Thief: The Scarab Beetle Series: #1 (The Academy)

by Stone, C. L.

  “What are we doing?” I planted my hand in his.

  “I’ll show you how to drive this thing.”

  “Me?”

  Blake taught me how to hold the helm and direct the boat this way and that. He kept control of the sails and had me just focus on turning the rudder via the wheel. We made circles around the bay. It was a good distraction, keeping me busy with something so I didn’t have to think about the boys and why I was there.

  It only lasted a couple of hours before my stomach started growling louder than the boat splashing against the water.

  Blake beamed at me. “Someone keeps a tiger in her shirt.” He drew in the sails again until the boat was turned around, heading back toward the harbor. He nudged me out of the way. “My turn to take over.”

  “You won’t let me drive back to shore?” I asked.

  “It’s best if I do it,” he said. “Until you get more practice in.”

  “It can’t be that hard to aim the boat at the dock and go,” I said. Not that I had much confidence in my sailing skills, but it had been fun while it lasted, and what was the likelihood I’d ever get another chance?

  “Don’t pout those sweet lips at me and pretend you’re the sudden expert sailor,” he said. “There’s things out here you need to look out for and you don’t even know.”

  ‘Like what?” I asked.

  He lifted his head, gazing around and spotted something in the water. He pointed out to it. “That.”

  I followed his line of sight to a buoy out in the middle of the water. It was white, with red markings and numbers that I didn’t understand. “So I shouldn’t run into those?”

  “You shouldn’t pass that invisible line. Well, we could there, possibly, because this little boat would float right over the sand bank it’s trying to warn you about. It’d probably stop the yacht.” He scanned, pointing to another buoy close by. “But see that one? The depth of that rock or sand bank or whatever is just below the surface, that’s one we don’t want to get close to. We’d crash, and my boat would sink.”

  I scanned the water now, looking for the markers. Now that I’d noticed them, they were everywhere. Little red or white buoys that were really discreet warnings about what was below the murky depths. “You have to stay between the buoy lines?”

  “Sometimes. You have to know when you need to change course. You have to know the rules to know how you can bend them.”

  “Is that your philosophy?” I asked.

  He grinned, steering the boat toward the harbor. “Seems to be yours, too.”

  THIEF VS. THIEF

  By the time we got back to City Marina, it was just after noon. He parked the boat and tied it off. When everything was put away, he jumped off onto the dock, holding a hand out for me.

  I waved him off but he insisted, grabbing my hips and planting me beside him. I wobbled on my feet, but he held me steady until I stopped swaying.

  “Whoa,” I said, embarrassed. Why did solid ground feel so unstable?

  “You’ve never been on a boat before,” he said, the sly smile playing on his lips at catching me out. He released my hips, but snatched up my hand, holding it palm to palm on our way back to the parking lot.

  He unlocked his Mercedes and held open the door.

  “Where do you want to go to lunch?” he asked.

  I shrugged, wanting to say the closest hamburger stand. The truth was, I’d eat his car, I was so hungry.

  He gunned the engine, looking up and down the street and taking his time, before making a right. “I’ve got an idea. I don’t know if it’s open yet. It might be just a dinner place, but we’ll see.”

  “I hope it’s not one of those places that serves rabbit food.”

  “Do I look like a rabbit? I’m hungry, too.”

  He made his way into downtown, winding between streets I didn’t recognize. Blake pulled into a back lot between two close buildings on Broad Street. I hopped out before he could run around to open my door just to irritate him. Southern men hate it when you open your own door.

  “How does a hamburger strike you?” he asked, he caught my door before I could close it and did it for me.

  “Perfect,” I said. I glanced around, feeling closed in as we were behind four different buildings, the only way in or out was so narrow, only one car could pass at a time. There was a high fence between the buildings, as high as my head. There was a collection of trash containers, and closed doors to the surrounding buildings. It felt more like a private parking lot, with only two other cars parked there. I wondered how he knew about it. We had to go through that same entryway to get back to the street. It was nerve-wracking as a car could need to get in, and we’d have to squeeze to possibly get out of the way.

  He planted a palm at the small of my back, guiding me to the sidewalk. When we were beside each other, he shifted until he caught my hand.

  He’d done it once already, but now I was irritated by hunger and it felt a little too close. I tugged at my hand and he didn’t let go. I lifted an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Darling,” he said. “I know you’re in denial right now, but I am trying to win over your cool little heart.”

  “Why?”

  He grinned. “I think you’re smarter than that.” He stopped, and then patted his pockets. “But I’m not.”

  “What?”

  “Forgot my wallet in the car.” He released my hand and turned. “Stay here, I’ll get it.”

  Did he really leave his wallet in the car? Maybe he’s not as smart as I assumed he was. Who leaves their cash and credit cards in the car?

  I counted off a few minutes, enough time to grab a wallet and run back. When time passed and he didn’t return, I bristled. Maybe it was instinct, but I wondered what was wrong. Did he ditch me?

  I turned, heading back.

  I came around the brick corner of the building when I spotted Blake at his car. I paused when the scene caught me off-guard. The passenger door was open, but he was standing there with his hands up.

  A guy wearing a dark hoodie had an arm out. The gun in his hand looked like a .22.

  The gun alone was what set me off. Over the years, it always irritated me to work as hard as I could to pick up a wallet and walk away. I took some pride knowing no one got hurt. It took skill and a lot more risk. Using a gun was too much and always felt like a cheat, in a way. It took absolutely no brains.

  I glanced around, finding the trash bins. I stopped, considering when I saw a stack of old newspapers next to the bin. I eased back out of sight, and collected two, and started folding them into a couple of little squares, putting them behind my back. I had half a plan, which was good enough.

  I eased back to the corner again, breathing out slowly. Waiting.

  Blake had his wallet out, showing the man with the gun that he was willing to fork it over. The guy motioned with his free hand. Blake tossed it, the man caught it, and slid it into the front pocket of his hoodie.

  I caught the outline of his own wallet on the back pocket of his dingy camouflage pants.

  I hoped my promise to Axel didn’t include stealing from another thief.

  “You’ve got it,” Blake said, keeping his hands out. “Now walk away,” he said.

  “Shut up,” the guy in the hoodie said. He waved the gun at Blake’s face. “Now hand over the keys.”

  Greedy bastard! I’d had enough. I stepped forward, slowly, which was hard to do in the gravel. Here’s hoping his heart was thundering as loud as mine was and wouldn’t hear.

  Blake spotted me, and kept his face cool, but the corner of his mouth dipped in disapproval. “You don’t want the car,” he said. “It’s an old model. Two years. There’s problems with the engine.”

  “Just shut up and give them to me,” the man said, pointing the gun closer to Blake.

  “But you’ve already got the wallet. What are you going to do with the car? I really like this car.”

  I got the impression Blake wasn’t just stalling, he was covering
my footsteps. Fantastic. I tried to silently tell him I was going in for a distraction. He should run and get to safety. I’d switch wallets and take off, too. A little twenty two, wouldn’t do much damage if we were running and he tried to shoot us, maybe hurt our feelings. It was a really wimpy gun for a holdup.

  I aimed myself, readying with two folded newspapers. This was going to be one of the most difficult pulls, never done two at once before.

  Not with someone holding a gun, either.

  “Give me the keys,” the guy said.

  “Well, if you keep yelling at me, that makes me nervous.” Blake fished into his front pocket for his car keys. He rattled them between his fingers loud. “These things? Can’t I just take off the car key?”

  “Give me those,” The guy said, growling and wiggling his gun.

  “But how am I supposed to get into my house without them?”

  I was close enough now, only a foot away. I could smell the stench of the cigarettes he’d been smoking rolling off of his clothes in a stale waft.

  I breathed out slowly.

  Took a step forward.

  Lifted from the hoodie pocket at the same time as dropping a newspaper. The easiest pocket is always a jacket. I managed to get Blake’s wallet into the spot between the back of my shorts and my underwear, pulling out the second newspaper.

  The man turned, gun lifted in the air, letting out a shout of surprise.

  Blake dashed forward, catching the guy’s wrist and twisting.

  I lifted the second wallet, replacing with another newspaper and backed up.

  Blake kicked smoothly, catching the hooded guy in the stomach. He had the guy’s arm twisted around. The guy dropped the gun, having to move his body to relieve the pressure without snapping his bones.

  The man cried out in pain. Blake punched the side of his throat and took a step back, swooping to pick up the gun.

  The man tried to lunge for it. Blake had it turned on him, pointing at his face. He snapped the safety off, and cocked to load a bullet into the chamber.

  The hooded man lifted his hands, backing up. “Hang on. Don’t get crazy.”

  “Kate,” Blake barked. “Get behind me.”

  I’d been so in awe of Blake doing his karate thing, that I froze to the spot. I dashed around, holding the guy’s wallet behind my back. I stood behind Blake, peeking over his shoulder.

  The man held his hands out. “Hang on.”

  “Give me my wallet back,” Blake said.

  “Uh, don’t do that,” I said.

  “Hang on,” he said, wriggling the gun at the man.

  The man started backing off, heading toward the exit. “Man, let’s just part ways here.”

  Blake grunted, still holding the gun. “I’d like my wallet back.”

  “Hey,” the man said. “Okay.” He reached into his back pocket. I guessed if he had a choice, he’d try to pass off his own wallet for Blake’s and walk away with the most money.

  Uh oh.

  The man lifted his hand, and appeared stunned to be holding a folded newspaper. “What the...” His gaze lifted until he met mine. “You! You stole my wallet.”

  Blake lowered his gun, looking back at me. “You...”

  I tried not to grin. “Can we just get out of here please?”

  “She stole my wallet!” The guy cried out. “They’re stealing my wallet! Help!”

  “We should go,” I said.

  Blake grunted. I dove for the passenger side door and he ran around, getting in and starting the engine.

  A couple of other guys came around the corner, trying to figure out the commotion. The hooded man waved his hands in the air, shouting. “They stole my wallet!”

  Blake gunned the engine, pulling out of the lot. The two men tried to stand in the way, the only exit, but when it became clear Blake wasn’t going to stop, they dove, landing in the heap of trash bags.

  The Mercedes pulled out into the street and we took off.

  TRUTH AND HOT POCKETS

  We were silent in the car. I was waiting for police sirens. I had no idea what Blake was thinking, but I had a wild guess.

  He twisted his hands at the wheel, checking the rearview mirror repeatedly. He took several side streets, wound around until we were back into South of Broad territory. His eyes were dark. His jaw was firm. When he pulled into his driveway, I hesitated, because I knew there would be questions and accusations.

  My stomach growled.

  Blake’s head jerked back, as if realizing again that I was there. He studied me with side glances. “Still hungry, huh?”

  I bit back a snappy retort. I really wasn’t in the position to be a smart ass. “Yes.”

  This seemed to relax him somehow. At least for the moment, we were on a different sort of mission. We were both hungry.

  Blake hopped out and opened my door before I got my seatbelt off.

  It was tempting to use the opportunity to run away, but I found myself following him back inside his house and into the kitchen. If I left now, I’d have to find my own food, or grovel back to the boys. I wasn’t ready for that yet.

  “Have a seat.” He motioned to the kitchen island, where there were stools by the bar. I ignored him, poking around in the cabinets just to see what was behind them.

  Blake opened up the fridge door. “There’s champagne.”

  “No,” I said.

  He chuckled. I saddled up beside him, looking over his shoulder. The fridge had only one bottle of champagne, and the rest were sodas, bottles of water, and a couple varieties of beer. There was a collection of ketchup, and mayo, and other common condiments in the door. He opened the freezer part, and there were boxes of frozen foods stacked neatly. “Do we want pizza or...”

  “I’m not going to wait on a pizza,” I said. I pointed to the individually wrapped hamburgers. “Is there a microwave in here?”

  “Of course I’ve got a microwave. Do I look like a complete savage?” He pulled out one. “How many do you want?”

  “Three.”

  His lips twisted up into a smile. “You better eat them all.”

  “Better make four.”

  He laughed, putting the sandwiches together on a plate and stuffed them in the microwave. I leaned against the counter with my arms across my chest. I didn’t want to go too far from the food. I felt better simply being in sight so I could stare down the timer.

  He leaned against the counter next to me, crossing his arms similarly.

  “So,” I said, wanting to avoid the topic of what had happened earlier. I wasn’t ready to explain myself. “I thought rich people had, like, personal chefs and things like that.”

  He shrugged. “A little impractical to carry one of those around all the time. I’m on the road a lot. I suppose I could if I wanted. Some people cart them along as they travel.”

  “You have Hot Pockets and Eggo waffles.”

  “So?”

  “Isn’t there like rich people frozen dinners?”

  His arm nudged into mine. “You’re talking like there’s a secret barrier between rich and poor.”

  “Isn’t there?”

  He blew out a sigh. “So I don’t have to buy Hot Pockets only when they’re on sale. That makes me a bad guy? Look, there’s a few things I can buy that maybe some people can’t afford.”

  “Like everything.”

  “Like things other people make. For example,” he opened a cabinet and pulled out a bag of Pop Chips. “Okay, this one might be more expensive than a bag of Lay’s, or generic store brands, but there’s people in these factories, too, you know? My buying these keeps people in business.”

  I huffed. I didn’t really have a response to that. Luckily the timer beeped on the microwave. He moved to open, and I hovered at his back. He chuckled, putting the plate down on the counter.

  He plated a couple for me, and I took one more from his plate and turned away to go sit in the living room. I put my plate on the coffee table.

  He flipped on the televisio
n, but I completely ignored it, inhaling three sandwiches and half of the bag of Pop Chips, which I hated to admit, but really liked.

  He sat back after finishing his one sandwich. His arm went up around the back of the couch. “Well, you have a healthy appetite.”

  I shrugged, and sat back, stretching my legs out and planting my palms on my stomach. “I told you I was hungry.”

  “I didn’t realize you carried a black hole in your stomach. You weigh about as much as a pillow.” He prodded a finger at my stomach. “Where do you stuff all that?”

  I smacked him on the wrist, and then my heart stopped, realizing I’d just hit him like I did Raven. Somehow it felt awkward now because he was rich. And good looking. Proper people didn’t smack.

  He only chuckled and shook his head. “Vicious. I like it.”

  “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I’m learning,” he said. He wiped his fingers on one of the napkins. “By the way, can I have my wallet back?”

  I felt my cheeks heating, and I slowly pulled out a wallet.

  He glanced at the one in my hand. “That one isn’t mine.”

  I may as well have lit my face on fire. I plopped that one on the table next to our empty plates and produced the other one.”

  He took it, opening it up and checking the contents.

  “I didn’t take anything.”

  “You did, pumpkin,” he said. He pointed to the other wallet. “You took that.”

  “I just thought it would be fair.”

  He squinted his eyes at me. “You just pickpocketed an armed robber, Miss Kate. Tell me how you learned to do that.”

  I pursed my lips, not wanting to answer his question.

  “You don’t work for the FBI, do you?”

  “I’m not exactly on their payroll.”

  He grunted in frustration, stuffing his wallet into his back pocket again. “Who the hell am I fighting these crazy accusations from then? What kind of agency sends a girl like you after me? Tell me who you’re working with.”

  “I can’t?”

  “Darling,” he barked at me. He leaned toward the coffee table. He pinched the corner of the wallet between his fingers like he didn’t want to get too much of his fingerprints on it. “This isn’t just some hobby you pick up, like whistling. Why are you really here?"