Rather than stepping away completely, he turns to face me, his hips still cradled between my legs. He towers over me, and I can’t help but notice how gorgeous he is. Perfectly angled jaw, high cheekbones, and sinfully full lips. His nose is slightly off-center, but somehow that only makes him more fascinating to me. A gifted sculptor once told me that the brilliance of art lives in its flaws.
He leans down toward me, planting a fist on the seat beside me, and I tilt my chin up. My mind is filled with the mistakes I’ve made and the possible repercussions and the look in the Watcher’s eye, but somehow his closeness cuts through all of that. And I want him to kiss me.
Immortality has a way of muting the world over time, blurring the things that used to matter, and stifling emotions that used to be clear and sharp.
I don’t know why he’s different, but he is. As his mouth hovers closer to mine, it’s everything else that blurs, not him. When I can feel the heat of his breath on my lips, my eyes flutter closed, and his groan is the only clue I get before I feel his body move away from mine, and the cool November air takes his place.
I open my eyes, and he stands a few feet back, turned slightly away. His hand rubs at the back of his neck, and his chest rises and falls on a slow, steady breath. He grips the top of my door and waits for me to shift my legs inside. I do, and the door closes with a thud before he disappears behind the SUV.
I dip my chin when he climbs inside, suddenly nervous. He twists the key in the ignition, and immediately turns down the air while we wait for it to warm. I’m saved the trouble of deciding what to say by the ringing of his phone. It rings twice, and it’s not until he says my name that I realize it’s coming from the pocket of his jacket. The one I’m wearing.
“Oh, sorry.”
While I search his pockets, he accepts the call on his car’s Bluetooth.
“Wild, where the fuck are you man? How am I supposed to get some while I’ve got Bridget in my ear asking about you every five seconds?”
“Rook, hang on a sec.” Then he tells me, “It’s in the zipper pocket.”
I retrieve the phone and say again, “Sorry.”
The guy on the phone says, “Ohh. And who might that pretty voice belong to?”
Wilder switches the call to his cell and says, “Rook. Something came up. I’m sorry.” He sighs at his friend’s response. “Not that kind of something.” He rubs at the bridge of his nose, and it makes me think again of the glasses he’d worn last time. I wonder which version of Wilder is more authentic. Leather or lenses. “I know. I’ll owe you one.” I don’t have to hear the words to know his friend isn’t happy he’s ditching. “Tell her whatever you want. Bridget isn’t my problem anymore.” That gets a strong enough response that Wilder tilts his ear away from the phone. “Fine. I’ll owe you two. Gotta go.” He hangs up without waiting for a reply and tosses the phone into a cup holder in the center console.
“So, where am I taking you?”
It’s then that I remember how I spent my day before I wandered down to Sixth Street. I have a vague memory of my apartment, covered in my delusional thoughts, and I know I can’t go back there. I can’t face that. Not now. Not with him in tow.
“Anywhere but home.”
Chapter Five
I have to lie again.
I make up some story about a fictional roommate being home with her boyfriend and a bunch of his friends that I can’t stand. I tell him they won’t leave until late, and he can just drop me off on campus somewhere.
“I’ll kill time in the library or something,” I say.
“The library? On a Saturday night? With no shoes?” I wince. Gods, I sound like an idiot. “Why don’t you just let me take you home? I’ll go in with you if you’re worried about those guys. I’ll feel better if I know you’re home and safe.”
I absolutely can’t let him into my apartment. Not until I see what damage I did earlier today and find a way to undo it.
And that’s not something I have the energy or strength to do tonight. In fact, if he weren’t here, I’m fairly certain I’d still be huddled on the street somewhere, bawling my eyes out.
And there’s a very real chance I might do that even with him here.
“No. Really. I’m fine,” I say. “In fact, maybe I should just catch a cab. I don’t want to put you out.”
I start to slip off his jacket so I can leave, but he grips my arm to stop me. My eyes go to his ink again, and there’s a familiar figure there that captures me.
Atlas.
I survey him then, wondering what about this man would make him want a tattoo of such a figure, of a Titan with such a heavy burden on his shoulders.
“Buckle up. I’ll take you to my place. We’ll get you cleaned up, and you can stay there until I can take you home.”
I hesitate, and the stern look he shoots me shouldn’t make my thighs clench, but it does. “Kalli. Seatbelt. Please.”
When I follow his directive, he puts the car in drive and pulls out onto the narrow one-way street. A few turns have him merging onto the highway and heading north. He’s silent, which I don’t mind. It gives me time to evaluate how I’m going to handle this moving forward. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and he’ll live close to me. I can just wait until he’s distracted and then sneak out and walk home. But when the exits for the university area come and go, and he keeps heading north, I give up on that idea.
Okay. Worst case scenario … I spend the night. That is, if he lets me. Then tomorrow I’ll just have him drop me off on campus for class or I’ll take the bus.
Except that I’m not sure exactly what day it is, and based on the crowds on Sixth Street, I’m going to guess it’s a weekend. Which means no classes. And even if I manage to find a bus stop, I have no money. Or shoes.
I let out a frustrated exhale and lean my head against the cool glass of the window.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod in lieu of an answer.
“You need water or something? Are you going to be sick?”
I resist the urge to laugh. Because I do feel like I might be sick, but not because of alcohol. “I swear, I’m fine. I’m not drunk.”
He doesn’t look like he believes me, and I don’t blame him. In fact, it’s probably easier if I just let him think that I am. Less explaining for me to do in the long run.
“Why Atlas?” I ask on impulse.