
“You did all this?” I ask, glancing at him. He shrugs, trying to play it cool, but he’s not fooling me. His jaw is tight, like he’s bracing for me to hate it.
