Dirty Little Secrets

by AJ Nuest

  Yep, Charlie was totally in touch with that reality.

  “All right, I’m off to find a snack.” Mocha fluffed his hair before tugging on the sides of his short black blazer. “Want anything? Masking a lack of sexual fulfillment with food is my superpower.”

  “Nope, I’m good.” Whatever appetite she might have had, Xander had successfully segued that straight off a cliff. “And in case you missed it, sarcasm is mine.”

  Mocha’s husky laugh trailed behind him as he crossed the room, and Charlie followed him with her gaze until he’d reached the buffet table and selected a plate.

  She glanced toward the closed library door. Stole another peek at Trey and sighed. While she couldn’t do anything about his past, after what Mocha had told her, ignoring the kid didn’t seem like the right move, either. At the very least, maybe she could let him know someone in the room was paying attention.

  A short stroll toward the couch, and she opted for copping a squat on the center cushion. Close enough to talk without drawing any unnecessary attention. Far enough, she wouldn’t come off like a creeper.

  Trey inched closer to the overstuffed arm, shooting a suspicious frown in her direction, and right then and there, Charlie knew Eden had gotten it all wrong.

  The kid didn’t need to be reassured.

  Crossing her legs, Charlie settled her clutch purse in her lap. When she was his age, any number of adults had told her things were gonna be different, and she’d never believed them for a second.

  Because nothing ever was different. Not until she’d found Eden, Viv and—most of all—Xander, and Malcolm had moved them into this house.

  Prying open the magnetic snap on her purse, Charlie checked her make-up in the mirror sewn into the inside flap. What Trey needed was to connect. To know he wasn’t the only one who’d ever felt lost, forgotten. Like he didn’t belong no matter where he went.

  “There sure is a lot of rich bank in this joint.” She used the tip of her middle finger to remove the red lipstick Xander had smeared past her lower lip. Poor Outlast lip color hadn’t stood a chance. Closing her purse with a sharp click, she slanted her head toward the end table on Trey’s left. “You see that bowl? The one with the blue Chinese writing on the side?”

  His elbow slipped down the inside of the couch as he tracked her gaze toward the antique.

  “It’s Ming Dynasty, circa 1450. Which means that old piece of crap is worth over two grand.”

  He jerked his head toward her and she lifted a brow. “And see that ugly egg sitting next to it? The green one with the little brown bunny inside?”

  His shoulders slid across back as he craned his neck for another shot at the knick-knacks Malcolm had strategically placed on the end table.

  “It was made by this dude who lived in Russia about a hundred years ago. Carl Fabergé.” She grunted. “Sounds swanky, huh? Price tag on that bad boy comes in around fifteen large.”

  Trey’s chin dropped to his shoulder. A beat passed before he swung his face toward her like a pendulum, lids lowered as if he were trying to figure out what she was doing.

  “I know.” She gathered her hair and brought it around in front so it wouldn’t tug between her shoulders and the couch. “I’m sort of a Price is Right Rain Man. It’s what I do.” Brushing aside the fringe on her dress, she laced her hands around her knee. “I got a bad case of sticky fingers. Only problem is, lifting anything here wouldn’t do me any good. The guy who owned the place was OCD about listing everything. It’d only be a matter of time before whatever I palmed came up missing, and since everyone here knows I’m a thief, the first person they’d look at is me.” She picked a piece of lint off her thigh and flicked it aside. “That’s why it’s always important to do your homework. Know your mark better than they know themselves. Never go in without finding out everything you can, kid. Shortcuts can lead to mistakes.”

  Lifting his chin, Trey squinted at her past the bridge of his nose.

  “So, what’s your deal?” She glanced around the room. “Everyone here has one. I’m assuming the reason you were invited to this shindig is because you do, too.”

  The angle of his jaw descended, the tension leaked from his shoulders and, pausing as Tanner strutted past, he finally spoke from the side of his mouth. “Cars. I boost cars.”

  “Really?” Bottom lip jutting forward, Charlie nodded. “Ya any good?”

  He scowled. “I’m the best. Why do you think I was stuffed in a closet?”

  In other words, the kid was a hot commodity, and the asshole who’d put him there had been relying on Trey’s talents to keep him in business. Hearing that, she couldn’t blame the kid for keeping a tight lid on his back story. If too many people found out, he probably worried it was only a matter of time before some other psycho snatched him off the street.

  “Huh. That sucks.” She clamped down hard on the frustration threatening to boil over in her chest. For God’s sake, had the idiot even considered the danger he’d put Trey in? The kid fisted his hand on his thigh and she scanned the red welts peeking past the cuff at his wrist. And if he got it in his head to run, someone inevitably went looking to haul him back in, and then probably beat the shit out of him for his efforts.

  She stood. “Okay, let’s go.”

  He flinched at the sudden movement, and anger marched up beside her and delivered a cold, hard smack to her face. No. No kid should ever be that scared. And if she had anything to say about it, he wouldn’t be. Not anymore.

  But she needed to do it right. One step at a time, so Trey’s trust in her would grow.

  Life was hard. He’d already learned that lesson and so had she. Coddling him like she could fix what he’d been through in one afternoon was apt to insult his intelligence. And turning this conversation into a pity party would only piss him off.

  She’d walked enough miles in his shoes to know.

  “Come on.” Turning away from the couch, she started for the front hall. “I wanna show you something.”

  A winding path through the mourners, past the library and down the hall beside the stairs, and she approached the kitchen. Several apron-wrapped caterers looked up from arranging food on trays as she pushed back the swinging door, sneaking a peek over her shoulder to make sure Trey had followed.

  Sure enough, he dodged around Nick DeFranco at the last minute, hurrying to catch up.

  A multitude of delicious scents jumpstarted her stomach as she entered, and she plucked a rolled linen napkin from a nearby basket, shook out the folds, and stacked a pyramid of cucumber-cream cheese finger sandwiches on her palm. Tossing a chocolate chip at Trey, she rounded the butcher block island and headed for the basement.

  Her heels clicked a steady rhythm down the concrete steps, along the narrow corridor and past the gym to a metal door. A series of beeps as she tapped the code into the lock, a twist of the handle, and she shouldered the entrance into Malcolm’s private garage.

  One step inside, and her heart leapt into her throat.

  Shit, that funky shadow in the corner. Adrenaline shot through her veins and her fingertips tingled as she fumbled for the light switch on the wall. Was that a guy?

  The fluorescents buzzed and winked on. The shadow disappeared, and she followed each illuminating pulse as at least three dozen cars of varying make, model and age sprang out of the darkness, all parked at the exact same forty-five degree angle, their grills pitched toward the upward slope of the drive.

  Trey’s low whistle echoed across the shiny floor, and Charlie offered him a weak smile as he slipped past her and entered. Good grief, she needed to get a handle on her nerves.

  Pulling a tight breath, she tracked Trey’s steps toward a tricked-out Lamborghini. She was safe here. Had traveled nearly eight hundred miles from New York to guarantee it. As if that wasn’t enough, the first floor of the manor was crawling with cops.

  “So.” She kicked off her heels and her toes breathed a sigh of relief as she padded toward
a sleek, copper Bentley. They’d always been Malcolm’s favorite. Seemed right he’d have the latest Mulsanne polished up and ready to go. “How long does it usually take you to jack one car?” Propping her hip against the hood, she opened the napkin and popped the first sandwich into her mouth.

  “Depends.” Trey smoothed his palm along the aerodynamic slant of the Lamborghini. The modified Aventador Veneno, if she remembered right. “Any dumbass can smash out a window, but these beauties…” He shook his head. “They deserve respect.”

  Nice, kid. A smile threatened, and she pressed the tip of her index finger to her lips as she swallowed. “Okay, then how long would it take you to respectfully jack one of these beauties?”

  “A minute.” He shrugged. “Maybe two.” Dropping his arm, he rushed across the aisle to the deadly crouch of a black Lykan Hypersport, smacked both hands on top of his head and gaped at her as if someone had just called in a bomb threat. “What’s the sticker on this one?”

  Swiveling toward the car, she inhaled another sandwich. With those jewel-encrusted headlights and scissor doors? “Three and half million?” But there were also the hefty shipping charges to consider. “It’s from Dubai so Malcolm probably paid closer to four to have it delivered.”

  “Holy shit.” Trey’s hands hit his thighs with a slap. “I can’t…this isn’t even…”

  She waited as he spun a slow circle but, apparently, he’d been struck speechless.

  “So here’s what I’m thinkin’.” Spreading the napkin on the hood like a miniature picnic, Charlie left the Bentley and strode for the storage units spanning the back wall. “Any slob worth half a damn could’ve figured out by now you’re good with your hands. Maybe even a little too good considering the number of locks on that closet door. But I’m curious to know how you stack up against the pros, and the best way to find out is a little friendly competition, you against me.”

  Inside one of the tall narrow closets centered between the cabinets hung a row of gray garage overalls, impeccably ironed, not a grease stain in sight. A hint of Malcolm’s classic Aqua Velva drifted past Charlie’s cheeks as she tugged the first one off the wire hanger, and she closed her eyes as an unexpected punch of loss almost knocked her off her feet.

  But maybe that was just as it should be.

  She swallowed at the tightness in her throat. After all, Malcolm and Viv were the ones who’d brought her here in the first place. She held the overalls to her face and deeply inhaled.

  In the years before she’d moved into this house, she’d never respected any of the adults she’d had the displeasure of meeting. And even though the relationship she’d shared with Malcolm had skirted closer to a business deal than some sappy father-daughter thing, she’d grown to trust his judgment. Had looked up to him in a way she hadn’t anyone else in all the hard days before they’d met.

  Yes, the disappointment had been crushing when he’d asked her to leave. She’d walked out the door bitter and angry. Fed up with his stupid rules and contests. But, over time, she’d come to terms with his decision, and if she were being honest with herself, deep down, a part of her had always known he was right.

  She wasn’t the best choice to take over his business. From the onset, she’d never been cutthroat enough. Cold enough. Her need to take care of everyone would’ve been a distraction and, ultimately, she would’ve become too invested in the job.

  Blinking away her tears, she draped the garment over the top of the door, collected the stopwatch off the upper shelf and walked the hanger toward Trey. “I’ll give you five minutes.” She offered him the bent end. “For each car you open, I’ll pay you ten bucks.”

  He read her face for the sign of any tricks before lifting his hand.

  “But.” She whipped the hanger outside his reach. “If I open more than you do, you agree to drop this whole tough-guy routine. Moving forward, you do whatever I say, answer any questions I ask. Got it?”

  His green eyes hardened, but the spark of a challenge glittered through the fringe of his curly lashes. “I hope you brought cash.” He snatched the hanger and ran toward a cherry red Maserati, untwisting the neck and reshaping the hook until it evidently met some GTA car-jacking code.

  “Ready?” She held up the stop watch, bent thumb poised over the stem. “Go.”

  A click and he was off, tripping one latch after the next—from a pearlescent Rolls Royce and lime green Ferrari to the mid-sized Jaguar sedan.

  Resettling against the Bentley, Charlie finished the last of her snack, and she couldn’t deny Trey’s talents were impressive. He didn’t leave a single scratch on the paint. Not one fingerprint on the windows. But the real treat was the way his smile grew bigger and wider every time he successfully popped another handle.

  “Time.” She stopped the countdown as the red hand ticked over to twelve. “Good job, kid.” All in all, eight driver’s side doors hung open. “You’re a tough act to follow.”

  Bent at the waist, hands braced on the knees of his jeans, he struggled to catch his breath. “It’s easier when I don’t have to worry about someone bashing in my skull.”

  A long-worn hatred sparked and flared in her stomach. The frustration of being treated too small and insignificant to matter. Man, what she wouldn’t have given for just five minutes alone with the worthless son of a bitch who’d done that to him.

  She waited for him to straighten before tossing the stopwatch in his direction. Why did life always have to be so unfair? “Okay, my turn. Hit it whenever you’re ready.”

  A flick of his thumb, and he glanced from the timer to her, back and forth as the steady tick of the stopwatch echoed off the concrete walls.

  Charlie pushed off from the Bentley and wadded up the napkin, polished the smudges she’d left on the wax and crammed the bundled crumbs inside her purse.

  Rummaging around, she found her lipstick, reapplied a fresh coat, and then pulled out her compact to powder her nose.

  “Um, four minutes.”

  She smiled at Trey over the flap of her purse. “Yep. Thanks.”

  Raking her hand through her hair, she finger-combed her curls, shook her bangs away from her lashes and plucked a few blond strands off the front of her dress.

  Trey cleared throat, shoes squeaking as he shuffled his feet. “Three minutes left.”

  “Uh-huh, got it.” Shifting a few items aside, she worked the leather case from her bag, peeled open the zipper and spread her lock picks open across the hood. A hiss cooled her teeth as she wiggled her fingers over the selection as if trying to decide which one would be best.

  Finally opting for the tried and true double bump rake, she slid the pick from its banded slot and blew a piece of lint off the end, swiping the tip across her leg to make sure it was clean.

  A short stroll brought her to the padlocked metal box hanging to the right of the door. She fed the pick into the slot and stared at the maze of HVAC ducts bolted to the ceiling, jiggling the tumblers and waiting for the familiar lack of resistance as the shackle lifted and released.

  Unhooking the lock from the latch, she flipped back the lock plate and swung open the box. Inside, labeled by make and model near a series of tiny brass hooks, hung the keys to every vehicle in the garage.

  “Aw, come on.” Trey threw his fists down at his sides. “That’s cheating.”

  “Says who?” Pinching one fob after the next, she unlocked the remaining twenty-eight cars, headlights flashing each time she pressed another button. Once done, she pivoted to face him and lifted her hand as if the metal box rested on her palm. “Never do more than necessary, kid. Never waste time or wear yourself out when there’s an easier way.” She dipped her chin. “Pay attention to your surroundings and conserve your energy for when you need it.”

  “Well, shit.” He released the hanger and it clanged to the floor, but the musical jangle seemed off somehow. Mixed with another sound.

  Hurrying back toward the Bentley, Charlie dug her phone from
her purse and glanced at the caller ID.

  Oh, no. Panic fisted in her chest as she stared at the number. Oh God, God no. If something had happened to Ellis while she was gone, she’d spend the rest of her days regretting she’d left.

  She tapped the screen and slapped the phone to her ear. “Lydia? What’s the matter? Is everything okay?”

  “Pffth.” The sputter Ellis’s mom sent across the airwaves rattled around inside Charlie’s head, no clue where to land. Good or bad? Good or bad? “Is everything okay? Charlie, everything is wonderful. My God, I don’t even know where to start. Thank you. This is amazing. When the doctor came in and told us, I must’ve stood there with my mouth hanging open for a full sixty seconds.”

  A frown tightened Charlie’s forehead as she glanced around the garage. “What are you talking about? Told you what?”

  Lydia laughed. Really laughed for what had to be the first time in years. “Okay. Deny all you want. But Ellis and I both know it was you. I don’t have a clue how you did it or where you came up with the money but, God. Holy cow. You have got to be the best friend a mother could ever have.”

  Charlie screwed up her face in a grimace. The woman wasn’t making any sense. “Lydia, I swear to you, I don’t have any idea what you’re—”

  An image of Xander flashed across her brain. Without any say-so on her part, her foot took a halting step forward.

  Xander, sitting beside her on the plane, working some strange hacker voodoo as those numbers and symbols scrolled across the screen of his laptop.

  He’d said he just needed a few seconds. Her eyes slammed shut. She lowered her chin to her chest. That he wouldn’t even be on, but whatever he was doing was important.

  “How much?” Her voice cracked. Tears flooded her lashes. “How much money did you get?”

  Lydia huffed. “The account’s open-ended. The doctor said Ellis can get as much LZR-7 as he needs, whenever and forever how long it takes to get him healthy.” Her breath hitched, unsteady against the earpiece as she exhaled. “Charlie. Do you know what this means? Do you? There’s no way I’ll ever be able to repay you. For God’s sake, you’ve given me the gift of my son.”