Page 40 of Atlas

Tyrant hesitates. It’s very clear to me that he’s met this man he’s considering. Personally. Probably alone. I like that about as much as anyone else here would like it, but Tyrant’s stubborn. He’s a good man with a great heart, but he’s also tough as fuck.

“No morals, more like,” he clarifies, his joking tone gone.

We’ve questioned whether a few of the guys here had some tendencies and leanings towards maybe not having a right and wrong center, but they just liked to keep their cards close to their chests. It’s alright to be damaged. This clearly goes well beyond that. The hair on the backs of my arms stand on end.

“I don’t even know if he’s fully sane,” Tyrant admits. “You can’t be doing what he does and be able to live with yourself if- well… he’s very good at finding people.”

“And doing what?” Georgia would probably tell me that’s a stupid question and I’m about to get an answer I don’t want to hear.

“Making sure they’ll never be found by anyone else again.”

I don’t know how to deal with that or process it. It’s a good thing Tyrant isn’t waiting for me to find something to say, or we’d be here for a good while. I don’t think I’m going to be able to thaw the ice out from the center of my spine for a long time either.

Finding someone who is the best at what they do is one thing.

Living with them is another.

Tyrant would never endanger anyone here. He’d give his life for this club and anyone in it. If he trusts this man enough to hire him, then we’ll all trust our Prez’s judgment in return.

But patching in?

I hope it doesn’t come to it, and if it does, that this guy refuses. Anti-heroes and even villains are all well and good. But this man sounds like the kind of dark that you’d hope you never brushed up against, a soulless shell of forsaken humanity.

Chapter 12

Willa

I’ve never been very good at following directions.

The club isn’t exactly quiet. It strikes me as the kind of place, where even if a banger of a party isn’t raging to the dawn, quiet isn’t exactly a thing. For one, I know that there are several men rotating on shifts, keeping watch over the clubhouse and in the room where all the security feeds are kept. Wizard might still be awake, but he can’t be up twenty-four hours every single day.

Even if this was a regular time, bikers seem more like nocturnal animals than early risers.

I can hear soft voices drifting down the hall from the lounge as I tiptoe along.

Atlas never gave me the code for his room, but he did show me which one it was before he walked me and Agatha to our room like a gentleman. We’re across the club, in the section that must be reserved for guests. His is the thick of the action, right in the middle of all the other biker’s rooms.

I’m worried that by knocking, I’ll raise half the club, but when I get there, I don’t have to worry about that. The door is open a crack and the light is on.

Atlas isn’t asleep. He’s sitting on the bed, back against the black metal headboard, a book in his hands that I can tell he’s not reading.

I don’t even have to enter the room before he sighs and lowers it. “You had better come in, but leave the door open. Friends can meet. Friends can talk. But doors closed is asking for a secret to be kept.”

He curls his back away from the headboard, shifting to swing his long legs off the edge of the bed. He rubs his eyes like they’re grainy and tired. Was he waiting for me? Would he have waited all night?

Aware that the door is open, I resist the urge to hug him or kiss him, though the longing for even the smallest touch consumes me.

I sit down beside him. The mattress has almost no give I clasp my hands between my knees. I threw together a bag before I left, but overlooked pajamas, so I’m in leggings and a thrifted crewneck sweater boasting a college logo of a place I didn’t attend.

“You were so quiet tonight. I wanted to make sure that you’re holding up. It’s been a lot in a very short span of time.”

Atlas makes this sound in his throat that I take to mean that he isn’t allowed to be exhausted. He’s a man and men should be tough, always. “You should be equally exhausted.”

“I am. But there are different kinds, and you don’t look like that kind of tired.”

“Do you find me boring?”

“Boring?” Where did that come from? Nothing about this situation is anything less than anxiety inducing, bone chilling, horrible suspenseful. “Like how? I don’t really understand what you mean.”

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