Claiming Atlas (Completely Rocked Book 1)

by Jessalyn Jameson

  My ears perk up. If she’s trying to bait me by bringing up my favorite musicians, it won’t work.

  I stare at my phone for a long time, then sigh loudly, wishing she could hear it. “Fine,” I say as I open the call log, press the last missed call, and wait for that smug ‘hello’.

  “Honey, playing hard to get is really not your style.”

  “Hey, Coll.”

  “How are tips tonight?”

  After pulling off my long purple gloves, I blow a breath through my nose and step out of my sequin dress. It looks amazing under the lights on stage, but is more uncomfortable than anything I own. “I think we both know you’re not calling to see how they’re tipping tonight.”

  Collette laughs. “Ah, but if it’s slow, you may be more apt to agree to my little proposal.”

  Shaking my head, I slip into a mini dress the same shade of red as my sequined gown—still playing the part of the cartoon vixen, albeit a bit more comfortably.

  “I’m not working after Friday. We’ve been over this.”

  She’s persistent as hell, but one of the first people I met when I moved to Vegas. I have Collette to thank for the last five years, and what those five years have done for my future. My big retirement and subsequent move back home are all thanks to the doors she opened for me.

  Which means I occasionally owe her something.

  Usually I’m eager to oblige. I mean, she’s an amazing friend on top of being so instrumental in my career, and I’d do just about anything for my friends.

  But not this time.

  “Honey, listen, I know you’re hanging it up, and I get that, really I do”—but does she?—“we all want to hang up the heels someday.” Ha. Collette will be buried in her Louboutins, don’t even kid. “But my little soiree Saturday night has just been upgraded to a full-blown can’t miss event... at least where you’re concerned.”

  “They’re always can’t miss events.” I assess my reflection and tuck some loose strands back up under the bright red wig.

  “This is true. I do know how to plan an event, don’t I?” She chuckles softly. “I have two words for you, hon: Banging. Cade.”

  My eyes widen. I’d completely forgotten she’d mentioned Cade in her earlier text when trying to get me to call her. “I’m listening.”

  She laughs triumphantly. Hmph. “You’ll never guess who I... sat next to on the plane tonight, hon.”

  I’m going to ignore the way she said sat next to because her tone implies sat on. I roll my eyes, but its forced nonchalance because I’ve been in love with this band since before they’d even made it to headliner status. She knows it. I know it. Playing it cool is futile.

  “Someone from Banging Cade?” I hold my breath.

  I don’t even have a favorite. Most girls are obsessed with Chris or Cade, but... I love all the boys equally. So much raw talent in one little package of five incredibly attractive guys. Not an ugly one in the bunch, which is remarkable in and of itself.

  “Atlas Reynolds.”

  My breath flies out in a whoosh. Holy shit. Okay, so maybe I have a favorite.

  “Kayla, honey, you still with me?” She laughs, knowing damn well how I feel about Atlas. God, that dark hair and those dark, tortured eyes... he’s the epitome of bad decisions.

  And one I’d like to make.

  I’d regret it, of course, and he’s probably a Grade A prick in person, but—

  “I’ve sent him a personal invitation to the event. I trust you’ll be there.”

  Her words pull me out of my fantasizing about Atlas, slamming me right back into the here and now. “Dammit, Coll, I meant it when I said I’m finished after Friday’s show.”

  She tsks. “You can be finished after Saturday’s show. I’ll send you the info. Don’t let me down.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but she’s gone. That unmatchable silence that only a cell phone can give you replaces Collette Rhone, and I’m left standing here with my mouth open. I inhale a deep breath, then put the phone away.

  Fine. You win, Collette. I’ll do one last show, but after that, I’m done. Retirement starts in forty-eight, no, seventy-two hours.

  Grrr. How does she always get what she wants?

  I no longer do the lap dance rounds, but I always go out and make myself visible to the crowd. No one wants a girl they think is untouchable, especially in this industry, and even if I’m a headliner, actually connecting with the audience is half the battle. And it takes real deal face time.

  I spritz some Exotic Coconut in the air, then walk into the cloud of body spray so it just dusts my skin, close my locker, and head out onto the floor. I try to ignore the new spring in my step and the unmistakable flutter in my belly, but Banging Cade is in town this weekend, and I’m going to get a personal introduction to at least one of the guys.

  There are certainly worse ways to kick off my retirement.

  Chapter Six

  Atlas

  I’m not in my room five minutes when there’s a knock at the door. I look at my phone and growl. It’s two-fucking-thirty in the morning. “Red?”

  Where is that fat fuck?

  I leave the master suite and walk out into the main room, then call down the opposite hallway. “Red?”

  His voice comes back too muffled to decipher what he says.

  “I don’t pay you to sit on the shitter!” I shake my head. “This better be good.” I open the door to the concierge we passed downstairs. Hands outstretched in front of him, he presents me with a thick white envelope. “For you, Mr. Reynolds.”

  I reach for the envelope but pause before grasping it. “The room’s not under Reynolds.”

  His eyes widen and his mouth falls open, then closes, like a fish out of water gasping for breath. “My apologies, sir. I...” He stammers as he struggles to come up with something that will excuse his blunder.

  I wave my hand and take the envelope. “Whatever, man, it’s cool.” I narrow my eyes. This guy doesn’t look like he’s into rock. Maybe butt rock eighties bands and shit like that. “You’re a fan of the band?”

  His cheeks flush.

  That’s a yes.

  He starts gushing about Banging Cade, and this is usually the point where sound starts to fade away into background noise, so I open the envelope to distract myself. Black cardstock, thick and textured, with one simple question imprinted in metallic purple: Think you’ve seen it all?

  Yes. I have seen it all, thanks. And that’s cheesy as fuck. I try not to groan or roll my eyes; that would be impolite while this dude talks about the band. He goes on and on, and though I nod or murmur my assent, I’m only half listening. Okay, not even half. I flip the card over and read the back.

  Let Us Titillate Your Senses

  Titillate. Ha.

  Find out what happens when we strip you of your sight...

  Will your other senses rise to the occasion?

  I tilt my head. They’ve emphasized strip and rise. Which could be overkill, but they’ve managed to grab my attention. I quickly scan the rest of the details. The event is in two days, Saturday night, and our show’s not ‘til Sunday night, so my social calendar is free to be filled up with whatever or whoever I want.

  I’m not one to pass up a good time, and I’ve got nothing to lose.

  If they—whoever they are—think whatever this is will surprise or shock me, they’ll have to put in an insane amount of effort. I mean, I’ve had my dick sucked while the Mona Lisa watched.

  More like moaning Lisa.

  Ha.

  But, whatever. I’m down to give them the chance to titillate me.

  So, yeah, I’ll rise to the occasion.

  I smile and nod at whatever the guy in front of me is saying, then hold up the invite. “Who sent this?”

  The concierge blinks a few times, like I’ve just cut him off mid-sentence—which I probably did—then gives his head a quick shake. “It was brought over by courier just after you checked in, Atlas.”

  I raise an eye
brow.

  “Sorry.” He gives a curt nod. “Mr. Reynolds.”

  With a sigh, I roll my eyes. “Name on the room is Flintstone.”

  He pales. “Yes. Mr. Flintstone. My apologies.”

  My lips twitch when he says the name out loud. I crack myself up. Last time I booked a room, it was under Jetson. I had to start Googling old ass cartoons, but there’s been no lack of silly names to use. This guy stares blankly, like he doesn’t even know who the Flintstones are, but like I give a fuck. As long as I’m amused, yeah?

  I look at the envelope. I hadn’t noticed before, but it’s addressed to Mr. Reynolds, not Mr. Flintstone, and beneath it is the room number. So they knew who I was as well as who I’d booked the room under.

  Well, color me intrigued.

  I pull out a Benjamin and hand it to the concierge. “It was nice talking to you, bro. Keep this room stocked with Dom, candy—but none of that licorice bullshit, and peanut butter pretzels, and we’ll forget the little name mix-up. Deal?”

  He smiles wide and bobs his head up and down like an eager toddler. “Absolutely, Mr. Flintstone. I’ll have a bottle of Dom Perignon sent up immediately.”

  I shake my head. “Nah, I’m beat, man. Bring it around ten tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, sir, ten o’clock. I’ll have that sent up tomorrow at ten. Would you like orange juice with tha—”

  I close the door before he can finish that question. Do I look like a chick? No, I don’t want orange juice. What the fuck.

  After I reread the invitation again to double check the date and time, I set it on the table in the foyer and shrug out of my clothes on the way to my bed.

  This better be titillating, whatever it is.

  “Who was at the door?”

  I pause, then turn around. “Man, how many times a day can one dude take a shit?”

  Red shrugs. “Flying fucks up my stomach.”

  I shake my head and nod toward the invitation on the table in the foyer. “Some invite to some thing this weekend.”

  He walks over to the table, picks up the invitation, then looks up at me, one bushy brown eyebrow raised. “Titillate.” He chuckles.

  We get along because we both have the maturity of twelve-year-olds.

  I laugh. “Right?”

  He looks at the envelope and frowns. He glances at the door, then steps over to lock the dead bolt. “How’d they know you were here?” He holds up the envelope.

  “No idea.” I shrug. “But that’s why I have you.” I kick my jeans toward the master bedroom, then pull off my t-shirt. “Night, bro.”

  “Night, boss.”

  Chapter Seven

  Kayla

  Just after eleven o’clock means the night’s only getting started for the Vegas club scene. Yippee. I pretend I’m not dead on my feet and wishing for my night to end, because Scarlet is more excited than I’ve seen her over a guy for at least a year.

  I think back to the last big heartbreak and the thought of Jason Gregory sends a shudder through my body. That guy was one of the biggest assholes to ever walk into the club, and for months I didn’t think Scarlet’s heart would ever heal from his total destruction. One of these days I hope she’ll learn that we shouldn’t shit where we eat. Dating guys that come into Top Tier should be an obvious no, but... here we go again.

  The guys are leaning against a black Range Rover. They’ve ditched their suit jackets, unbuttoned their dress shirts a bit, and rolled up their sleeves. They’re ready to let loose and look like just the kind of mistake I’d live to regret. A mistake I’ve done quite well avoiding since I moved to this city five years ago.

  But I’ll be honest, all work and no play makes me feel dull as hell sometimes.

  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 fat yes.

  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.

  I glance at his friend whose smile is more of a
leer.

  Yep. Scar definitely got the better of the two.

  Looking back at Brandon, I smile and shrug. “Friday night’s my last gig.”

  Brandon shakes his head. “That’s a shame, man, a real shame. I’ll have to come in with the guys to help you celebrate.” He holds my gaze for a few long seconds, then turns to Scar. “You’ll be there?”

  “Oh, absolutely.” She practically vibrates with excitement.

  I’ll leave out the fact that she said she was taking a few days off.

  Brandon looks at his buddy. “Sure you can’t stay for the final show, Chad?’

  Chad. His name is Chad. If I say it out loud and write it down, I might stand a chance of remembering it.

  Two hours and three bottles of vodka later, my best friend’s ass is exposed for all to see as she straddles her boy of the week. He runs his hands over her cheeks as they slobber all over one another, lifting her micro dress higher in the process. If it were anyone else, I’d do something, but she lives for this shit. Any chance to expose herself, and Scar’s on board.

  We’re going to get kicked out.

  That would be such a shame.

  I finish my fourth bottle of water, then stand.

  Chad stands with me, eyes flicking between me and Scar’s ass, so very torn between the two of us.

  “Excuse me.”

  He meets my gaze.

  I nod toward the rope. “I’m going to use the ladies’ room.”

  “Oh, okay, yeah, cool.” He returns his gaze to his buddy’s hands on my best friend’s ass.

  This fucking guy.

  “You’re in my way, Chad.”

  “Oh, shit, sorry.” He finally wakes up from his Scarlet trance, and steps aside, though he doesn’t unhook the rope for me. Why so single, Chad?

  I leave the booth, then head for the main entrance. I’m about to pee my pants, but it’s not that long of a cab ride home. This girl’s going to turn into a pumpkin if she stays out much longer. I send Scar a quick text to let her know I’m out as I leave the club and make my way through the casino.

  As I wait out front for my Lyft, I hear my name, and Scar rushes out the doors to meet me. “Why are you leaving, babe?” She runs her fingers through her hair, trying to fix whatever Brandon’s hands have done to it.