Atlas

A door closes somewhere in the room, pulling me from slumber. Kayla must be in the bathroom. I open my eyes and look at the clock. It’s almost noon. The boys will be in town soon, if they aren’t already. I reach across the bed for my phone on the nightstand. There are three texts from Chris and one from Cade. They’re here.

I send a group text to the band to tell them I’ll be at the MGM for rehearsal by two o’clock.

That gives me two full hours to properly say goodbye to Kayla.

I stretch out in the bed, smiling as I think about all the things we did last night.

I’d planned on making her speechless, but when she screamed my name repeatedly, I failed.

Worth it.

I’ve always made it a priority to keep my hookups brief and to the point. A good fuck, or a BJ—sometimes both—and then it’s goodbye. Don’t let the door hit you on your ass on the way out. They want to fuck a star, so I give them that. But they don’t get more. Chicks never spend the night unless I’m too fucked up to kick them out of my bed, and in that case, I’m gone before they wake up and Red or one of the guys handles it for me.

Until now.

“Kayla?”

Now I want to keep Kayla in my bed for way more than the two nights we’ve spent together, and this fucking sucks. I’m starting to understand why she might have an aversion to goodbye. I roll over and press my face into her pillow, inhaling deeply, turn my head to the side and try again. “Kayla?”

When she doesn’t respond, I sit up and look around the room.

Her stuff is gone. The only thing that remains is what’s left of that black lace thong. At least she left me a souvenir. I jump out of bed and rush to the table where it sits on top of a piece of paper. She better have left her number, or a ‘be right back, I’ve gone for coffee’, or something other than a fucking Dear John goodbye letter.

I open the piece of paper and shake my head.

Just call me John.

Atlas,

You’re so much more than I ever imagined.

I’ll never listen to your music the same way again, and

I’ll never drink champagne without thinking of you.

Thank you for an amazing weekend.

Kayla

xo

“Fuck!” I crumple the paper and throw it against the wall.

Running my hand through my hair, I walk over and pick it up off the floor, then flatten it out on the tabletop. I read it again, just to really drive the pain home.

I’m a masochist if ever there was one.

I read it again, then crumple it into a tight little ball and toss it into the trashcan.

It bounces out.

“Argh!” I stomp over and pick it up, then throw it down into the can again. “Stay there.”

I pick it up again and throw it down one more time for good measure. And because throwing her bullshit little note feels good.

I growl. None of this feels good. Fuck Kayla and fuck her for making me feel this way. Fuck her for making me feel, period.

Not having feelings is so much damn easier.

I’m adding that to the list of rules I will never break again.

No chasing tail. I have plenty of women begging for my cock at any given moment; this is the last time I pursue anyone. “I’m Atlas fucking Reynolds!” I yell at my room.

No tasting the pussy. No matter how good it looks, or smells, or feels, there will be no sampling of the goods.

No bareback. It felt too damn good to make that connection with Kayla, and it’s got my head all fucked up.

No coming back for seconds. Atlas Reynolds isn’t a buffet, ladies. Fill your plate once, then it’s time to get the fuck out.

No falling in love. This one is self-explanatory. Fuck falling in love. Or lust. Or even like. I won’t feel a thing for another girl for as long as I live.

Okay, that’s probably a stretch, but I’m serious. I fuck for fun, not for feelings, and definitely not for forever.

I walk into the bathroom and start the shower. I can still smell her on my skin, in this room. Time to wash Kayla Sanders from my life. It was fun, but now I move on.

I crossed Kincaid Summers off my bucket list. That’s it.

It only seemed like more than sex because she’s the first chick I fucked who I had a sort of crush on. Am I too old to say crush? Fuck yes I am.

Moving on.

I pick up the phone in the bathroom and dial housekeeping.

“Good morning, Mr. Reynolds. What can we do for you today?”

I shake my head. The room is under Fred Flintstone for fuck’s sake. “I’m going to be out of the bathroom in twenty minutes. I expect the bed linens changed before then.” I slam the phone back onto the receiver and step into the shower.

There’s no leggy brunette waiting in my bed when I leave the bathroom twenty minutes later.

And like a fucking schmuck, I’d hoped she’d be here even after her stupid ass goodbye note.

At least the bed is made and the sheets are clean, though I swear I can still smell her all over this room.

I dial the concierge.

“Hello, sir, how may I help—?”

“Send up a bottle of Dom. No, two bottles. And make it quick. I have rehearsal.” I hang up the phone and head to the closet. It’s concert day, which means my outfit is simple as fuck. Black jeans, black t-shirt, black boots. So original.

Too bad Kayla didn’t leave that long white trench coat here. That would be badass on top of this outfit. Throwin’ a little Bowie in the mix. I pull my jeans on and step into my boots, then head back into the bathroom to do my hair.

There’s a knock on the door ten minutes later. I finish running my hands through my hair for that just-fucked messy look, pulling my bangs into strands over my eyes, then step away from the mirror.

They knock again.

“Fuck, I’m coming.”

I throw up both my middle fingers and give my best ‘fuck you’ look to my reflection, then pull on my t-shirt as I make my way to the door.

“That champagne better be damn cold—”

My words die when I see her.

“Ice cold, Atlas.”

I wanted her gone, but now I want to pull her to me and never let go. My heart dies when I register the look on her face and the barely restrained rage in her words. “Kayla, what—?”

“Just another Banger?” Kayla demands as she pushes past me.

I look out into the foyer at Red.

His eyes are wide, like she just scared him into submission. He shakes his head and raises his hands. “Sorry, boss. I couldn’t stop her.”

Well, I find that hard to believe. Kayla probably weighs as much as one of his legs. But that doesn’t matter, because she’s here, and whatever’s wrong we can fix. I close the bedroom door, then turn around to face her.

She holds a magazine in her hands. “I couldn’t even get out of the fucking casino before I saw my damn face plastered all over a newsstand.”

I shrug. “Haven’t you ever been in the news before?” I mean, she’s Kincaid Summers. Isn’t she kinda used to this?

She laughs, but it’s a sharp sound that makes me stand up taller, like my body instinctively braces itself for what’s next. I frown. Why do I react to her like this? She’s just a chick.

I take a deep breath and hold her gaze. She’s so clearly not just a chick.

“Haven’t I ever been in the news before... wow. Yeah, no, Atlas, that would be a no. Not like this.” Her eyes glisten, but she blinks back the tears.

Shit. I was right to brace myself. She’s not just pissed, she’s upset. I hate when chicks cry. It’s so much worse when they cry. Fuck me.

She holds the magazine up and starts to read the article. “‘A source close to the band said that this was one of many in a long line of conquests—”

“Kayla—”

“‘You know Atlas,’ the source said, ‘always looking for the next notch in his belt’.” She shakes her head, lip curling as she continues. “The source, who was with Reynolds the night he met Kincaid Summers at TAO Nightclub in Las Vegas, said he spoke to the bassist of Banging Cade the next day and confirmed that the famous Miss Summers was ‘just another Banger’.” She looks up at me, and if looks could kill, I’d be a fucking corpse.

“Kayla, I never said that.”

“Someone said it.”

“Well, it wasn’t me. And I didn’t talk to anyone yesterday but the driver that got me to and from that little shindig of yours last night, and you were with me for one of those rides.”

She shakes her head and holds up the magazine again, this time so I can see the photo they used. Of course it’s one from the elevator last night when that schmuck accosted us. Her long leg is exposed and her bra peeks out the top of her coat. It was sexy as hell at the time, but in print like that, her outfit makes her look a bit like a...

I stop before finishing the rest of that thought.

She turns the tabloid back around and reads from the article again. “‘Kincaid Summers, whose real name is Kayla Sanders, is one of the top paid performers in Las Vegas.’”

I nod, because this part is true, yeah?

“‘Until confirmation from another source close to Mr. Reynolds, we could only speculate on her other more lucrative ventures. Another woman, who wishes to remain anonymous in order to protect her privacy, was paid to entertain Reynolds in his suite earlier this week. She has confirmed that she works with Sanders at Exotic Direct, a local escort company.”

My eyes widen. No wonder she’s pissed.

She looks up and meets my gaze. “I don’t know what’s worse. Being your fucking prostitute, or just another Banger you’ve brought into your bed.”

I raise my hands and step toward her. “Kayla, seriously, I didn’t say any of that stuff.”

“But it’s true, right? I mean, of course it is. You’re Atlas Reynolds, aren’t you? The biggest manwhore of them all. You go through women like you go through towns, and who the hell am I to think I’m any different from the last?” She steps backward, bumping into the table, then looks behind her. She doesn’t seem to notice that her Dear John goodbye letter isn’t sitting there with the remnants of her lace thong. “And, you know what; this is so stupid because I knew I’d regret you. I knew you were a mistake—” She pauses again, looking back at the table. “Where’s my note?”

I don’t answer her because the breath has left my lungs.

She looks at me again, then swivels her head slowly to look back at the table, and I watch her head move like everything has slowed down to a standstill, and when her eyes land on the trashcan, on the crumpled piece of paper that is the only thing in there, I don’t have to see her reaction. Because I feel it. I feel it in every ounce of my being.

She has no idea I read that note so many times I had to throw it away because it hurt too damn much to keep.

I open my mouth to explain, but no words come out, because as she realizes I threw out her note, jumping to whatever conclusion she likes best, I realize what she just said.

She knew this was a mistake.

She knew I was a mistake.

Nothing matters after that.

“You threw my note away.” She spins around and strides past me.

She threw me away. Nothing I can say makes a difference now. I’m just a Las Vegas mistake. One final fuck up before she goes back to wherever she’s from.

Stopping halfway out the door, she turns around and drops the magazine on the floor, then pins me with a stare that could melt Antarctica. “Just another banger, Atlas?”

I swallow the pain that seeps out of my heart and up my throat, trying to strangle me where I stand, because I don’t do pain. “Aren’t you?” I ask her. ‘I mean, you’re a fan of the band, and you just fucked a member.” I shrug when I should be throwing myself at her feet and taking the words back but damn her for making me feel only to make me feel like shit.

She closes her eyes, releasing a single tear, then looks at me with so much anger I take a step back. “You’re right. I just wanted to fuck a member of the band, and you were in the right place at the right time.”