Present Day
It’s late afternoon when we pull into Oxford, Mississippi.
Oxford is a picturesque little college town that makes anything seem possible. I direct Ryan to a hotel right off the square that is a favorite with the college students. They study in the lobby during the day then take a short elevator ride to the roof for cocktails once the sun sets.
“Of all the places I thought you’d take me, this wasn’t one of them,” Ryan says as we pull into the parking lot.
This college town is home to Ole Miss, one of his alma mater’s rivals.
“Ever been here?” I ask, mainly just to keep him distracted. It was a long, quiet ride, and I don’t really want to get into why we’re here.
“Yeah, we came once when LSU played here.” He throws the car in park and turns to me. “Are we staying here for the night?”
I shake my head. “No. I need you to go up to the rooftop bar. Eat something. Get a beer. Pay in cash.
I’ll meet you back at the car in one hour.”
I open the car and hop out. He’s right behind me.
“We should stick together,” he says. There are a group of girls weighed down by backpacks and purses, with Greek letters stretched across their shirts, giving us curious glances.
I wait for them to pass then close the distance between us, putting both my hands on his chest. “We talked about this. The fact that you’re here, in this town with me, while I’m dealing with what I am, is huge. I know you think I’m shutting you out, but you are the only person I’ve let in for years. But I need this hour. Don’t make me get it another way.”
We stare at each other for a minute longer, then he pulls me closer, kissing me on my forehead. “One hour,” he says. “You need the keys?”
If Mr. Smith is tracking my car, which is possible, I want him to know we’re in Oxford but I don’t want him to have the exact location of where I am right now. Not yet at least.
“No, I’m not going far and would love to stretch my legs.”
Ryan moves toward the hotel, and I start walking in the opposite direction. I turn down a quiet little street, not far from the square, and stop in front of a beautiful white house with a wraparound porch. Pink blooms explode from the hydrangea bushes in front of the house, and the hummingbirds flutter around feeders hanging from the limb of the huge oak tree.
Overflowing pots of spring flowers perch on each brick step. There is a small seating area on the left side of the porch and an old-fashioned swing hanging on the right side. I stand in front of the door, looking right then left, then wander to the seating area, where there’s a small couch and a rocking chair, both pieces covered in the signature red and blue colors of the university and the words “Hotty Toddy!” printed across the throw pillows. I fluff a few of the pillows, dusting off a thin layer of pollen that settles on every single surface this time of the year, spending a little extra time getting the cushions on the rocker just where I want them.
This is the home of my dreams, the safe haven I always wanted. Too bad it’s not mine.
I shove down the wave of longing and move back to the door. A few minutes after ringing the doorbell, a blond teenager opens it.
“Hey,” I say. “Is your dad home?”
“Sure, let me get him,” she says, then closes the screen door in my face. I hear her yell for him and then his heavy steps coming from somewhere deep in the house.
The screen door opens slowly and Mitch Cameron asks, “Can I help you?”
I knew it was risky coming to his home, but this time of year and this time of day, there’s nowhere else he would be. And nowhere else I wanted to meet with him.
“Can I have a minute of your time? My name is Wendy Wallace and I was the one who helped you get out of your coaching job in Florida,” I say.
He steps back as if I’ve physically assaulted him. A glance over his shoulder tells him we are alone, but he doesn’t want his family to see me so he steps out onto the front porch, the door closing behind him.
I never expected to be invited inside.
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you’re referring to . . .”
I move to the seating area, sit in the middle of a small couch while he watches me, trying to figure out my game. We stare at each other for a tense few seconds, then he eases into the rocking chair next to me. “I’m really at a loss as to why you’re here, Miss . . .”
“Call me Wendy. And I’m sure you are.”
I let the awkwardness settle over us. I invite it in to be the third member of this conversation. I let it unravel Mitch like nothing else could.
He throws his hands up and his voice goes to a higher pitch than is normal. “Look, I’m not sure why you’re here or what you want but I was fired. And I was blindsided by it, so maybe you’ve got the wrong idea about something.”
I lean forward and drop my voice to a whisper. “I’m going to cut through the bullshit and get right to it. You hired my boss to get you out of your contract. You hated the athletic director, and those boosters were a pain in your ass. And after meeting some of them, I can see why. Leaving on your own meant walking away from a shit ton of money, so you hired someone to get you out of it. But you’re an honorable enough guy that you didn’t want to wreck the program in the process. Which means you’ve got some sense of decency in there somewhere.”
Mitch has leaned back in his rocker, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. He looks afraid to move.
“Since asking what I need or want makes you think you’re admitting to something, I’ll save you the trouble. I need some money. I came in and did my job. You walked away with a big paycheck and quickly got a new job offer. A job offer I’m assuming you knew was coming. I think it’s only fair you help me out now since I helped you out then.”
His jaw ticks and his eyes roam from the top of my head down my body.
“Worried I’m wearing a wire?” I stand up and throw my arms out to the side. “Feel free to frisk me.”
He is not amused. But before he says anything else, his phone beeps. Pulling it from his pocket, he looks at the screen a second before tapping against it. A few seconds later, he’s finished and shoving the device back in his pocket.
I sit again since it doesn’t seem he’s going to take me up on my offer to see if I’m wired. We watch each other while he rocks slowly back and forth. It’s almost like I can see his mind spinning.
“Who are you really?” he finally asks. “I’m no one,” I answer.
Mitch Cameron is living up to his reputation of a coach with nerves of steel.
“Well, No One, you’ve made a mistake. I loved my job in Florida and would have stayed until retirement if they would have let me. I was fortunate enough to land on my feet here and now this is home. And I protect my home. It’s best that you leave. Now.”
I deflate on the couch and his lips tuck in, stopping him from saying anything else. I can see the pity in his eyes when he stares at me.
Getting up from the small couch, I move toward the porch steps. He remains in the rocker.
Just as I’m about to step off the porch, I turn back to him and let my frustration bubble to the surface. All of the anger and the fury of my boss turning on me after eight years. And I let it explode out of me. “You know what? You’re an asshole. I did you a huge favor and now I need some help and you know what? You’re a fucking dick. Fuck you and fuck all the way off, you fucker.”
His face turns red and he stands up so quickly the rocker almost turns over. I’m focused on his chair, but thankfully it rights itself at the last minute. It would not be good if everything fell out of his chair right now.
Mitch spits when he shouts at me. “You have thirty seconds to get off my property or I’m calling the cops! No one comes to my house and talks to me like that, little girl!” He’s not worried about drawing attention now.
I need to make sure he’s good and pissed, so I throw him the middle finger before stomping down his front walk. That does the trick. He moves away from the rocker and stops on the top step, his hands balled in fists. I’m on the sidewalk in front of his neighbor’s house when he finally looks around to see if anyone heard us.
I scream, “Screw you, Mitch!” for good measure then jog down the block.
My temper is back in check by the time I’m a couple of streets away. That was out of control.
Reckless. I let myself go in a way I’ve never done before.
And it felt really good.
I check my watch. Ryan should be back in the parking lot of the hotel waiting for me. I don’t spare another glance behind me.
By the time I get to my car, Ryan is sitting in the driver’s seat with the car running. I jump into the passenger seat and say, “Go.” I’m trying hard to hide the smile that is stretched across my face.
His hand rests on the gear shift, his face turned toward me. His mouth quirks when he says, “That smile says you’ve been up to no good. Need me to peel outta here like a good getaway driver, or do you want to give me a general direction to go?”
“Leave Oxford and head north toward Tennessee.” He’s teasing me and I’m sort of falling for it. “I got you some food,” he says, nodding to the back seat.
Reaching behind me, my hand closes on the white plastic to-go bag. Inside is a cheeseburger with everything except onions and an order of sweet potato fries.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
We pull away while I grab the burger, taking a huge bite. He’s quiet while I eat, and I’m finding it hard to swallow past the lump in my throat. It’s the food that got me. And that he knew I liked sweet potato fries more than regular ones. And that I hate onions unless they’re cooked. The thoughtfulness of it has been so rare in my world.
I eat quickly then push all the trash back in the bag it came in when I’m done. “So, just Tennessee?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes.”
His jaw flexes and he seems to struggle with holding back what he wants to say. Finally, he just spits it out. “You made a point to mention how important my appointments on Thursday are. I have a business in Glenview, Texas. It’s different work than what I do in Lake Forbing. I acquire things in a questionable way then sell those things for a significant markup. It’s not something that is public knowledge at home and I plan on keeping it that way.”
I’m floored by this admission. “But you’re telling me,” I say.
He glances at me, studies my face, then turns his attention back to the road. “Figured I’d go first.”
Neither of us say anything else. We ride this way for miles, him staring ahead at the road, me watching the blurred scenery from the side window.
“I’ll tell you everything. But not right now. I have to get past Friday.” It comes out as a whisper, but I know he heard every word. Because after Friday, I will know everything I need to know.
“I can live with that,” he says. “But come Friday, we’re putting it all on the table.”
My phone dings, saving me from having to say anything back to him, and a wave of relief courses through me when I see the notification.
Ryan glances my way and notices the change. “Good news?” Nodding, I say, “Yes. Just what I needed.”
I open my phone and pull up the app that allows me to see an exact replica of what’s happening on Mitch’s phone right now. And sure enough, he did exactly what I hoped he would do. He reached out to Mr. Smith to complain about me.
It was a risky move visiting Mitch. I didn’t think he would invite me inside, but you never know when you’re dealing with deep-seated Southern manners. But luckily, he wanted to ensure there was distance between me and his family, and we kept to the porch. And when he sat in the rocker, right on top of the device I planted there just moments before, it was only a matter of him opening the message Devon sent to his phone while I was sitting across from him and we were in.
Given that he is just now getting in touch with my former boss tells me he thought about it for a bit, which speaks for that level head of his. I’m sure he worried about the risk of making contact again, but my showing up on his doorstep was far more threatening, which is why I had to make a scene before leaving. I could see he felt bad for me at first, and that wasn’t going to cut it. I needed him pissed. And a little bit scared of me. Enough to take the risk of reaching out.
There are a lot of things we don’t know about Mr. Smith. Despite Devon’s impressive skills, he has been unable to discover his real name or where he lives. The other thing we have been unable to uncover is how clients contact him and how they communicate. After dealing with Devon all these years, I know it’s not something as simple as a fake email address. So this is where Mitch comes in. Of all the jobs I’ve done, this was the only one where I felt certain who the client was, based on that slip from Tyron Nichols. Mitch Cameron knew he was being fired in Florida a week before I approached that megabooster. And he knew to speak to Tyron away from the listening devices in his house when he told him he’d want him on his team no matter what school he was coaching. Only one way he would have known those things.
Mitch Cameron was the client.
Now he is deep in a message board created to celebrate the love of a seventies band named King Harvest. I’m guessing most of these messages are meant for my boss, while a few just really love the one hit this band had, “Dancing in the Moonlight.” The new message window pops up and Mitch starts typing.
Gridiron Boss: I just heard Dancing in the Moonlight for the first time today.
That’s it. This must be how they make initial contact with Mr. Smith.
“Decision time,” Ryan says. He nods at the upcoming signs. “Straight to Memphis or somewhere else?”
“Not Memphis. Head northeast,” I say, and he flicks the turn signal on. “We’re going to Nashville.” He glances my way. “Not Atlanta?”
“Not yet.”
He nods. “I’m going to pull over for gas since that’s a pretty good stretch. Get some more snacks.” At the next exit, Ryan fills up the tank then heads into the store.
I’m glued to my phone, waiting for a reply to come through to Mitch. And while Mr. Smith may be hesitant to answer Mitch’s message, I’m hoping the overwhelming curiosity about what Mitch wants, added to the high probability that he is tracking me and knows we were in Oxford, will get the better of him. I need him to react the way I expect or I’m dead in the water.
Now that I know where to look, I open my browser and find the message board so I can snoop around instead of just seeing what Mitch is looking at. Since Devon can also see Mitch’s screen, I’m sure he’s doing the same. There are a lot of posts that say: I just heard Dancing in the Moonlight for the first time today. I always knew I wasn’t the only one working for my boss, but by the sheer number of posts, he’s got a lot more going on than I originally thought. There are a few usernames that could possibly match up to jobs I’ve done in the past, but I can only see their initial post. I’m sure the conversations with Mr. Smith are moved to private messages.
It’s only another minute or so before I get a notification that Mitch has a response to his message.
Kingharvestmegafan: What can I help you with?
Gridiron Boss: a girl showed up at my house. Said she worked for you. Wendy something. Asked me for money! She was out of control. Told me to fuck myself when I told her to leave. Screamed it loud enough for the neighbors to hear. I paid you too much money for some crackpot to knock on my door!!
Kingharvestmegafan: My apologies for the unexpected visit. I assure you, she will be taken care of and you will not be bothered again.
“There you are,” I whisper. “Got you.”
 |
It’s late when we get to Nashville. Ryan pulls up in front of a run-down motel on the edge of town; my door is open before he puts it in park.
“Wait here. I’ll get us a room,” I say, one foot already out of the door. He cuts the ignition. “Are you sure? I can—”
“I’m sure. Wait here.” He’s been frustrated with me since we left Oxford because I have dodged every question he has asked.
A few minutes later I’m back in the car and give Ryan the room number. We park right in front of the door since I asked for a unit on the ground floor. While we could afford nicer accommodations, I prefer to be able to make a quick exit if the need arises.
We packed light so it doesn’t take long to get settled in.
“I’m hitting the shower,” Ryan says. “I’ll find us some food after I get out.”
As soon as I hear the water turn on, I pull out my phone and scroll Instagram until I find a comment giving me the meeting time for tomorrow. I comment on a different post letting Devon know I received his message.
When the bathroom door opens, Ryan exits in nothing but a towel.
I could look at him all day. His body is exactly my type—fit and trim but not overly muscular. Ryan must see the glint in my eye because instead of moving toward his bag, he crawls across the bed toward me. His mood has greatly improved.
And I give myself this moment. I push away the plans rolling around in my head. Hit pause on my timetable. Relish these few stolen moments where we can be normal.
I pull him close and his weight settles over me. My hands drift up to his hair, still damp from the shower.
“It’s been a helluva week,” he says, his lips only inches from mine.
“And it’s only Tuesday,” I answer. Then my expression turns serious. “Regretting coming on this road trip?”
“Not yet,” he says with a laugh.
Ryan kisses that spot on my neck that he knows I love, and I feel it down to my toes.
“What if I did it? What if I had something to do with Amy Holder’s death?” My whispered words hang in the air between us. This is self-sabotage at its finest.
He stills. Then his head lifts and his eyes meet mine. “That’s not a question I need the answer to.” Ryan leans closer, his lips landing softly on mine. It’s not long before we’re skin to skin, and I lose myself in this moment as his hands and mouth roam slowly down my body before working their way back up.
His hands grip me tighter, he holds me closer, as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear, then he buries his face into that sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. Whispered words flow out of him, broken sentences that shouldn’t make sense but do.
I soak up every word as my nails dig into his back. Show him I feel the same way without having to say it.
Alias: Helen White—Four Years Ago
For this job, I’m Helen White and I’m the farthest west I’ve ever been: Fort Worth, Texas.
I’ve always wondered why every job I’m given is located in the South, but I guess Mr. Smith must have others who work for him in other parts of the country, so the South must be my territory.
It feels very corporate.
But Texas is new for me. Everything just feels different here. Bigger and louder for sure, but there’s something else to it. It’s almost culture shock.
On the surface, the Fort Worth job is supposed to be a simple retrieval. Some painting worth millions was stolen years ago and is believed to be hidden inside the sprawling home of oil tycoon Ralph Tate. Whoever hired us for this job has apparently tried to buy it from Ralph for years, but Ralph won’t sell, so we’re going to steal it from him instead.
But I’m not the only one trying.
Mr. Smith loves his games, and this job is the prime example of how twisted he can be. He told me I’m not the only one he’s sending after it, but he didn’t say exactly how many of us are throwing their hat in the ring. Because this is a contest, and the one who gets the painting out of the house first gets a bonus. A big one.
I find I want to win badly. Based on my last few jobs, I feel like I’m getting closer and closer to the top of that ladder, but walking away with that painting would confirm I’m the best he has.
After researching the art in question, I was a little disappointed it’s not one of the big ones, like that yellow poppy painting by Van Gogh that’s still in the wind. The one I’m after is worth about five million and it’s not even cute. I was given the details on this job thirty-six hours ago, and the more I dig into it, the more I’m convinced Mr. Smith wants the painting for himself, so he’s made a game of getting it.
It wouldn’t be the first job where there is no client.
The security system of the Tate house is a nightmare and doesn’t make any sense. At all. It looks more like an obstacle course. No matter how long I’m in this business, I’ll never understand rich people.
Ol’ Ralph believes his system is impossible to breach, but I’ve got Devon on my team. There is nothing I’ve requested from him that he has not delivered, and he can say the same about me.
I walk into Buffalo Wild Wings and scan the restaurant for him. He nods when we make eye contact and I make my way through the crowd to the booth where he’s waiting.
Sliding in across from him, he passes me a beer. If we were in private, I’d throw my arms around him, pulling him in for a hug since I haven’t seen him in a while, but he insists that in public we do nothing to draw attention to ourselves. But I do get a small smile and I return it with a much bigger one.
“Those colors look good on you,” I say. He’s wearing a Cowboys jersey even though I know he hates them. He wore it because he knew more than half of this restaurant would be wearing apparel celebrating the home team. As I glance around the room, all I see is a field of blue, white, and silver.
“Don’t start. The things I do for you.” He rolls his eyes and fake gags.
“You love me, I know it.” I tip my bottle, tapping it against the neck of his. “Cheers!”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, then takes a swig of his beer. “First time you’ve been sent to Texas. Not sure I like it.”
Devon’s weariness for anything new is the one constant in my life. “Maybe my territory is expanding,” I say with a laugh. He tilts his head to the side, his expression telling me he’s not so sure, but he doesn’t say anything else once the waitress approaches the table.
“Hey, hon,” she says. “Can I get you something to eat?”
I look at Devon and he says, “I got the burger and fries. It’s good. You’ll like it.”
I nod and say, “Same for me.” Once the server has walked away, I pull a manila envelope out of my bag and hand it to him, filling him in on everything I know so far. I sip my beer while he reads what I’ve given him, relaxing for the first time since I crossed the state line into Texas. I know Devon arrived at least an hour before I did and did a sweep of the place for any bugs or recording devices, even though absolutely no one knows we’d be here.
Our food is delivered and I people watch while Devon carefully reads each page.
A kid stops a few feet away from our table and says, “This phone sucks. I can’t get this pic to download.” He and his friend examine the device and then walk away. I chuckle and Devon looks up at me.
I point to the small black device on the table. “How big of a dead zone did you make?”
He chuckles as he glances at the kid. “Twenty-five-foot diameter.” Then his attention is back on the plans in front of him.
I gaze around the room, noticing everyone is having similar issues with their devices. Devon is causing chaos around us. “Everyone is freaking out.”
“I’m saving a lot of people from making bad decisions right now.” His eyes go to the rowdy bar not too far away for just a second or two. “They’d thank me later if they could.”
Finally, he turns over the last page and looks at me. “I’ve never seen a security system designed like this.”
“Can you hack it?”
Devon cocks his head, giving me a look. A look that says Don’t dare insult me like that.
“Lay it out for me,” I say, with a smile.
He digs through the stack of papers and pulls out a floor plan. “This setup is gorgeous. Super hot. There’s no reason for how it’s laid out and that makes it exquisite.” He points to one section and asks, “The painting is believed to be in this room in the middle of the house, correct?”
“Yeah, it’s his trophy room, where he keeps those stuffed exotic animals he killed in Africa. I’ve found a few pictures from inside that room. There’s also one of those commercial cigar humidors and a tequila collection that’ll make your mouth water.” I pull a piece of paper from the pile. “And this drawing shows the addition made to the room shortly after that painting went missing. Looks like there was a false wall added that retracts. My best guess is that the painting, and whatever else he’s obtained illegally, can be hidden behind that wall if he’s got people in the room he doesn’t trust to see it.”
Devon studies the drawing of the addition, then goes back to the main set of blueprints. “You’ll need to be at the keypad outside the room where you believe the painting is kept”—then he moves his finger across the page, tracing lines that represent cables and wires—“while I’m here at the backup system to prevent it from kicking in right away. Neither can be accessed remotely. It’s devastatingly simple but chaotic. And you will only have maybe five minutes. Five minutes inside a room we haven’t seen, so there’s no telling what else awaits you there. No other way around it. It’s magnificent, really.”
He doesn’t have a special someone, but if he ever gets one, I hope he feels the same way about them that he does for a well-made security system.
“Why only five minutes once I’m inside? If you disarm it, does it not stay disarmed?”
He shakes his head slowly. “Nope. Mr. Tate has employed a system that records every second of what happens in that room and there’s an alarm that goes off if the feed is interrupted for longer than that amount of time. But I can’t override or bypass it because that system is in the room. Can’t be accessed remotely either.” He points to two areas and goes into a complicated description of wires that need to be short-circuited and lots of other things that I don’t understand.
“The timing has to be perfect. Absolutely perfect. Down to the second. The alarm only rings in the guardhouse, so you won’t even know you’ve tripped it until it’s too late.”
Devon’s eyes continue to roam the plans, while his head shakes slowly back and forth like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “As much as I love this, it’s not right. I mean, who does this? I don’t like this for you. There’s something else going on.”
“I think it’s a game. I was already told I wouldn’t be the only one trying to get the painting.”
“But why?” he asks. “Is Smith sending multiple people in or are there some other players involved?” “I think this is all Mr. Smith.”
“But why?” Devon asks again. “This doesn’t make sense.”
I shrug. “It wouldn’t be the first time he did something like this. I think he gets bored and decides to play games. Rich people are weird.”
Devon’s head tilts to the side. “Can you say no to the job?” This gives me pause. “You really don’t think I should do it?”
“I don’t know.” He’s chewing on his bottom lip as he studies the drawings.
I lean forward trying to see it the way he does. “I’m not sure I can say no. I’ve never turned a job down.”
“I need some more time with this. How soon do you want to try for it?”
I shove a few fries in my mouth while I consider my next move. “I need to go to Austin for a few days. Tate is having a huge Fourth of July party at his house this weekend. Might be the best time to hit him if you can get it all figured out by then. Get everything we need while I’m gone.” It’s a risk putting it off since I don’t know who else or even how many other people are trying to get that painting, but it’s a risk worth taking, especially if Devon needs more time on his end.
I pause a moment before adding, “You’re going to have to find a way to get into the party. This isn’t a job where you can pull the van up close by and do your thing from there.”
He nods. “I know.”
Devon is comfortable in those dark spaces, behind the scenes, but that won’t be possible on this job. I knock my foot against his under the table. “You got this.”
He drags a fry through a mountain of ranch dressing. “I guess we’ll see.”
|
This cover of “Sweet Home Alabama” would be pretty good if the lead singer wasn’t off-key and whiny, because the rest of the band is killing it. I bang my head to the beat regardless.
I got to Austin just before they took the stage and I’ve been front row for the entire show. The lead singer has noticed. He’s stared at my chest for the past two songs, so I pull my tight V-neck down a bit more to make it easier for him.
Once they finish the set, he catches my eye then nods toward backstage.
Shoving my way through the crowd, I push past the curtain to find him waiting for me. He pulls me in close and kisses me, hard, completely forgoing any introductions. I give him a little leeway before I pull away.
“Y’all sounded so hot out there,” I say, my hands roaming up his chest while his fingers dig into my hair, which has recently been dyed a beautiful shade of cobalt blue.
“I like this color,” he says.
“I’m a big fan of Blue Line.” I rub up against him. “The biggest.”
He nods his head toward the back door of the club. “Want to get out of here?”
His bandmates hear him and yell his name, “Sawyer! You’re not fucking bailing before we get this gear loaded!”
He pulls me close, tugging my hand around his waist. I dip my fingers right under the waistband of his jeans, my nails scratching gently into his skin. “Yeah, let’s get out of here,” I say.
“Gotta go! I owe you one,” he yells without ever looking back at them. “Fuck you, Tate!”
I believe he would have been booted from this band long ago if dear old dad, Ralph Tate, wasn’t funding this little endeavor, because he’s easily the worst member in talent and usefulness.
“What’s your name?” he asks, ignoring everyone behind us. Helen White is not going to cut it.
I wrinkle my nose and bite my bottom lip. He stares at my mouth like I knew he would. Then I whisper, “Kitty.”
He makes a cat noise. It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes.
Sawyer gives me a grin while he grabs my ass with one hand and pushes open the back door with the other. He’s going to be a tough one to wrangle. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s how to handle trust fund babies with big egos.
|
The Tate Fourth of July party is a big shindig complete with pig chases, lasso roping contests, and a thirty-minute fireworks display planned for just after the sun sets. It is one of the hardest invites to get.
Unless you’re his son’s band groupie.
Sawyer and I, along with twenty of his closest friends, show up an hour late. I’ve done as much recon on this little group as I can, trying to see if anyone else is using him to get inside the house, but they have been fried since last night, so I think I’m the only plant. It didn’t hurt being the girl to show up with the edibles to ensure they stayed that way.
We pull up to the valet stand, the other four cars in our caravan behind us. Sawyer throws his keys at the poor pimple-faced teen manning the station. “Keep it close. We’re not staying long.”
I sidle up next to him, my hand slipping around his back, and we walk inside the sprawling house. “But you promised me fireworks,” I say, my lips pouting.
“I got your fireworks, Kitty Cat,” he says, while grabbing his crotch. While this is the easiest way to get into the party, it is also the grossest. As soon as we enter the house, I hear someone shout “Sawyer!”
We both turn to find Ralph Tate staring at us from the top of the stairs. I knew I’d be memorable walking in with Sawyer so I played to it. My jean shorts are short enough that I have a little ass hanging out of the back, and the American flag bikini top leaves little to the imagination. My hair is blue in honor of my country on its birthday and my great love for Sawyer’s band, Blue Line. Some well-placed temporary tattoos, smoky eyes, and fire engine red lipstick complete the look. I am hiding in plain sight.
Ralph Tate approaches us slowly and I can feel Sawyer tense up next to me. He wants to cause a scene. Wants it to look like he’s thumbing his nose at Daddy’s money. But I know he’ll crumble the second Daddy threatens to take the money away. These boys are so predictable.
“Son, I believe you mentioned a few friends would be joining you.” He eyes the group behind us. “This is a bit more than we planned for.”
Sawyer spreads his arms out wide. “It’s either all of us or none of us.”
This fucking tool. I hold my breath, hoping Ralph isn’t about to throw us out just to put him in his well-deserved place. Luckily, Mrs. Tate steps in to smooth things over.
“Honey, we always have room for you and your friends!” She’s not his mother since she’s only about six years older than him, but she likes the show as much as Sawyer does. Ralph disappears outside while the missus points us in the direction of food and booze. I dig my phone out of my back pocket to send Devon a quick text: Tick tock
Sawyer gets swept up by a group of girls he’s known since childhood, while I slip away to the bar, swaying just enough to make it look like I’m as high as the crowd I showed up with.
“Vodka cranberry,” I say.
Devon is behind the bar. I would not recognize him if I didn’t know it was him. He’s wearing the same uniform as the other servers, but he’s got a pretty groovy mustache going on and dreads in place of his normally short hair. When he told me his revised plan, I was surprised he was willing to interact with so many people, but happy he’s getting out of his comfort zone. He’s stood in the shadows long enough.
Devon hands me a drink that I know will contain zero alcohol, then checks his watch. “No changes.
Cameras out at four seventeen.”
Since we knew we wouldn’t be the only ones attempting this job, he tapped into the security system within hours of leaving Buffalo Wild Wings, and he’s been watching the house ever since. He texted me the number four last night, letting me know how many failed attempts to get the painting there have been so far. I don’t have the details yet, but since he said “no changes” it seems like no one has tried it the way we have planned.
“How many on deck?” I ask.
“Three but hopefully they’re waiting until the show,” he answers. I nod and slip away.
We tossed around waiting until the fireworks started to make our move like he believes the other three people here for the painting will be doing, but we knew we might face a crowd if we wait that long. So we’re going for it in broad daylight.
I drop down in a chair near the patio door and watch the clock. We have timed this to the second, so as soon as it hits 4:17, I put my drink on the small side table and make my way into the house. Once I’ve cleared the main area, I walk with purpose to the bathroom located off the back hall. I’ve memorized the floor plans so there are no wrong turns. I lock the door once I’m inside and pull the bag Devon stowed in the cabinet earlier. There is a black wig and server’s uniform, a pair of gloves, a watch, and a big black trash bag. I put everything on over my shorts and bikini top in record time. I shouldn’t be caught on any cameras, but Kitty is too memorable if I bump into someone in the hall. Once I’m out of the bathroom, I send Devon a text: Go
Making my way through the house, I get to the back hall where a left will take me to Mr. Tate’s trophy room.
I turn right.
I keep my head low as I pass through the kitchen, holding the trash bag in front of me like a shield. No one spares me a second glance since it looks like I’m on my way to take the garbage out.
A few more turns and I’m in front of the door to the laundry room. I send another text: Ready
There’s a small keypad outside the door, and the light flashes from red to green. I open the door and step inside, put the trash bag on top of the dryer, then pull out a small black device from inside the bag. I hold it up to the cabinet doors next to the washer, entering the series of numbers that Devon has texted me. You cannot tell there is a lock on this cabinet from the outside, but in a few seconds I hear a click and the doors pop open.
Inside the cabinet is a clothes rod full of hunting clothes. Grabbing a fistful at a time, I remove all the clothes from the cabinet, then hold the black box against the panel that was hidden behind them. Devon sends me another set of codes that I plug into the device.
A few seconds later, it pops open, and I’m looking at a very expensive but also very ugly painting.
I take the painting, leaving the replica that was hidden in the trash bag in its place. Luckily, the painting isn’t very big. Once the clothes are all back on the rod, Devon helps me work my way out of the system, locking each door in place.
Within minutes, I’m back in the hall outside the laundry room and moving toward the garage. My heart races as one of the men hired to patrol the house turns the corner, nearly bumping right into me. He catches himself by grabbing on to my arm.
“My apologies. Shouldn’t have taken that turn so quickly,” he says. I give him the laugh he’s looking for. “No worries,” I say.
He waves an almost empty water bottle at me then dips his head to the trash bag in my hand. I open the bag and he chucks it in. “Thanks,” he says.
“No problem,” I reply, and hope the painting can handle a little bit of water.
Keeping my head down, I walk out the side door to the garage, where the trash bins are located. I strip out of the uniform, leaving me in my shorts and bikini top, and shove the clothes and wig in the garbage bag with the painting, then tie off the bag before dumping it all in the garbage can. Once I’m in the backyard, I text Devon: I took out the garbage
He will retrieve the bag before cutting the cameras back on.
Twenty minutes after I set my drink down on that side table, I’m picking it back up. The ice has barely melted. I take a deep drink, then go find Sawyer. He’s sitting on the side of the pool and I squeeze between him and a blonde so I can take her spot next to him. She’s not happy.
“Where you been, baby?” he slurs. “Looking for you.”
He throws an arm around me, pulling me close, then starts talking to the girl on his other side.
I sip on my drink and take a deep breath. I owe Devon big for this job. The day after we met at Buffalo Wild Wings, he showed up in Austin.
I found him on the children and teens floor of the Central Public Library, where he was teaching three middle school girls how to play chess on the life-size board. For all his rules and procedures, he’s a complete softy when it comes to kids. I slid into one of the many chairs in that area and let them finish. As soon as the girls were lining up the oversize pieces for a new game, he picked up the cardboard tube and motioned for me to join him in one of the private study rooms. Next to the black box that would ensure that no one was listening in on our conversation, we bent over those blueprints a second time.
“Are you sure the painting is in that room?” he had asked.
I leaned across the table and tried to see what he saw, but nothing jumped out at me. “That room is more fortified than any other spot in that house. The false wall addition implies he’s hiding something there. You said the system is . . . what was the word you used? Exquisite? Everything points to the painting being in that room.”
“But you said you think this is a game, right? You won’t be the only one there looking for it?” I nodded and he pointed to a small corner of the house.
“You see this right here?”
I moved in close and squinted like that would help me see what he wanted me to see. It didn’t.
“Give it to me like I’m dumb,” I finally said.
His finger tapped on the space labeled Laundry Room. “See all the wires running to this room?” I nodded again.
“This is overkill for a room that houses at most a washer and dryer.”
It didn’t take me long to catch on. “So you think the trophy room is bait. Send everyone to a room protected with a ridiculous system they can’t get past. Once they trip it . . . which they will . . . guards get a silent alarm and go scoop them up. Meanwhile, that painting is hidden next to the deep freeze.”
Devon gave me a huge smile. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking.” “And you’re still good to come in with me? Play a part?” I asked.
He nodded. “Already working on my disguise.” There was actually a hint of excitement in his words I would not have expected.
And he was right. By now, Devon has secured the painting and has left the Tate property. I’ll hang out as long as Sawyer wants, then ditch him once we leave here.
I dig out the small white paper swan that I’d tucked away in my back pocket this morning and set it in the water. It bobs and weaves its way across the pool.
I take another sip of my drink. It won’t be long before the fireworks start.
|
I’m expecting the call but jump anyway when the phone rings. The burner was waiting on my kitchen table the second I got home from the party.
“Yes.”
“The blue hair looks better than I thought it would,” Mr. Smith says in his mechanical voice. “It’s going to be a bitch to remove.”
He laughs quietly. “The package will be picked up shortly and details on the next job will be delivered along with confirmation of your deposit, which includes the bonus.”
I open my laptop and log into my account, where I can already see that the money has been deposited.
I start the process of moving it, just like always. “I’ll be here.”
I think he’s about to hang up, then he adds, “I must say, I’m impressed you recovered it.”
“How many people did I beat?” I’m doing a little fishing of my own. I don’t think he’s going to answer so I push just a little. “Was I the underdog?” I want to know how many more rungs of this ladder I need to climb to make it to the top.
He lets out a soft chuckle. “You’ve always had an ego problem, Lucca.”
“I call it confidence, and it’s worked well for me so far,” I purr into the phone.
The silence stretches but I wait him out. If he wasn’t going to tell me, he would have hung up by now.
He finally says, “I’m only going to tell you this now since you were the victor and had the nerve to ask.”
When he doesn’t say any more for a full minute, I say, “You’ve worked me up and I’m right on the edge. Don’t be a tease now.”
That laugh again. “Let’s just say I needed to see who of mine would rise to the top under less than ideal circumstances. And who can recognize when the most obvious path is the wrong one. Congratulations.”
“Was there even a client? This didn’t feel like a real job.”
“The job is always real, but you may not always be aware of what the end goal is.”
Before I can say anything else, Mr. Smith says, “Answer the door. I’ll be in touch soon.”
The call ends and I move to the door. Peeking through the peephole I see my guy in his usual UPS outfit holding a small box.
“Right on time,” I say as I pull open the door. He hands me the small box, and I give him the painting wrapped in brown paper. “Want to come in for a drink? We can get drunk and spill all our secrets,” I say with a wink. “You know you want to, George.”
“You know I can’t do that no matter how much I want to.”
George and I have developed an easy camaraderie over the years. It’s hard to make friends in this business since I’m always on the move. Devon is really the only true friend I have, but sometimes we go months without seeing each other. George is the only other constant in my life. Well, other than Mr. Smith, but I’m not sure he’ll ever be more than a mechanical voice to me.
“So blue hair, huh?” he asks.
I shake my head around. “You like it?”
“I like the blond hair you had in New Orleans. That may be my favorite.” I laugh. “Well, I may be blond again after I strip this color out.”
“Okay, Lucca, got to get this to the big guy. Stay out of trouble.”
Leaning into the hall when he starts to walk away, I call out, “I’m going to wear you down one of these days and talk you into staying for a drink!”
He stops a few feet away and turns back around to face me. “If anyone could tempt me into breaking the rules, it would be you.” He steps back in closer and adds, “Just remember, the bigger the job, the closer you’re watched. Eyes are everywhere.”
I watch him walk away while I consider his warning. It’s not the first time he’s given me one and, I hope, not the last.
