Paradise falls a romanti.., p.54
Paradise Falls (A Romantic Suspense), page 54
I toss it aside and cut off the flashlight, then take a few minutes for my eyes to adjust.
I make it about twenty yards when the dogs show up.
They fold out of the darkness on silent legs, black specters with bobbed tails and cropped ears that make them look like silky black devils. I stop and they surround me, staring, silent. One by one they bare their fangs.
One of them is older than the others, gray hairs silvery on his dark face. He pads over, the stump of his tail twitching as he tries to wag. I crouch down and offer him my hand. He sniffs, and gives me a friendly lick as I scratch behind his ears.
“Hey, buddy,” I whisper. “I wish I could remember which one you were.”
The others take their cue from the leader, surrounded me and sniff at me and I pet them one by one. They’d rip out an intruder’s throat and leave his rotting carcass to be found by the groundskeeper in the morning.
I’m not an intruder. The intruders are inside, sleeping in my fucking house.
One step at a time.
After I pay my respects to the dogs, I move silently through the grounds. This section is wooded, kept wooded to conceal the movements of runaway slaves and the new owners have let it run wild. There are oaks here that stood before the United States was the United States. Hell, the ivy growing on some of the trees is older than that. It’s like walking through some ancient forest. Dobermans hadn’t been developed yet but my grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather probably walked these woods with a pack of hounds, just like I am now.
There used to be a path here but the stones are worn down smooth and covered with loam. I used to walk here all the time with my mother and father. When you’re a kid, Mom and Dad are just there. Only now with both of them gone do I realize how I miss them both so fucking much. I can see them in my mind’s eye on this very path on a warm autumn day, walking hand in hand. Dad was built like I am- tall and heavily muscled, but he kept his coal black hair closely cropped.
That was so long ago.
The garage is big enough to be a house on its own. A long, long time ago, it was a stables, but my grandfather, or maybe great grandfather, had it converted and rebuilt into a garage. His car, a lumbering Packard, is still in the furthest bay, or was when I was last here. I went for a ride in a few times. It’s big and slow and ponderous to drive and I’m not here for it.
I’m here for my Dad’s car. Technically, she’s mine. They’re holding her hostage here.
The garage is in sight, but so is the house. The lights are on on the second floor.
I shouldn’t. I should go nowhere near it, not yet.
Refusing to listen to that little voice that says you shouldn’t is probably how I ended up in prison for five years, but old habits die hard. I run across the grass, hoping I don’t set off a motion detector or end up on camera. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I could end up back in prison serving out the rest of my term for this, plus interest, but I have to see.
I did this a dozen times when I was a kid. The back of the house is a huge terrace, with a roof supported by massive columns of real marble. They’re so worn from age and acid rain that it’s easy to shimmy right up. The pockmarks are like handholds, like the stippling and grippy spots on a climbing wall.
I was twelve when I did this the last time, but I’m in the best of shape of my life. Lots of weight lifting and constant body weight exercises in my cell, you see. It’s easy to get up to the terrace roof, though I go on all fours where I used to run when I was a kid. Work my way across to the wall. A ledge runs all the way across the house, and these brick buttresses jut out from the sides. They’re slick from the rain, so I take it easy, and work my way down the ledge, using the brick handholds. My old room is four windows down. The light is on inside. I stop by the window and lean over.
Evelyn walks out of the en-suite, wrapped in a towel. It’s a creamy white towel, but it’s darker than her skin, as pale as milk. When I first met her I thought she was an albino, but she’s not. Real platinum blonde hair cascades to her hips in a perfectly straight fall. The water turns it green when she gets wet. I remember seeing that the first time, first time I ever saw her go swimming. She loves to swim.
She sits on the bed and takes a blow dryer to her hair, never once glancing at the window. She’s more delicate than slender. I remember holding her wrists in my hands, feeling her long fingers lace through mine. I could stay here for hours and just watch. After running the hair dryer she starts brushing out her hair. I’ve never seen a shade quite like hers. It’s what they call platinum blonde but it’s almost silver, only a hint of gold in the right light. The only color is in her eyes, a striking blue. There’s power in those eyes.
Eve is my stepsister. Her father married my mother when I was nineteen years old.
Then he sent me to prison and stole my life.
Now she sleeps in my bed.
I edge away from the window, carefully make my way across the roof and down the column. She’s up early, but then, she was always an early riser. The light is still on, but the sun is coming up, bruising the eastern sky. I’ve been here too long, took too much of a risk.
I had to see her. It’s been five years.
She stole my life, along with her rat bastard father. She eats my food, lives in my house, sleeps in my bed.
…Still.
I’m here for the car. That’s my opening play. I sprint over to the garage. There’s ten bays, the car is in bay four. It was always in bay four. My father treasured this automobile, did all the work on it himself and taught me everything he could; he died when I was twelve, so it wasn’t much but I built on it as much as I could. I have more interest in being a mechanic than running a multinational business, but a man once wrote that what men want does not matter. Or women, I guess. The bay doors aren’t locked. I roll up the door, and there she is.
They knew how to build ‘em back then, Dad always said. She’s a ’70 Pontiac Firebird. She was born stock, but Dad did a load of work on her himself. All new running gear, topped off with a twin-turbo on a big block crate motor, four hundred cubic inches. State of the art disk brakes, all new steering, ivory pearl paint and a massive, multicolored screaming chicken decal on the hood. She’s a beauty. Just touching the cool metal of the fender brings me back. I remember screaming my head off when Dad drove me in this car. Once I even overhead Mom joking with him when I wasn’t supposed to be awake.
Yeah, that’s right. I was conceived in the back seat of this car. It’s as much my home as the house, if not more so, and it is mine.
Nobody bothered to lock the doors. Or drive her for a long time, from the dust in the interior. I flip open the glove compartment and pull out the registration.
Yup, VICTOR AMSEL. The address is wrong, but it’s my fucking name. This is my car, legally, free and clear.
A quick trip over to the key box and I perform the only breaking of this breaking and entering operation, shearing off the rusted old padlock with some bolt cutter I find lying around. I take the key and the spare and slip back inside. The seat still fits me like a glove. They must have just dumped her here. Gas tank is empty, of course. Fortunately the garage has its own supply. I twiddle my thumbs until the tank is full, then finally get back in for the third time.
I turn the key. The motor chugs.
Oh, come on.
Another twist, and the rrr—rrrr-rrrrrr turns into a throaty note from the exhaust, but she doesn’t turn over for me. Come on. One more time. Fuck that Toyota. No disrespect to the Japanese, but I want my car back. I want my house, my life.
Third time’s the charm.
The roar of the exhaust sounds like an old airplane, thunderously loud in the confined space. The engine smoothes out almost immediately and I feel a surge of joy as I let out the clutch and ease in the gas. The car rumbles forward out of the garage and I whip around the turn, open the throttle and stab the button taped to the roof with my thumb. I hope the batteries aren’t dead.
They’re not, somehow. The wrought iron gates swing open. I roll the windows down. The rain has stopped and the air smells damp and musty. Mists cling to the ground.
I jam my hand out the window and give the security camera the finger before I whip out onto the road and two long black stripes of burnt rubber on the asphalt.
Vic is back, assholes.
Mockingbird: A Stepbrother Romance
Chapter 1: Apollo
I have a bad taste in my mouth.
Looking over the railing gives me vertigo. It's twenty stories down from the penthouse, not far by skyscraper standards, but far enough. The people down there on the sidewalk might be on another planet for how far away they are. I can see them moving, each dragging a long shadow in the afternoon light. It's seven o'clock and it'll be full dark soon. The city skyline takes the sun away from the ground faster than up here, nearer the clouds. A basso rumble rolls under my feet. The party is starting.
"What are you doing?"
I shouldn't have stopped to look. At the sound of her voice I almost drop the tray I'm carrying, perched on my upturned hand. I think I look ridiculous in this monkey suit; whoever chose red crushed velvet for the hotel livery deserves to die for crimes against fashion. I put on my best fake smile and my best dull please-don't-fire-me look. The heiress is staring me down with the fury only the offended wealthy can muster, and if I get fired I won't be able to steal that pretty necklace she's wearing.
Of course, I don't actually work here, but if she kicks up a storm and gets me 'fired' it would raise quite a few uncomfortable questions, such as what I'm doing here in the first place.
Just an honest thief, doing my job. Robbing the rich, giving to the poor… and myself. Mostly myself.
Veronica Maxwell is easy on the eyes. If I wasn't worried about her screwing up the job, her fury would be almost endearing. She has a rosebud mouth given to petulant pouting, high cheekbones, flawless skin, and shocking blue eyes, captivating, ethereal, and without a spark of human decency. All I need is to hear her grating voice for confirmation that the rumors are true. You wouldn't know it from looking at her, but she is a total bitch.
She flicks her perfect platinum blonde hair over her bare shoulder and scowls at me.
"Well?"
"Sorry, ma'am. Just got caught up in the view. I don't get up here much-"
"Whatever. My guests are thirsty, get your ass to work. If I have to talk to you once more I'll make sure-"
Oh my God, she's actually going to say 'I"ll make sure you never work in this town again.'
"-you never work in this town again. Am I understood?"
"Of course, ma'am."
I hurry on, and mentally pat myself on the back for not looking at her tits. She has amazing tits. Fakes so good you can't tell they're not real, and she's not shy about showing off the goods, parading around in a skintight off the shoulder dress covered in blue sequins, so she looks like a voluptuous, stormy sea every time she moves. If it were any tighter it would explode when she sits down, and move the slit in her skirt two inches to the right and she'd be putting on a show when she sits down. As it is, every time she takes a step one long creamy leg sweeps the air, a matching blue pump clacking on the floor. If it wasn't for the attitude I'd be won over by her looks.
If it wasn't for the attitude.
Time to work.
The creme-de-la-creme is here. The net worth of this room must be in the billions. I feel like a kid in a candy store. Watches, bracelets, necklaces, you name it, it's all here. I spot an iPhone with a diamond case that retails for $500,000, other gadgets equally blinged out. I consider myself a connoisseur of the finer things but I will never get my head around a diamond-encrusted phone.
Just seems excessive, really.
The job here is simple. Right now, I'm killing time. I wander around with a tray of champagne flutes. When they've all be snatched away and my tray is covered with empties, I go back and get more. If I was on the payroll I'd be making minimum wage plus very generous tips. Right now I'm just making tips. It would look out of place if I turned them down and hey, free money. Along the way I help myself to some goodies. My stupid crushed velvet tux has an extra dozen pockets sewn inside and by the time I make my first pass, half of them are full. A few wallets, mostly, and a watch.
Yeah, I'm good.
I've been learning this trade since I was nine years old. That's when my father took me in, after I lost my mother. I've been refining my skills ever since.
The party is jumping. There's a bacchanal atmosphere, the heart of a carnivale that never stops, only takes breaks for daylight. Smoke machines, lights, a DJ on the stage, you name it. Veronica has the top three floors of the hotel to herself, a massive suite with its own dancing hall slash orgy room. The dancing here is not very polite, and the hostess is not wearing underwear, as I see very clearly when she sits down on a leather couch that costs as much as a car and makes a show of crossing her legs. She looks not at me but through me. I'm like one of the ferns planted in a pot by the door to her.
I need more booze. I thread through the crowd, gathering empties as I go, through a service entrance and into the warren of hallways that serves the hotel. The suite doesn't have one door, it has twenty. When you're dropping a year's pay for a good job every night for your stay, servants come as part of the package. I deposit my tray on a cart and grab another, hoisting it to my shoulder all professional like. Carrying a tray of stuff like this takes practice. My knack for balance comes from walking tightropes and practicing kicks and punches standing on poles.
My partner's comes from practice. She gives me a look as she passes by, and the most subtle of nods.
Brenda, her name is.
You can put a treasure in a vault. You can bury it on a forbidden island, send it to the bottom of the sea or put it on a mountain, and the weakness will always be the same: Somebody knows where it is and how to find it. Any security system is only as strong as people, and people are, by nature, weak.
Brenda. Thirty six years old. Mother of three, Divorced, lives in a rent-controlled two bedroom flat with her kids, will soon be struggling to house them as the eldest, a girl, grows too old to sleep in the same room as the boys. Smoker, drinker, and most importantly, gambler. Of the illegal variety. She has an addiction to hold'em, knows how to play but doesn't know how to win, and owes money. She owes money to a title loan agency, to one of those late night commercial lenders, and to some very unfriendly people who break legs when they don't get paid.
That would be a terrible shame. Brenda has great legs. She is the full package, in fact. I'd take her over three Veronicas any day. Long legs that look very nice in the fishnets she's wearing, great ass, big rack, and a sweet, warm smile. A real person, and she looks like she'd be wild in the sheets, too. Makes me wonder why the old man bounced her. He probably traded up, or just got bored. I consider myself a student of the human species.
Lesson number one: Love is bullshit. I don't have time.
Now, other pursuits…
I peel my eyes off of Brenda's ass. I can't afford to get either of us in trouble. Truth is, I can make an escape if need be, but I can't let her go down. She does have kids. I have a soft spot for women with kids, always have. Especially single moms. Almost makes me want to settle down sometimes, but no.
This will be one of the easiest jobs I've ever pulled, if everything goes right.
Getting in was easy. I'm here, after all. Getting back out is the problem, since I'm not supposed to be here. It took me a month of scouting to bump into Brenda and learn her story, start working on her, spending time with her, finally convince her to help me out with this crazy scheme. I can talk anybody into anything, if you give me enough time. Right now I need to keep my eyes on the prize.
Not too hard, though. The prize is a diamond necklace currently strung about the pale slender throat of the bitchy heiress, and what a necklace it is. On the street the gold would sell for a few grand, the diamonds maybe twice that. The value of the bauble lies in its history- it's been in her family for four generations, bought for her great grandma by the founder of the fortune Veronica is set to inherit, if she doesn't piss off her grandfather too much with her antics. She has something of a reputation, and a reality show. Thankfully there's no cameras here.
I'm having a bad hair day.
The necklace drapes diamonds and emeralds just above her awe-inspiring cleavage. Believe me, I tried to come up with a plan to get myself in bed with her and then steal the necklace. It would be easier, but crueler. Something about it left a bad taste in my mouth, so I went for Plan B: Fake my way inside, get access to it while she takes it off.
Circulate. Steal a little. Keep an eye on the mark. That's all there is to it. I keep an eye on my partner, too. She's nervous, but she doesn't show it to the guests, even when they slap her ass. A big guy smacks her rump after taking a drink from her tray, and I can see her face twist in anger for just a bare second before slipping back into an almost preternatural calm. The guy that got a handful of her backside has six inches in height and maybe a hundred and fifty pounds on me. Football player, I think. He looks familiar. Brenda scurries away from him as casually as she can. By the time she's out of sight he's already forgotten his humiliation.
Also, I stole his wallet. He didn't even notice me.
Fuck you, mister running back. I have your platinum card.
I almost lose Veronica. She's leaving the damn party, headed up the stairs to the top floor of the penthouse, laughing with another girl dressed in even slinkier clubwear, a black dress that's really just a tube that stretches from her armpits, over an ample bust and down to just barely cover her ass. I get an eyeful as she scampers up the stairs next to the smoothly striding Veronica.
Might be time to make a move.
I slip away from the crowd, tuck my tray under a table and use the dark and smoke and noise to my advantage. There's a corner by the terrace where I can slip out of my crushed velvet. Underneath, a black body glove and some sewn-in pouches for my tools. The hardest part is getting up the stairs, but no one's looking. They all feel safe here.
