Thief: A Bad Boy Romance

by Aubrey Irons

  I nod, intimately knowing the feeling she’s describing, since it’s how I feel about everything, every day I wake up after coming back from what I did; “Yeah, I know the feeling.” She’s still staring into her cup, so I try and change the subject; “Hey so how’s art history going?”

  “Renaissance Art, and I switched to Political Science.”

  I can’t help but grin, knowing how much the Old Man would have smirked at that one; “Hey, that’s pretty coo-”

  “Do you want to go for a walk?” She’s looking up at me with that same look on her face that I can’t quite read, thought I can see a flare of wildness there that always manages to drag me into her.

  “Uh, sure?” No, bad idea, bad fucking idea asshole! I’ve been around enough girls in this exact same precursor to a mistake to know what “do you want to go for a walk” means. But when she stands and offers her hand, I’m still grabbing ahold and getting up to following her as she leads us away from the crowd. I follow her up the staircase and down the hallways, and I almost want to say some quip about ‘interesting walk, up here where your bedroom probably is’ but I don’t because that would be crass, and that’s something I’m working on.

  But we don’t go to her room anyways. We end up in the huge second floor library that’s practically two stories in itself. She’s running her fingers over the spines of leather books, almost wistfully, and when she looks back over her shoulder at me and smiles, I’m lost. She opens the double doors at the end of the room to the private stone terrace and steps out.

  Idiot; you fucking asshole idiot this is such a dumb fucking move.

  I need to leave. What I should be doing is turning right around and heading right back to that crowd of mourners downstairs morning my friend and her Father. But instead, I follow her out into the night air.

  She takes a deep breath and lets her head drop back as she stares up at the stars, and she’s so fucking beautiful and so fucking sad standing there that I want to put my arms around her and tell her I’m here, but I know I can’t and shouldn’t do that; not here, not now, not ever.

  “It’s nice out here; nice and quiet.” She turns and smiles at me; “Sorry, I just couldn’t be in there anymore.”

  I shrug; “I don’t really do crowds either.”

  She smiles and turns, and walks over to the stone balcony on the edge of the terrace. I’m tongue tied; me, for the first time ever at a loss of what to say; “He was a great-”

  “I don’t really want to talk about my Father right now.”

  She turns, her hands behind her as she leans back on the balcony, looking perfectly broken and like the perfect fix all tossed into one beautiful package. She smiles at me and bites her lip in this sexy, innocent way as she slowly raises one of her hands from behind her and starts to beckon me with one finger.

  No. Stop. Stop it.

  But I’m ignoring that voice inside my head as I walk in slow motion towards her. It’s like I’m walking underwater, in a dream, as I put one foot in front of the other, and before I know it I’m standing right in front of her. Her eyes are huge, and blue, and looking up at me with such sadness and such determination, and I can smell the lavender of her shampoo in her hair, and before the world can move another inch across it’s starry path, I’m kissing her. It’s fire, and passion, and it’s everything I’ve ever imagined kissing someone who matters feels like, and it’s like my whole life gets hit with a reset button; like I know after this I can start clean.

  She moans into my mouth, the sound both soft and completely sexy at the same time, and I find myself growling as I push myself against her. Her hands are at my neck, pulling at my tie and unbuttoning my shirt, and my hand is sliding over her thigh. I’m pushing her dress higher, feeling her shiver and whimper into me as my hand trails up until I feel lace, and heat, and-

  Protect them.

  The words hit me like slap across the face. Fuck; I can’t do this. I want to do this with every single fiber of everything I am, but what the fuck am I doing?

  I pull away from her; “Wait, hang on,” She’s leaning forward to kiss me again and I draw back further; “Reagan, hold on.”

  “What?” She’s looking at me like she messed up; like it’s her that’s doing something wrong, and that look just kills me.

  “I-” What, tell her I can’t do this? Tell her it is her? Yeah, no, fuck that; I’m not doing that to her. “I- I just need to go get something for a sec.”

  She gives me a strange, nervous look as she bites her lip; “Oh-”

  Ah, shit, she thinks-

  “Ok, there might be one in my sister’s room, in the bedside table.” She looks so shy, so innocent, and so on the verge of breaking, and it’s giving me the fuel I need to walk away. I can’t let her get into me; can’t let her touch the wreck I am inside. Reset button? How fucking delusional am I? I’m broken, and in the way that can’t be fixed.

  “I’ll uh, I’ll see you soon.”

  And then I’m walking away; walking away from the one girl in the world I can’t get out of my head and regretting it and hating every step I take as I let the terrace and her and the memory of that one perfect moment in time slip away behind me.

  P R E S E N T

  There’s something dreamlike about being back in the Old Man’s house in Greenwich, and I feel like I’m half-asleep as I wander through it. The strongest thing is, I’ve only ever been here a handful of times, but every single one sticks out like a dog-eared bookmark along the pages of my past. The kitchen has the lingering memories of swapping stories of trauma and horror with William over mushroom pizza; like our own fucked up little PTSD support group. There’s the guest-room upstairs, where he and I sat by day and night with Bryce for seven fucking days in a row while he detoxed off the junk; screaming his demons out at the ceiling while we held him down and kept him hydrated. I can remember parking myself in the library and reading every damn book the Old Man had on power and management and business when he set me up within Archer.

  And then of course, there’s the garden out back where I first met Reagan, and really, that’s the weirdest part. It’s not just that I haven’t been back here since William died, it’s that the last time I was here was when I kissed her.

  “Remind me again why we picked this place for the media Q&A?” I grin as I hear her walk up behind me where I’m staring off across the back gardens like a weirdo. It’s basically the first time she’s spoken to me since our little stupid blow-up yesterday, and I can tell she’s just as weirded out by being back at her Father’s place as I am which gives me a strange comfort. We both have our own ghosts about this place, but I can’t help but wonder if she’s thinking about that last time we were both here too.

  “One guess, but I’ll give you a hint; it starts with a ‘D’ and ends with ‘onald’.”

  She snorts, and as I turn to her, I see her look up at me like she’s about to say something.

  “Reagan! We’re live in two damn minutes!”

  Goddamnit, Donald.

  Reagan rolls her eyes and shakes her head, and with one last flickering look at me, she’s following her campaign manager back through the house to the front steps where they’re holding the press conference.

  I’m anxious and restless; subtly shifting my weight from foot to foot, tensing my muscles, and generally feeling too warm under my dress-shirt. I start to roll the sleeves up too before Donald gives me the evil eye and mutters something about “not testing well with target demographics” as he scowls at my tattoos, so I leave them be with a scowl right back at him.

  My nervousness of course has nothing to with Reagan talking to the media. No, fuck that, she’s flawless up there, looking every bit the political powerhouse behind the podium. Her answers are effortless, she’s direct and yet light, and she makes them laugh without even trying to play the comedian. No, what I’m fidgeting about is how I’m going to apologize to her about yesterday when we’re done here. There’s a nervous, rumbling energy inside of me that tum
bles under the surface; the kind I usually only get when I’m strapping on my gloves for what I know is going to be a long, rough session with the bag, or when I think too long about the past. I want to tell her everything - all of it - and that quite honestly scares the shit out of me.

  I’m walking towards her with a grin on my face, ready to pull her away from all of this and just lay it all out, when mother-fucking Chet swoops out of nowhere with Donald tailing behind him like a puppy dog. And then it’s just a repeat of the previous day, where I’m gritting my teeth and trying to keep my cool while this asshole cracks stupid jokes and mugs for the cameras next to Reagan, using every ounce of my willpower to try and ignore the fact that he keeps touching her on the arm.

  And really, it’s not even Chet; it’s the thought of any guy putting their hands on her that makes me rage inside. The thought makes my fists clench up and brings me right back to where I was, drunk and fucked up in whatever shit-hole third world slum we were in at the time back then. I can’t help but think of my hands on her; my hands running down her sides, feeling the curve of her hips and the heat between her legs.

  Fuck, I mean I was so close to everything one time, and not just the prospect of fucking her, but I mean everything. That last time we were both here, I know it was something more and something deeper than just the idea of banging a chick. It was fucking way more than that, which is why five Goddamn years later I still can’t get it out of my head and still can’t get her out from under my skin. I think I even knew back then that when I kissed her for that first time, I was just done. With her, there was light, and peace, and finally a fucking silence to the blaring of my memories that scream through my head. I was so fucking close to knowing her, and letting her in before I ruined it.

  I realize I’ve been zoning out again as I hear Chet’s horrible little weasel laugh.

  “So I say, that’s how you putt a par-three, baby!” Donald erupts in laughter right along with him, and even Reagan is humoring him with a smile; the kind of smile I’ve barely seen tossed my way in days.

  “Am I right, Hudson?” Chet winks at me; “Yeah this guy knows what I’m talking about!”

  I have no fucking idea in the world what he’s talking about.

  “Hey so Hudson, remind me what it is you do over at Archer Holdings? You were a fighter pilot or something, right? Currahee!” Chet pumps his fist in the air like he’s at a football game or something.

  Seriously, punching this asshole in the face right here and right now would be an act of mercy.

  “I was a Marine, actually. And Currahee is the 101st Airborne; Army.”

  Reagan gives me a look, and I begrudgingly plaster a nicer, totally disingenuous look on my face; “I make sure the money flows in the right direction at Archer and just pretty much fix problems.”

  Chet grins and elbow’s me in the arm like we’re buddies; “Fix things, huh? So, you think you can fix this girl’s phone so she can call me back sometime?” Chet laughs hysterically at his own joke, with Donald right there with him clapping him on the back.

  No, but I can fix how fucking straight your teeth are in about five seconds, dickwad.

  But Reagan is laughing too, even though I know she can’t stand this clown either. She’s touching his arm and leaning into him, and I wince as a photographer flashes a quick shot of the two of them like that which I’m sure will end up on some stupid blog somewhere involving “romance on the campaign trail” or some other bullshit that Donald and Erika cook up.

  I want to hate all of this; all the fucking pageantry and the concocted narratives, and I definitely want to hate Reagan having her picture taken with this fucking guy. But deep down, I get it. I look around at the college volunteers clearing chairs from the front lawn; I see the campaign posters with her face on them, and the boxes of buttons and t-shirts with her name emblazoned across them, and I get it. Chet’s obnoxious, and vanilla, and a total talking head, but he fits the part. This is who she should be with, I think darkly to myself; not some fucked up broken toy soldier like me, with all the shit I’m still carrying around on my shoulders. This girl is fucking incredible, but her being with a guy like this just makes sense, and I’m fucking delusional to think otherwise.

  She laughs again at something stupid he says - the sound so perfect and so pure and good - and I can’t; I’m just done.

  I’m barely aware of Donald asking me where I’m going as I just walk away; away from the lights and the camera and Reagan and Chet.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Reagan

  P A S T

  I’m still trying to breath; still trying to get my racing heart to calm down enough for it to drop out of my throat and back into my chest where it belongs, even five minutes after he went back inside. I just kissed Hudson; I mean, holy shit. And not just any old “kiss” either; not some chaste princess-movie kiss, but a searing-hot, gravity-defying kiss that still has me grinning like an idiot and trying to feel the floor beneath my feet. Or did he kiss me? Does it matter? Does anything else in the world matter right now after that?

  Ten minutes after, I’ve calmed myself a little more, but I’m biting my lip nervously as I start to wonder about what comes next. I mean am I really going to do this with him? I mean it’s not like I’m a virgin or anything; well, not technically at least. That dubious technicality involves a spectacularly brief encounter with my date to senior prom. But this is Hudson we’re talking about; Hudson with the dangerously charming smile, Hudson with the practically legendary history of women trailing after him. I’ve been drinking, but I’m hardly drunk anymore; maybe from that kiss, but not from wine. But I’m worried now that there was a boldness and a confidence in me that I’m not used to when I pretty much dragged him up here, and now I’m starting to wonder how much longer that boldness is going to last me without his lips on mine.

  Fifteen minutes after he went inside, I decide I can’t just stand here out on the terrace tapping my feet, so I find myself walking back into the house. He’s not in Quinn’s room, not where I told him to look for condoms, and he’s not in mine, where I’m secretly hoping to find him waiting for me. Walking back downstairs is like slowly re-immersing myself into reality, as the shadowy murmuring sounds of family and mourners sucks me back into the now. I’m scanning the room for him, thinking maybe he got drawn back down for some sort of emergency or to help someone, but I’m still not seeing him.

  His back is to me, and he’s standing with a bunch of other suits in corner of the foyer, and I’m about to go up and tap him on the shoulder when I hear it, and the floor just drops out from under me; “..A girl like that is just another place to get your dick wet.”

  It’s his voice; the same man who just kissed me with a passion I never knew existed in the world, and who told me he’d be right back is now telling a bunch of his buddies that he fucked me. I’m backing away slowly, realizing that the pain inside my chest is the feeling of my heart just breaking.

  “Reagan, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  I turn quickly to the woman I’ve never met before who probably worked for my father - someone else who probably knew him better than I did - and nod quickly; “Uh, thanks.”

  “He was a great man.” She looks at me plaintively, shaking her head and pursing her lips.

  “M-hmm.” When I look back, he’s gone, and I can feel the shattered pieces inside of me tumbling to the floor. I turn back to the women talking to me about my father, and it’s then that I see him. It’s right then, surrounded by the mourners and shadows and memories of my father, that I see the Hudson Banks - the man that just broke my heart - shuffling out the front door with the pretty blonde girl hanging off his arm and giggling at something he’s saying. He’s nodding quickly at the valet out front and helping the drunk-looking bimbo into the passenger seat of his car before he turns quickly, his eyes darting over the crowd quickly as if trying to make sure he’d not caught making this escape like this. He doesn’t see me - which is good because if we’d locked
eyes in that moment, I’d have broken entirely - before he takes a quick breath, his face looking dark, and slides into the car. And then he’s roaring away, dust kicking up behind the car with the screaming giggle of her voice trailing out the window.

  And then he’s gone.

  There’s a sting; something piercing deep inside that threatens to take me to my knees right here as I realize what a complete fool I’ve been. And in that moment, I’m not even sure I’m mad at him; I’m mad at myself. I’m mad at being the silly little stupid girl I never wanted to be. I’m mad at letting my convictions and my armor and my sensibilities drop for just a second; only realizing now that it was just enough to get hurt.

  The tears start to come then, and another person I don’t know is hugging me and telling me how it’s all going to be ok. And with this stranger’s arms around me, I realize how awful I am that I’m standing there shedding tears over some bullshit crush on some bullshit shadow of a man named Hudson instead of my father, who I should be crying over.

  And then I’m tearing away and pushing my through the crowd, back up the stairs, past the Goddamn library and the terrace, and down to my room. I’m under the covers, my face pressed tight to my pillow as I sob; for my father, for me, for the pain of growing up and the bitterness of life.

  P R E S E N T

  “Hudson!” I’m stomping up the staircase to the second floor, chasing him as he storms down the hallway

  “Goddamnit, Hudson where-”

  “Go back, Reagan.” He’s in the upstairs library, pushing open the double doors to the terrace where that kiss happened all those years before; back to the scene of the crime. I tense myself and tighten my jaw as I stand staring at the double doors across the room where he’s just gone through, feeling the licking tendrils of the shivering cold teasing through the crack where he’s left them not quite closed. I storm across the room, fling them open and step out into the chilly night; determined to corner him here.