Page 16 of Flame and Fury

People pass me on the street, but their heads are down, intent on arriving at their destination. Most of them appear to be workers at the various clubs and casinos. Which makes sense. Anyone who is going to those places to gamble or for entertainment has enough money to take a car.

The sky is gray and there’s enough snow flying around that my visibility is no more than twenty feet in front of me. The drone that never fails to show up is floating overhead, capturing my trudge down the street. I’m stupidly pleased to watch it wobble in the terrible weather. I hope it crashes into a building.

I contemplate closing my eyes and picking a place at random before my fingers get numb and fall off. As it is, I can barely feel my face. I wipe my sleeve under my nose, positive there’s snot dripping down. That’s a mistake. My coat is already covered in hunks of snow. A glowing sign for a bar called Hades Hideaway appears through the blizzard. It’s squished between two much larger bars. The “H” in Hades keeps flickering off and on like the lightbulb is going bad.

I’d say I don’t believe in omens, but that’s not true. I’m a Fury. I know the Fates are real and I absolutely believe sometimes we’re meant to be in certain places at just the right time. My gut tells me this is where I need to be.

The door barely moves when I try to push it open. I shove at it with my shoulder, and when it finally relents, I stumble inside. A blast of snow and cold air follows behind me.

“Shut the fucking door,” someone shouts from the back of the bar.

Yeah, this is definitely my kind of place. I press my back against the door to muscle it closed. The bottom scrapes against the floor with a sound that makes my teeth ache. There’s a gouge in the linoleum floor from years of abuse, but it’s obviously not dug down deep enough. I give a middle finger salute to the drone still being battered about in the storm outside.

Hades Hideaway is one baby step up from the Hole in terms of classiness. There’s no underwear hanging on the shelves of liquor, but there are bras pinned to the ceiling and hanging over the bar. The smell of spilled beer soaked into ancient floors that never quite come clean gives me a pang of homesickness I wasn’t prepared for. It wasn’t that many days ago that I saw Jerry, but I still feel worlds apart from my old life in Chicago. So much has changed in such a short period of time.

Wood paneling covers walls that are decorated with old black-and-white photos of celebrities from way before my time. Some of them are signed, but all of them are yellowed with age.

It’s late afternoon, but I have absolutely no idea what day it is. Only a handful of people populate the bar. The phrase, one of these things is not like the other, pops into my head. My stupid, fuzzy coat is soaked from the snow. My overly curled hair is equally wet and getting straighter by the minute, turning it into a tangled mess. The patrons of the bar, on the other hand, are in worn-out clothes, looking like they just wrapped up a hard day of work.

As I walk over to the bar, something occurs to me. I don’t have any money. Dammit, my plan was to buy a drink and talk to the bartender to see if I could get some information. It’s kind of hard to do that when you don’t have any cash.

The woman behind the bar looks to be in her late twenties. Her skin is tan, like she gets a lot of sun which is strange because I don’t think the sun shines anymore in Vegas. Her hair is black as midnight and high on her head in a messy knot. Her lips are painted with a ruby red lipstick, and her eyelashes are so long and thick, they must be fake.

Even though it’s freezing cold out, she has on a short jean skirt and a motorcycle T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, making it into a tank top. She doesn’t smile at me as I slide onto a barstool, but she’s not giving me the evil eye either. I’ll take that as a win.

I shrug off my coat, and wince at the water dripping off it. I drape it over the stool next to me to help it dry out. Although, I’m not sure that’s possible. There’s a faint barn smell coming from it. I’d leave it here forever if I didn’t need protection from the blizzard outside.

“What can I get for you?” The bartender’s voice is throaty and rough.

Yeah, I’m kind of screwed here, because, well…no money. I open my mouth, hoping that something brilliant pops out, when the long screech of the door opening pulls my attention toward the front of the bar.

My head falls back in a groan that rumbles inside of my throat. Standing at the door, dressed in a parka—that has a zipper—with a big fur-lined hood that makes him look like a lion, is Atlas Morrison. He tosses back his hood and shakes his whole body like an animal as he walks inside. The handful of patrons stares at the two of us. Their eyes dart back-and-forth between us like we’re the most interesting entertainment that’s been seen at the Hideaway in decades. It probably is.

“Friend of yours?” The bartender asks, as she sets a beer in front of me.

I glance at it, then up at her, and finally over to Atlas before settling back on the bartender. “I don’t… I didn’t order…”

“It’s on the house, sugar.” The bartender winks at me, then crosses her arms and stares at Atlas.

This is interesting. I didn’t think anyone was immune to Atlas’s charms. Normally, he doesn’t even have to speak. He just turns those golden looks on a person and they melt under his hazel eyed stare. Not this bartender though.

Atlas unzips his coat as he crosses the bar and heads straight for me. It should not be sexy, but my imagination leaps into images of him pulling off layers as he stalks toward me.

There is something very wrong with me.

Atlas drops his coat on the seat next to my wooly jacket, and then slides onto the stool beside me. He sits sideways, angled toward me while I face the bar. I pull my beer toward me and take a sip before angling my head to glare at Atlas.

Which version of him am I going to get tonight?

CHAPTER11

ATLAS

“Did you wait around so you could follow me? You’ve had at least an hour's head start.” Wren glares at me but there's a note of pleasure in her voice.

She might pretend she doesn't like this little game we've got going on, but secretly she loves when I show up. I think she enjoys it because she's bested me every damn time. The first challenge she found Ayla Long before me. When I saw her in that club my initial reaction had been irritation, but admiration quickly chased the feeling away. At Mad Adam's, where she'd already tracked down Otis Carmine I hadn't even been surprised. At this point, I'm just following her around like a sad, lost puppy.

I haven't stopped to think about the challenge at all, I just tracked where she was headed. I'm sure she's on the right path, but I don't care. I’m not here to win this trial. Zeus continues to berate me for my losses every time we’re together, but to him I’m just another disappointing offspring. Nothing new there.

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