“Mr. Hyde, so good to see you in attendance tonight.”
I almost let the shock of his last name show on my face. Almost.
Hyde? Really? Gosh, that suits him more than he will ever know.
Atlas glances at me as if he knows my reaction and pins me with a stare before he looks back at the man who’s talking to him. I pay no attention. Politics has never interested me, just like gambling never did.
“Yes, good…” is all he says in return.
I guess it’s not just me he doesn’t give much conversation to.
“And who is this fine lady?” His hand is offered, and I go to place mine in it, but Mr. Hyde, aka Atlas, pulls me back.
“This… is no one of interest to you.”
“Oh, no sharing?” he jokes, but I look at Atlas, and somehow, I don’t think it’s a joke.
Atlas starts walking and pulls me along with him to the next group of people. He says his hellos to about a million people—okay, slight exaggeration—until we finally greet two more people before we get to sit. When we do finally take a seat, my feet are thankful, as these heels are killing me.
“You don’t talk or seem to like most of these people. So why are you here?” I ask as we sit mostly in silence.
A waiter walks past, and I eye the glasses of champagne, but I know better than to drink while he’s around. When I get back home after this shitshow I will get drunk. I need it. And I’m not even much of a drinker normally.
“Did I ask for conversation?” he snaps.
A hand is placed on his shoulder, and he turns his hard eyes to the source of it. A woman, more than likely around my age, smiles down at him but quickly removes her hand.
“Mr. Hyde was hoping to have a word, sir.” She looks down at me, then back to him. “Privately.”
Atlas stands, straightens his suit jacket, and walks away. He doesn’t need to tell me not to move because I do not see that happening at all. My feet are aching, and we had been walking and standing in the same spot for about two hours. This has become very boring, and I don’t even know why I am here.
The chair next to me scrapes as I pick up a piece of finger food from the middle of the table. Turning, I see the man from earlier when we first walked in, take the seat. His hungry eyes eat up my dress, and all of a sudden, the dress I was in love with makes me feel naked and exposed in a way I didn’t think I would feel.
“Didn’t think he would leave you alone.” He smiles, placing a glass of champagne in front of me. I don’t touch it nor thank him for it. “Seems he has an interest in you. Atlas always shares his women. So, what I want to know…” he leans closer so his breath hits the side of my neck, “… what’s so special about you?”
I know this man. He’s a politician and married with kids. Yet, here he is asking me why Atlas can’t share me.
And that thought makes me sick.
“What’s your name?” he asks, to which I ignore him. It’s not him I came with, and it’s not him I am scared of. No. The man I came with, and am equally scared of, is also a man I am attracted to. And that little indiscretion is an issue within itself.
“It’s not wise to ignore someone when they speak to you.”
I scoff and turn around to see if Atlas is coming back. A hard hand lands on my leg, and I still. Turning around, I notice the dirty politician has a gleam in his eyes as he stares at me.
“You’re just a whore. Whores speak as they are told. So when I speak to you, you answer. Right, whore?”
I lean in close, my hand moving to his leg, then I sneak it up, catch hold of his dick, and squeeze. “Get your filthy fucking hands off me before I squash your cock so hard, I will break it. And don’t ever speak to a woman like that again, you pig.” I squeeze his cock even harder for good measure as his hand breaks free from my leg. The minute I free his cock, he stands, towering over me.
“Is there a problem here?” I never thought I would be soothed by that voice, but I am.
Dirty politician asshole looks to Atlas, then back at me. “Keep your whores in line.” He purses his lips in anger before he turns and walks away.
Letting go of a breath I didn’t know I was holding, I finally relax.
“Get up, we’re leaving.” I turn at that voice, that extremely angry voice, and with it, stormy eyes are directed at me.