by C. L. Stone
It'd been pulling into the Dixon’s driveway.
I stilled, heart beating wildly in my chest. I closed my eyes, willing myself to be still and not panic.
I just hit the curb. I didn't hit the car. Please tell me I didn't hit the car. Tell me the other car just stopped to be sure I wouldn't hit them.
A car door opened and slammed. Male, from what I could tell. He was too tall to see who it was through the rear window. Expletives sounded off from his direction.
I shared the feeling. Who was coming by the Dixon’s at this hour? I reached over quickly to slide the binoculars and my listening device into the floor of the seat next to me, threw off my jacket and put it on top to hide them.
I'd just covered them up when there was a rapping sound at the window.
He was leaning low to peer at me. Locks of brown hair dangled over dark eyes. Latino. Dark stubble over his cheeks and chin. His nose had a dent in the middle, possibly had broken years ago.
Could have been worse. It could have been someone else who knew my face. Someone else from the company who wouldn’t keep their mouths shut.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
His concern for my safety threw me off, especially since he'd been cursing a moment ago. “...What?”
He leaned against the roof of the car and made an indication to roll down the window. I did.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, Yankee accent. He wasn’t from around here.
I blinked rapidly at him, surprised at his concern. It was just a very slight bump. Still, I did a quick check on my body at his prompting. No blood. “Don't think so.”
He raked his fingers through his dark hair to comb locks of brown out of his eyes. “Want to come out? Check this over with me?”
No. “Okay.”
I breathed in and held it as he opened the door for me and allowed me room to stumble out of the car. My left foot was asleep and tingling. My hair was matted together in a half-done ponytail. The black T-shirt and yoga pants combo were wrinkled to oblivion. I was an unholy mess compared to him; black suit, dark blue shirt, black tie. The sleeves were rolled up nearly to his elbow. Totally professional.
We stood together between the two cars. His, a black Tesla, had a bumper-sized dent in the left rear door. Mine, a blue sedan, a decade old, had its bumper sticking into the dent. Barely a scratch. Was probably there before I got here.
My only problem was, if I called the insurance company, there was a chance certain people in my life would discover this and that would be bad. It wasn't that I'd been in an accident. It was the location. They'd know I was checking out Dixon again. And I'd been very careful to not let them know where I was lately. It was my own fault parking so close, but it was the only spot to see the house from without causing too much suspicion from the neighbors.
I pretended to be in shock and studying the damage while checking him out. Early thirties maybe? So about my age. No ring. Alone this early and visiting Mr. Dixon. An employee of some sort? I didn't recognize him at all. This is the sort of lead I would have taken advantage of by following him but I would have never gotten this close.
“Not a lot of damage,” I said as cheerfully as I could. “I'm happy to exchange insurance information, but honestly, I could get this fixed without bothering waiting around for insurance. We could both get out of here quicker.”
He arced a dark brow. “In a hurry?”
“Sort of.”
“You know, it's against the law to hit and run in South Carolina.”
I forced out a very cool smile. Not what I meant to suggest but for the moment, I wanted to play along. How much did he know about the law is what I wanted to find out. “...Yes?” I said in an unsure tone. “What's the penalty for that, anyway? A fine?”
His lips and eyes remained curiously hard to read during this next part. “A year in jail. Minimum.”
Yikes. It wasn't part of the plan to run, but the fact that he knew it without needing to look it up, I guessed him to be law enforcement of some kind. Maybe security?
Why did Mr. Dixon have him come by this early?
And why didn’t Preston warn me?
“Well, good thing we're not running, are we?” I continued in my cheerful tone, trying to be a good sport. “I just wanted to save time. We can take pictures with our phones. I'm willing to say it was my fault if you choose to call insurance, but I'd just rather take care of this. A dent like that isn't worth an insurance price hike. Takes two minutes to fix and buff out. That's a nice Tesla. I bet it told you I was coming. It's a smart car, isn't it? I thought about getting one of those.” I was rambling, hoping to get on his good side or annoy him into wanting to get out of this sooner and just swap information.
He made a tight smile and folded his arms, looking from me to the dent in his car and back at me. He was over six foot. He had high cheekbones and the Hispanic genes reminded me of some popular Mexican actors I really liked. Handsome.
I would have made friends, except he was working for Dixon. Possibly. I had to get out of here and find out.
“How about this,” he said, “you give me your number, I'll give you mine. I'll trust that I can give you a call and we'll talk about it.”
“You won't call the cops, and try to call it a hit and run?”
“No, actually, I'm in a hurry, too.”
I'd take that. I recited my number to him to put into his phone.
“And what's your name?” he asked.
I hesitated. If he worked with Dixon, he'd know my last name for sure. “Celeste...”
He typed it in. “Last?”
Could I lie? Maybe I shouldn't. “...Logan.”
He continued to type it in without hesitating. No questions? He was so new, he didn't know who his boss was. How did he not know about Logan Enterprises? Or maybe he didn’t make the connection yet. It’s a common name...
“Just sent you a text with my name,” he said and put his phone in his pocket again.
“Sorry about this,” I said.
He flickered a small smile, the first I'd seen to indicate amusement. “Nothing like a little excitement in the morning. Too bad it was just a small dent. We could have gotten real serious with a tow truck. Hung out a bit longer.”
I couldn’t help smiling at this. “Were you hoping for a bigger one? I could back into it again.”
He laughed. “Maybe next time. I'll give you a call a little later. Let me get out of the way. You can finish turning around. Ciao.”
He got into his car and continued along Mr. Dixon’s drive. I hurried to turn around before could finish parking and get out. Last thing I needed was for Mr. Dixon to answer the door to him and to recognize me and make a comment.
I'd be lucky if the incident didn't come up in conversation with ...whatever his name is.
⸙
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If you’re new to my books, you may enjoy Thief, the first book in the Academy Scarab Beetle series. It’s free for download.
Keep reading for the first chapter.
I Am a Thief
Men are brilliantly stupid.
For one thing, guys carry the most cash with them anywhere. Didn’t anyone ever tell them cash was dead?
I nestled myself in one of the side branches of Citadel Mall. I picked my way through a Claire’s but the lights were too bright reflecting off the sparkling plastic and crystals of the teeny-bopper jewelry and handbags. I ducked into a shoe store where the lighting was dimmer and the window wasn’t as obstructed. Waiting was the hardest part.
My favorite place to find dumb guys with lots of cash was the mall. Always fairly crowded on a weekend; I could count on at least a couple of twenties for every wallet I temporarily borrowed.
I never kept all of it. Forty to sixty dollars at the most. Not enough to bother reporting to the cops. I didn’t mess with credit cards, or bother with selling ID cards. That’s the kind of crazy stuff that gets you sent to pr
ison. I always left the wallets and the rest of the leftovers tucked away in the food court and on benches where management would see it and find the owner. That way, the people wouldn’t have to get new ID, which is a huge hassle.
And they never suspected a thing. All they saw when I accidentally bumped into them was batting eyelashes and as much cleavage as I could muster the absurdity to expose without dry heaving.
It was even better if one of them had a girlfriend on his arm, because the girl would smack the tar out of him, causing an even better distraction with his head turned the other way. Too bad the next place they walked into where she gave him the doe-eyes to buy her yet-another-pair-of-shoes, he’d be out of a wallet, and she’d be on to the next boy toy.
If I could easily distract a guy when he had a decent girl hanging off his arm, he probably deserved to get his wallet picked and the girl was better off. Loyalty was a big deal to me.
This Saturday had, so far, been a bit of a letdown. Only two hits for me, and I only got forty between them. I handled the cash inside my pocket. The money felt like it was burning between my fingers, partially from the guilt. I wanted to release it, but I’d worked hard for it, and didn’t want to let it go.
Forty dollars wouldn’t be enough to cover the rent for next week, let alone food. I only had about an hour or two left before ...
A target came into view, walking around the corner. He was alone, and wore a dark red jacket. It was kind of early in the fall for it, but I wasn’t going to start complaining; no wallet bulge in his pants pockets and jacket picking was easy. Easier still when he shoved his hands in his jean pockets, and the jacket bulged out on the sides, making my job even easier.
I waited, watching from inside the shoe store, pretending to study pairs of spiky slut shoes. When he stopped and hovered in front of the cookie shop, I figured it was as good a time as any.
I left the shoe store, taking the long way around the corridor, keeping to the middle potted plants, benches and other mall shin-splitters between us. I looped around casually, moving toward the cookie stand.
My Doc Martin boots and jeans were casual enough to blend in and be forgettable later. I tugged the hem of my white tank top lower down my body, exposing just a slip of the gray material of the bra underneath; I’d give him a bonus for being an easy target.
I steadied my pace, trying to give him room and without staring; a skill I’d perfected. I aimed for the right pocket, which was hanging slightly lower than the other, hopefully the sign of a full wallet. If I was wrong, there wasn’t much chance I’d get the other one without attracting notice. Dipping into an empty pocket is a lost target.
I stalled as he bought his cookie, watching to make sure I’d been right about the pocket with the wallet. Sure enough, his hand reached in and pulled it out to pay the teenager behind the counter. I stopped and bent over to tie my boot, another stalling tactic, following him by watching out of the corner of my eye to where he stood off between two stores, digging the cookie out of the bag and stuffing it into his mouth. He was at least a couple of heads taller than I was. Not a problem, but I preferred people more my height, which made picking more natural. He had a wide jawbone and deep-set eyes. He was looking curiously around, as if trying to pick out which direction he wanted to go next.
He caught my eye briefly on his glance around and I froze. I’d learned early on if I looked at the face, it became harder to make the move.
This was a real person. I was a thief.
I usually picked a scruffier type that didn’t look like a nice person. With the jacket, however, he was too easy a target to miss, and I was out of time to pick another.
I spotted the closest trash bin and waited him out.
It didn’t take the guy long to finish his cookie. He aimed for the trash bin I’d picked out.
I started walking, pretending to decide not to buy a cookie. From my pocket, I dug out a crumpled piece of paper to throw away.
The next few moments slowed for me, as it did every time. My heart thundered. I questioned again for the millionth time why I did this.
I prayed I wouldn’t get caught and that if I did, this guy wasn’t the type who would beat me to a pulp.
With every step I took closer, I thought about changing my mind and running away. This was wrong. I was a criminal. Every wallet I took added up into some kind of unseen karma debt, and one day I’d strike out big time.
Except my brother and I wouldn’t have a roof over our heads if I gave up now.
One more. I promised myself this would be the last. I’d find a good job soon. We just needed to scrape by this week.
I focused on the jacket.
I aimed, and increased my pace to match his stride.
Bump.
My left hand brushed against his jacket at the heavy pocket.
My right hand released the trash, tossing it away. I caught the strap of my tank top that slid down my shoulder. Practiced moves I’d done dozens of times.
Big brown eyes flashed, focusing on my face. Instead of lowering to my breasts, they remained, studying.
That alone caught me off guard. Targets never did that. Not holding my gaze for so long, as if he was disinterested in the body and instead wanted to see the person. See me.
At least his eyes were up instead of down at waist level. It was enough. My hand was already in his pocket, curled around the leather wallet, lifting. All I had to do was blush and apologize, tuck the wallet under my arm and out of sight and turn ...
"Hey! You! Girl!"
The shout was so desperate, so commanding, my whole body started to quake and I stopped. My target and I broke our locked gazes and sought out the voice.
It came from across the corridor at the pretzel shop. A guy behind the counter wearing a folded paper hat and blue and white print apron stared us both down.
And pointed right at me.
"Come here," he shouted, in a tone that had my knees jolting into motion. The power was undeniable.
But I was clutching a wallet that didn't belong to me. Rattled now, I realized too late that I had hesitated. I returned my focus again on the target, meeting cool, brown eyes. Eyes that lowered down to my hand that was holding his wallet between us.
I popped my mouth into an innocent ‘o’ shape. "You dropped this,” I said in a quiet voice, holding up the wallet toward him.
My target frowned. He tugged the wallet from my hand and shoved it back into his pocket, zipping it up. I turned away quickly. My mind whirled, trying to figure out the closest exit. I needed to get out of there before he put two and two together and ...
"Girl!" The guy shouted again from behind the counter. He whistled, a sharp, high pitch, snapped his fingers and pointed again. "You. The pretty one with the brown hair."
I scoffed, turning around and spotting the guy focused on me again. He was drawing so much attention that I wouldn't be able to make another target here for hours, if not for days. I glared at him, and closed the distance to his pretzel stand. Maybe if I ate his stupid sample pretzels, he’d stop drawing attention to me.
"What?" I seethed.
When I finally met his gaze, my body froze.
Two different colored eyes blinked back at me. That made me think perhaps I was dreaming. One blue and one green. That didn’t seem possible.
His soft brown hair was a little longer on top, brushed to one side at the crown, and cut close around the nape of his neck. The style reminded me of a rock star I’d had a crush on a couple of years ago. He had broad shoulders under the blue T-shirt he wore beneath the apron, and a black cord around his neck with a silver-encased sand dollar. His left wrist was covered in tiny bracelets made out of braided thread and some were plastic like you’d get out of a quarter machine. He wasn’t as tall as my target, maybe just a head taller than I was. It was hard to tell, since he was behind the counter. It seemed as if the floor dipped a little on that side.
His lips curled up in a brash smile. "What's your name?" he asked. His
voice, when he wasn't shouting, actually had an amused tone, like he was incredibly curious and needed to know.
My jaw’s hinge didn’t seem to want to work to close the gap of my mouth hanging open. Was he serious? "Pardon?"
He planted his palms on the counter, leaning over it. "I was asking your name. You know, the thing on your driver’s license."
"I know what you mean," I said quickly. "Why do you care?"
"Do you want a job?"
I huffed indignantly. He called out to me from across the mall to ask if I wanted to work for him at a food stand? He appeared to be my age, about eighteen at least. Maybe a little older. It was hard to imagine him as a manager. "No thank you," I said. Not that I didn't need one, but the way he was asking me was too odd to comprehend. Plus, I didn't like the way he was looking at me. I simply didn’t believe he was being genuine. He’d call some random girl over to his food stand and hire her? And, he’d called me pretty...
I started to walk off but he called out, "Wait!" It was that commanding tone again and I found myself pausing to obey. "Just tell me your name."
I grunted and turned to meet his mismatched eyes. "Bambi."
He cocked his head at me. "That's not your real name."
My lips parted, my heart pounding. "How would you know?"
"You're not a very good liar."
It was usually one of my better talents. The only other person who could tell was my brother. I turned away from him, too rattled to talk any more.
"Wait," he said.
I ignored it this time, my ears filled with the sound of my pounding heart and masking his tone. I wasn’t sure what disturbed me more: the fact that he knew I lied so quickly or that I was impressed he could.
Before I could get past the window of the next store over, I tilted my head casually to check behind me. I caught him jumping the pretzel stand’s counter. He tore away the hat and the apron, dropping them to the ground and started after me.
I leaped into a half-jog so as to not look like I was running away, but simply trying to get somewhere. I started to turn back to see if pretzel boy was still chasing me when I crashed into what felt like a brick wall and started to stumble. I caught myself on the wall to stop from falling.