The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)(13)

Really, there was nothing more dangerous than a woman who knew her own worth.

Parisa watched the older men in the corner, the ones in the expensive suits, who were having a business meeting. She’d listened for a few minutes to the subject of conversation—after all, not everything was sex; sometimes insider trading was the easier option, and she was smart enough to serve multiple threats—but ultimately lost interest, as the business concept was fundamentally unsound. The men themselves, however, remained intriguing. One of them was toying with his wedding ring and fussing internally about his wife. Boring. One of the others was clearly harboring some sort of unresolved sexual angst about the boring fussy one, which was more interesting, albeit unhelpful for her purposes. The last one was handsome, probably rich, a tan where his wedding ring should have been. Parisa shifted in her chair, crossing one leg delicately over the other.

The man looked up, catching a glimpse of her thigh.

Well. He was certainly willing. That much was clear.

She looked elsewhere, not sure the man would be ending his business meeting anytime soon. In the meantime, she’d occupy her thoughts with someone else’s. Maybe the wealthy woman in the back corner who looked likely to cry any minute. No, too depressing. There was always the bartender, who certainly knew how to use his hands. He’d pictured them on her already, traveling over a fairly accurate mental illustration of her hips, only she wouldn’t get anything out of that. An orgasm, surely, but what good was that? An orgasm she could have on her own without becoming the girl who fucks bartenders. If anyone was going to be involved in Parisa’s life, they were going to bring money, power, or magic. Nothing else would do.

She angled herself towards the dark-skinned man at the end of the bar, contemplating the silence that came from his head. She hadn’t seen him come in, which was unusual. A medeian, then, or at least a witch. That was interesting. She watched him toy with a slim card, tapping it against the bar, and frowned at the words. Atlas Blakely, Caretaker. Caretaker of what?

The problem with being a smart girl was being naturally curious. Parisa turned away from the business meeting, aiming herself instead towards Atlas Blakely and fiddling with their respective positions in the room, turning the volume up.

She focused in on his mind and saw… six people. No, five. Five people, without faces. Extraordinary magic. Ah, yes, he was definitely a medeian, and so were they, it seemed. He felt a kinship with one of the five. One of them was a prize; something the man, Atlas, had recently won. He felt a bit smug over it. Two of them were a set, they came together. They didn’t like being shoved in like twins in a too-small womb but too bad, that’s what they were. One was a vacancy, a question, the edge of a narrow cliff. Another was… the answer, like an echo, though she couldn’t quite see why. She tried to see their faces clearly but couldn’t; they warped in and out of view, beckoning her closer.

Parisa peered around, pacing a little inside his thoughts. They seemed curated, a bit like a museum, as if they’d been intended for her to view in a particular order. A long process of selection, then a mirror. Five frames with hazy portraits, and then a mirror. Parisa looked at her own face and felt a jolt, startled.

At the end of the bar, the man rose to his feet, placing the card in front of her, and without him detailing anything aloud, she already knew why he’d given it to her. She’d spent long enough in his mind to understand it, and she realized now that he’d willingly let her in. In one hour, his thoughts said, the card would take her somewhere. Somewhere important. It was obviously the most important place in the world to this man, whoever he was. That bit Parisa suspected was her interpretation, as it was slightly fuzzier. She knew instinctively that whatever it was, it would be more worthwhile than the man having the business meeting. That man had recently repaired stitching in his suit. It had been refitted; it wasn’t new. A man wore a new suit to a business meeting like this if he could afford it, and that man couldn’t.

Parisa sighed in resignation, picking up the card from the bar.

An hour later, she sat in a room with Atlas Blakely and the five people she’d seen hazily represented in his mind without either of them speaking a word to each other, friendly or otherwise. She watched the handsome Latin boy—definitely a boy; he was obsessed with the girl sitting next to Parisa, who was tinted with inexperience—decide she was beautiful and she smiled to herself, knowing perfectly well she could eat that boy alive and he’d let her. He’d be fun for a day or so, maybe, but this seemed bigger than that. This seemed much more important.

The blond South African was interesting. He was eyeing the Englishman, Tristan, with extreme curiosity, possibly even something ravenous. Good, Parisa thought, pleased. She didn’t like men like him. He’d want her to shout his name, to scream about his dick, to say things like ‘oh baby yes how do you do it how do you make me feel like this?’ and that was a chore; it rarely ended in anything worthwhile. Rich people like him typically held tight to their wallets, and experience had taught her that did her no good.

Besides, the six of them were equals here. He had nothing to offer her, except perhaps loyalty, but he wasn’t the type to give it easily. He was used to getting his way, which she could see from observing the functions of his thoughts was something he did with at least some level of intention. Parisa Kamali had never wanted to be under anyone’s thumb, and she certainly wouldn’t start now.