Page 14 of Claiming Atlas

Scar plays it cool as she walks over to Brandon, but I know she’s bursting at the seams and would throw herself straight into his arms if we weren’t behind the club.Technically, we aren’t even supposed to be seen leaving with these guys, but the coast is clear, so we duck into the backseat of the car before anyone can see us. I could give a shit if I lose this job, but Scarlet loves this place.

Brandon’s friend—Steve? Dan? Shit.—looks at me, eyebrows raised. “No red hair?”

I frown. “That was a wig.” Is he serious?

He nods. “Bummer.”

This is going to be a long night. “My name isn’t Kincaid Summers either.” Let’s get all the disappointment out of the way, shall we?

He smiles. “I know. Scarlet already told us, Kayla.”

I raise a brow at Scar and she smiles sheepishly. What else has she told them about me?

They hold the doors for us on either side, and we climb into the backseat, then they settle into the front seats and Brandon starts to pull out of the parking lot. “XS cool with everyone?”

I nod, though he can’t see me in the backseat. XS, TAO, Marquee... they’re all the same.

“Works for us.” Scar slaps my elbow, so I turn to her. She looks at me pointedly, her eyebrows furrowed, then mouths, “Perk up.”

I sit taller in my seat and give her the most plastic grin I can manage. She owes me big for this. I usually do my best to avoid douchebags, but here I am on a double date with their leader. Leaders? It’s yet to be revealed if Brandon’s a total douche too. But if I were a betting woman, I’d let it ride on a big fatyes.

I forgot to look at the plates on the Rover, but my guess is California. Orange County mortgage brokers, to be more precise.

Scar rolls her eyes at me and shakes her head, as if following my thoughts, then focuses on the men in the front seats. “So, Brandon, you said you live here, right? Have you been in Vegas all your life?”

No, he’s probably a transplant from California. So am I, truth be told, but if Scarlet makes that connection, she’s dead to me.

D.

E.

A.

D.

As the small talk starts, I rest my head on the headrest and close my eyes, catching bits and pieces of the conversation—enough to possibly be able to hold a convo with them later—but not enough that I have to fully engage right now. I need a few minutes to decompress after work.

Though I’m usually in my pajamas and cuddled up with Ben and Jerry when I do it. That’s my kind of threesome.

We drop the Range Rover at valet and head into Encore on our way to XS. Brandon knows the guy working, so we get in right away. It’s stuffy and packed to capacity, but we follow security to the VIP hostess, who then leads us through the crowd to the only remaining bottle service table. She unhooks the red velvet rope, then steps aside as we enter the crescent-shaped booth. Scar and I sit in the center, and the boys sit beside us on either side. The hostess opens the bottles, then begins to pour drinks. When she hands me a vodka cran, I shake my head and raise my hand to say ‘no thank you’.

She smiles and nods, then sets the drink down on the table.

“Kay doesn’t drink,” Scar announces.

Brandon’s friend turns toward me, his eyebrows raised. “Really? Is there a reason?”

I force a smile. Why does there always have to be a reason? Maybe I just don’t like to drink. “No,” I shout over the bass. “Just never really got into it.”

“Huh.” He leans back, stretching his arm out across the back of the booth behind me. The armpit of his pale blue shirt is soaked with sweat. It’s hot as hell in here, I get it, but ugh. Every moment that passes makes me want my bed even more.

Scar leans over to whisper, “Want me to order some champagne?”

I shake my head. “Nah, I’m good.”I won’t be here long.

“We’re drinking Friday night though, right? To ring in your big retirement?”

“Did I hear someone say they’re retiring?” Brandon leans forward, elbows on his knees. His green eyes meet mine. “Not Kincaid Summers. Say it isn’t so.” He smiles, and it’s a nice gesture. He doesn’t give off the full blown creeper vibe I’d pegged him with.

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