Page 111 of Atlas
“That must’ve stung,” Damien says. “When he dropped you for her. She’s got that soft thing going on. Sweet. Innocent. Not your usual competition.”
“I don’t understand.” My voice trembles, and I hate it.
“You never did,” he spits. “That’s half the problem. Kasey took my money. Atlas took my wife. And now you want to take Leo? You all think you’re untouchable.”
“So you took Rue to punish us?” My mind is racing, but nothing makes sense. “This is about Leo?”
“No. This is about power,” he snaps. “Rue means everything to the biker. And the biker—he still means something to you, doesn’t he?”
I flinch.
“Here’s how this goes,” he continues, low and cruel. “Drop the fight for Leo. Get me my money back. Do that, and I let the girl go. If not . . .” He pauses. And that pause says everything. “If not, I’ll make her pay. Again. And again. And again. Until I get what I want.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone like it might explode, the world muffled under the roar in my ears.
No one speaks.
I can’t breathe.
Tom steps beside me, his hand coming to my back, but I barely feel it.
This is all him.Damien.
And if I don’t stop this, if I don’t figure out how to fix what’s broken, Rue’s going to suffer for everything.
I lift my eyes to Atlas, who’s already halfway out his seat, his jaw clenched so tight, I’m surprised his teeth don’t shatter.
“We need a plan,” I whisper, my voice hoarse.
Rue
The room is silent except for the ticking of the old pipes attached to the ceiling, and the soft shuffle of my own restless pacing. It’s cold, damp, and reeks of mildew. There’s a thin mattress in the corner and a single, bare bulb that buzzes overhead. No windows. Just walls and silence.
My throat aches from thirst. My lips are cracked. They haven’t given me water in hours, maybe longer. I’ve lost track of time. My head throbs from where someone knocked me sidewaysgetting me out of the van. My hands shake, but I ball them into fists to stop the tremble.
And I need to pee.
I press my thighs together, rocking slightly on my heels, but I can’t hold it much longer.
Swallowing what’s left of my pride, I walk to the door and knock.
Nothing.
I knock again, louder. “Hello? I . . . I need to use the bathroom.”
Silence.
Then a few heavy footsteps approach. The door creaks open, just a few inches. A man peers through the gap. One of the ones who dragged me out of the van. Crooked nose. Yellow teeth. The same dirty hoodie he wore when he laughed as I cried.
“What do you want?”
I force myself to speak, even though my voice comes out hoarse. “Please. I need to go. To the bathroom.”
He disappears without a word, and for a second, I think he’s gone for good. But then the door opens wider, and he shoves something into the room, a bucket.
A fucking bucket.
