Page 74 of Bottoms Up

His eyes were glassy. Distant. Beautiful.

The timer chirped.

Julian and I released at the same time, and Atlas let out a shaky breath — not quite a sob, but not far from it. Air moving through a body that hadn’t been allowed to move.

And then Gavin floated upward, smooth and silent, until he was eye level with the man still standing naked in the center of the room.

“What do I require, after I’ve hurt you?”

Atlas looked to us and leaned over a tiny amount, a little ceremonial bow. “Sirs, thank you for the exquisite pain. Thank you for claiming me. I look forward to signing the paperwork that will make me legally yours.”

Before we could respond, Gavin nodded to Atlas and told him, “You’ll swear a blood oath before you board the plane. You’ll offer your loyalty to Julian and Silver. Your life, if necessary. And in return, they’ll see to your needs.”

Atlas’s voice was rough, but steady. “Yes, Master Gavin.”

Gavin turned back to us. Floated back to the ground.

“The moment is yours. The paperwork is mine. Congratulations. You have a weapon now.” A tilt of his head. “Weapons must be properly cared for.”

* * * *

Julian

We needed away from the property after that meeting, back into the chaos of Vegas, and I wasn’t terribly concerned about security in that moment. I didn’t want Atlas with us, or anyone else, though I figured someone would follow when we left.

There’s a mall within the building, and I led us to it, and then out a different door than we’d ever used.

“I want to get off the strip,” Silver said. “Like one or two blocks away, parallel to it.”

I was amazed at the difference. Lots of stores open since it was shortly after seven in the evening, and a whole lot of people, but less. Less crowds, less lights, less glitz.

Less bedlam.

She saw a pawn shop and practically dragged me into it, and a small oil painting caught my eye. A bearded man in what wasalmosta Roman toga, reclining with a wine goblet in one hand and a rifle in the other. A sticker on the wooden frame said $25.

I couldn’t stop looking at it. He looked… proud. Ridiculous. Alone. Like Bacchus gone to Texas.

“Absolutely not,” Silver said, immediately.

It hit me wrong. I have my own money. She isn’t the boss of me.Anymore.

I lifted it and kept looking.

“You havegotto be kidding me,” she said. “It’s hideous.”

And then I saw it. A blanket. No, a quilt. And this actuallywashideous, and yet, it called to me.

Someone had printed old opera posters — in Italian, faded and misregistered — onto cotton fabric and stitched them together with thread the color of dried blood.Il Trovatore,Aida,Otello,Tosca.

“What the fuck?” she asked. “Not just no, but fuck no. It’s probably infested with bedbugs or something.”

I sighed. “Maybe, but someone tried to remember something beautiful.”

She looked at it a few moments, held her phone up close to one of the squares to get more information about it, and I scented defeat from her. “Fuck, Julian. I’m sorry. It’s opera stuff. If you want it, we’ll get it. Maybe we can let a dry cleaner have at it before we take it home, but we can buy it and hang it on a wall, or something.”

I wasn’t sure what to say, but she wasn’t finished. “Is there something I missed about the painting?”

I sighed and looked at it. She hadn’t been wrong. “No. You’re right. The toga and the rifle, Italy and America, with the not-quite-right man, mostly because the artist wasn’t that good with faces, but still…” I shrugged. “It spoke to me, but you’re right. It’s hideous.”