King of Thieves

by Shea Godfrey

  Asher reached within his jacket and pulled out his tobacco pouch and paper. His hands worked out of habit, and the comforting routine allowed his mind to catch up. He pulled a paper free with the touch of his lower lip and set about his task. He straightened the paper and portioned out the tobacco. He closed the pouch and slipped it back in his jacket, and his hands were steady as he prepared the perfect smoke.

  He set the tightly rolled cigarette between his lips and stepped farther into the room, for his eyes had adjusted to the light and he was eager to take in all that he could. His gold Zippo flicked open with a ping, and the wheel scraped beneath his thumb as he closed his eyes against the momentary flame.

  The books to his left were thick and bound in dark leather. Some were French and some were Russian. He recognized Tolstoy and Pasternak, and Hugo, as well as Rudyard Kipling, who seemed out of place. They seemed untouched, and when he ran his finger along the shelf beneath them there was a heavy layer of dust.

  He walked along the shelves until he was beside the desk. It was somewhat cluttered, but it was orderly clutter, as such things go. There were multiple ledgers and unopened mail, all neatly stacked. There were several ashtrays, and the smell of old smoke hung in the air. He tapped his cigarette in the nearest one and eyed the phone before he looked away.

  There were paintings stacked on end leaning against the bookshelves, and he glanced at the door before he leaned over. He placed his smoke between his lips before he touched the first frame, which was a heavy, scrolled oak.

  It was a Kandinsky, and Asher’s brow went up in curiosity as he tipped it forward in order to get at the next one. Peter Paul Rubens and a Joan Miró. Asher dropped to a knee and reached toward the desk where he put his cigarette out in the ashtray. That such paintings were stacked in a dark library that smelled of smoke, open to the changes in temperature and humidity, made his upper lip twitch with annoyance.

  His attention shifted to the second stack of paintings. There were four of them, but his hand stopped in midair as he stared at the first one.

  It had no frame, and you could see the darkness of the paint as it tipped about the edges, thick and as carefully painted as the rest. He pored over the image and he went to both knees before it, noting the soot and the damage to the lower left side of the canvas. He fumbled for his lighter and brought it forth again, the Zippo’s flame rising on command.

  Asher’s right hand trembled as it hovered above the canvas. The thick rolls of paint reached out to him and the tips of his fingers whisked above them in a lover’s caress.

  “I think it’s real.”

  Asher’s shoulders jerked and his heart seized hard as the lighter fell from his fingers.

  He grabbed at it with both hands from where it burned on the carpet and snapped it shut as he pushed to his feet. He blinked into the darkness across the room as he backed into the shelves. His fists were at his waist, ready to do what he could if he had to. He was damn good in a fight, always had been.

  “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Who is there?” Asher asked in a breathless voice.

  Someone coughed and Asher heard the rattle and clink of metal but a moment later.

  “Do you…do you have water?”

  Asher took a step away from the shelves. He squinted into the heavy shadows. “Step into the light.”

  He heard the quiet clatter of metal once more, and then, “I can’t.”

  Asher heard the sadness and the pain in the man’s voice, and he moved slowly into the room. He didn’t know if it was a mistake, but he followed his instincts and took a chance. “You know Van Gogh?”

  The rattle came again, and Asher recognized it this time. It was the sound of captivity. He had been in his fair share of police stations.

  “I know history.”

  Asher glanced to his left and then stepped to the desk. He pulled the chain on the second lamp, and the shadows that swamped the far side of the room were pushed back just enough.

  Asher’s stomach clenched and he felt a grimace flip over his expression. He looked at the door and did not move as he calculated the odds. It didn’t matter, though, and he knew it.

  He crossed what remained of the distance between him and his unexpected companion and knelt down before the wooden chair. He reached out with care and a good deal of caution.

  The man was handcuffed at the wrists to the curving wood, his arms lax and weak upon the armrests. He was wet, his jeans damp and his shirt soaked through. His fingers hung useless but his knuckles were bruised and bloodied. He had gotten his licks in, for if Asher didn’t miss his guess, there were broken knuckles, as well. The button-down shirt was filthy and stained with blood, both old and new.

  The man’s shoulders were caved in and his head lolled forward.

  Asher held his chin with his left hand and, with a gentle touch, slid the fingers of his right into the man’s hair. It was thick, and as black as pitch.

  The man tipped back and Asher looked into his eyes.

  He’d been beaten, his left eye bruised and almost swollen shut. There was a deep cut across the bridge of his nose, and his lips had been split, his lower one swollen and crooked as it seemed to pull toward his strong chin. He was very young, and Asher could feel the wet within his heavy hair, though whether it was blood or sweat he couldn’t tell. He assumed it was both.

  “My friend,” Asher said gently, “I am here.”

  The young man smiled and the blood moved along his teeth. “I think the painting is real.”

  Asher returned the smile, a sick and terrible feeling within his stomach. He brought his right hand down and held the young man’s face. “It may be,” he replied. “But it would be a miracle if it was.”

  The young man took a deep breath and Asher watched as tears slipped from his eyes and ran down his cheeks. “I’m very thirsty.”

  “Yes,” Asher agreed. There was something inexplicably familiar in the man’s appearance, though he couldn’t say what it was. Even in such an altered and broken state, he could feel it. Something was there, he knew it, and it rang within his head like a clarion bell. “I’ll find you water, yes, but…what is your name, my friend?”

  “Declan. My name is Declan O’Connell.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  San Francisco

  Present day

  Finn tried to open her eyes.

  “Finn.”

  The music she heard was the sarabande from Bach’s Suite no. 4 for cello, and it moved through her body like a river of ice. The harsh, bright light that poured down from above scattered when her eyes fluttered open, unable to withstand the warm light of the bedside lamp.

  They hung in the balance, together, as they always had. And so she waited for him.

  “Baby, take a breath.”

  The hand upon her face was a familiar whisper and she let it turn her head.

  Casey greeted her with a tender smile. “Hi, baby…just breathe.”

  Finn took a breath and blinked, the air rushing into her lungs. The tears rolled back along her temples and she understood where she was. She understood, as well, that Declan would never catch up.

  Casey’s hair tumbled about her face and she pushed a long curling strand behind her right ear as she leaned in. The kiss beside Finn’s mouth was supple and warm, and it sent a shudder of sweetness through Finn’s chest that pushed back at the cold.

  “I’m glad you’re awake now.” Casey’s right hand moved along Finn’s neck as she spoke, her touch as quiet and soft as her voice was. “I was missing you.”

  Finn could feel Casey’s naked body along her own, the heat of it, and her strong presence as it spilled over with warmth. Casey’s touch moved with slow confidence down the center of her chest and Finn took another deep breath. Casey’s manicured nails were light for a heartbeat upon the underside of Finn’s left breast, and then the softness returned as her caress moved to Finn’s stomach.

  “Cassandra Marinos.”

 
; Casey stilled completely, and for what felt like forever, she held Finn’s eyes.

  Casey reached for the sheet and the soft cotton billowed out as she shifted and moved in a sleek manner. Finn let out a breath as Casey straddled her, her weight a much needed anchor that held Finn in place.

  Casey’s hands traveled over Finn’s breasts and then along her ribs, her fingers opening as her touch explored. Each caress had a purpose and Finn’s body reacted, her tight muscles easing as Casey leaned forward.

  Casey took ownership of Finn’s lips, and Finn was helpless against the softness, against the taste of her and the texture of Casey’s tongue when it found her own. Casey’s gentle fingers were in her hair, pushing and then pulling back along her scalp as Finn slid her hands upon Casey’s thighs. Finn’s heart was pounding within her chest as she tried to remember the word she wanted. None of her words were where they should be.

  “What is it, baby?”

  Casey’s hands were hot against her cheeks and her eyes were bright.

  “Slivovitz,” Finn whispered, and her heart was pounding for an entirely new reason when Casey smiled with delight. Finn could feel the blood again, pushing through her veins. She was alive. She was alive, and her love was here.

  “How is it you’re so charming?”

  Finn felt the last of her tears slide free and Casey kissed her, her breath a balm against Finn’s bruised skin.

  “I’m going to do things to you now.” Casey’s whisper invaded her head, the words like an entirely new dream that danced along her earlobe. “And then we’re going to go back to sleep, together. Do you see, baby?”

  Finn felt the ache of arousal between her legs, her flesh heavy with it. Her grip upon Casey’s waist tightened and her hips shifted with a slow push.

  Casey bit at her lower lip within a smile. “Will you let me please you, Daddy?”

  Finn let out a breath of surprise.

  “What?” Casey teased. “After tonight, Finnegan Starkweather O’Connell Whoever, if you’re not my Daddy, I won’t ever be having one.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No, I mean…” Finn fought for what she wanted to say. “No one’s ever asked me that before.”

  Casey drew her nails over Finn’s breasts, lightly, but not so lightly that Finn didn’t feel the repercussions of it. The muscles in her thighs and buttocks tightened and Casey’s hands dropped to the bed on each side of her as she leaned down.

  “Good,” she whispered. “They weren’t meant for you. They were fools, and they weren’t good enough for you.”

  Casey’s eyes were fierce, almost angry, and Finn fell all over again.

  “Tell me to make you come, Finnegan.”

  Finn could hear the intense need in Casey’s voice, and her stomach flipped over in a rather elaborate manner. The sensation poured into her thighs and the flesh between her legs clenched. “Tell me.” Casey leaned in and kissed her with just a touch of force. “Tell me, Daddy, please.” Her next kiss was deeper, potent with desire and impatience. “Tell me you want my mouth on you. Say it, Daddy, please.”

  “I want your mouth on me.” Finn’s voice was rough, though her lips were wet from the attention. She could feel her pulse move through them and they felt lush with life.

  “Yes, baby.”

  In an agile move Casey parted Finn’s legs and her own body settled between them. Finn sucked in her breath as Casey’s mouth found her right nipple.

  Beneath the touch of Casey’s tongue and the caress of her hands, Finn’s thoughts faltered, uncertain of what was real, and what might be a dream. Casey lifted up and her stomach stroked against the wetness of Finn’s flesh.

  She shuddered with pleasure as Casey indulged her need. Casey kissed Finn with an open mouth, and she pulled at Finn’s skin, leisurely but with purpose, marking Finn’s body as she pressed between her legs. When Finn moaned, Casey trailed her nails along her ribs until Finn’s body jerked beneath the touch and her hips pushed from the bed.

  Finn’s hand delved into Casey’s hair and tightened, and Casey turned her face, patient as Finn trembled.

  “I love you,” Finn whispered and let her go.

  Casey’s mouth resumed its exploration, and when she stopped at Finn’s belly and kissed her scars, tears of surprise welled up and slipped from Finn’s eyes.

  “Only me.” Casey’s weight shifted and her touch moved upon Finn’s inner thighs. “Only me, baby, do you hear?”

  Finn’s back arched when Casey’s mouth took possession of her sex, her hands finding the sheet beneath them and pulling.

  * * *

  Casey sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at Finn.

  She was sleeping hard, and from her serene expression, she was not bothered by dreams of any sort, much less bad ones. Her skin had a soft shine to it and her muscles seemed spent and pliable. The sheet was at her lower back and Casey reached out and lifted the edge. The cotton slid easily and Casey laid it at Finn’s shoulders, noting the pink scratches she had left upon her back.

  I hadn’t known I could do that, sweet Finnegan, Casey thought. Her fingers were like a breeze as they moved through Finn’s tumble of hair. It wasn’t enough though and so she pressed farther, the strands dense and familiar within her hand. I’ve longed for that abandon. I’ve longed for that…for you.

  The bruise around Finn’s left eye was dark in the low light, and there was still the small stain of new blood along her eyebrow. She remembered the heat of it against her face, unable to pull away for they had been too far gone, both upon the edge of the abyss. Casey’s desire had become clean and savage in Finn’s absence, locked away and biding its time. Finn had alluded to as much, and she’d been right. That Finn had matched that passion so naturally—it frightened her now, as it hadn’t the night before.

  She had no idea what would happen next. She had no idea where they would end. Perhaps they would just end, and that would be it. The moment she walked out that door, the wheels of the world would turn again, and they would spin like a fucking freight train. Where that would leave Finn’s heart, she had no idea. Where it might leave hers, she didn’t dare speculate, not yet. Maybe when their game was over, they could meet again and none of it would matter.

  Casey closed her eyes.

  She had showered and used Finn’s towels and the toothbrush Finn had given her. Her body felt utterly consumed, and in a way she had never experienced before. It was sublime and overwhelming at the same time, though she had stayed focused on what needed to be done.

  She had dressed quickly, putting on Finn’s Foo Fighters tee beneath her own shirt. It smelled of Finn and her faded cologne, and it was sinfully soft from wear and countless washings. It belonged to Casey now. She did not even question the taking of it.

  If she waited for Finn to wake up, she would never leave. She knew it. She had promised and she had meant it, at least when she had spoken the words.

  She hadn’t known what would come after, though. She hadn’t realized how far she had fallen, nor how deep the rabbit hole had gone. But now she found herself sitting at the bottom and looking up, with no sunlight in sight.

  Tears fell when she opened her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she confessed, so softly that only Finn’s books gave witness to her words. Her throat was brutally tight. “I’m so sorry.”

  She did not look back as she moved like a ghost from the bedroom, accepting she might never return. For the next thirty years, just as Finn had said, she wanted to explore all there was to discover, or at least give it a shot, but those years would not start today.

  As she descended the stairs and moved past the kitchen, she reached out and palmed Finn’s abandoned bottle cap from the counter.

  She grabbed her jacket and punched in the code for the door, and then her hand trembled above the handle.

  The echo of Bach’s cello suite moved through her like a wave of color, red with passion and blue with whispers meant only for her. Finn’s promise against her ear as they
lay spent and tangled, the only two people on earth. I love you.

  Casey’s determination faltered. I’ll tell you everything, I promise.

  She turned the handle with a violent grip, knowing somehow that whatever Finn would tell her would ruin all her plans.

  Once on the other side, she waited for the lock to catch and the dead bolt to reset, and then she took the stairs, her feet moving fast as her right hand slid along the rail. The crimped edges of the bottle cap dug into the palm of her left hand, the fist she made unable to tighten any farther. It was the only thing that kept her from running like a complete fool when she hit the street.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Casey heard the music float around her and she pulled herself through the fog in order to reach it. Her hand pushed through the covers until she found her phone. “Yeah…”

  “Jesus.” There was laughter. “Rough night, or the best night of your life?”

  Casey rubbed at her eyes and looked at her phone. The face that greeted her pushed her toward reality, despite that she hadn’t meant to accept a video call. “Jack.”

  “The one and only. I’m almost there.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Yes, there is. I even went to Starbucks for you.”

  Casey flopped back onto the pillow and dropped the phone. Her muscles, maybe even her very bones, were still in a dream state and she closed her eyes. She felt Finn’s mouth against the side of her neck and Finn’s lips were soft with new secrets. She was pulled back beneath the covers by the heat of Finn’s body and her stomach gave a pleasing flutter. She spoke softly to her lover. “Do I have to get up?”

  There was a long pause and then Jack’s quiet voice. “I could work the lock, but then I’d spill your massively expensive drink.”

  Casey’s eyes shot open and she blinked at the ceiling. A rush of adrenaline pushed through her chest as her brain caught up, and she looked to her left to find only pillows. She drew in a deep breath through her nose and let it out through her mouth before she gave herself a mental shake and grabbed the phone again. “I’ll get it,” she said and hung up as she threw off the covers and got out of bed.