A Capital Mistake

by Kennedy Cross

  Out of the corner of my eye I notice Antonio nearing our table again, which is oddly comforting. He’s been a tremendous server. This entire restaurant is suited for guests with an income that’s several tiers above my own, but Antonio is as personable as they come.

  “Your man, where did he go?” he asks me.

  I humor him with a laugh. “He’s in the restroom.”

  Antonio smiles. “Shall we surprise him with another bottle?” His eyebrows do a little dance.

  “Ha, I better not,” I say before really considering it. That was expensive wine, but that’s not what makes me decline the offer.

  “Some dessert, perhaps?” Antonio asks.

  The menu is folded open in front of me, but I haven’t looked at it since Noah left. And with my gut churning, dessert doesn’t sound all that appealing anymore.

  “I think we’re okay, thank you though.” I hand over the menu. “In fact, you can probably bring the bill.”

  Whether Antonio picks up on my pessimism or not, he doesn’t let it detract from his charm. He assures me he’ll be right back. And as he turns, Noah emerges from around the corner. His face softens into a smile when he finds my gaze and I feel my stomach lurch. I can’t help it and I definitely can’t ignore it.

  “I’m glad to see you didn’t rush out on me again,” he says as he takes his seat. “I was getting a little worried back there.”

  “Still here,” I say with forced enthusiasm. “Everything okay?”

  Something flashes across his dark green eyes, though I can’t tell if it’s in response to my question.

  “Yeah, just a call from work,” he says in a sigh. “I feel bad that it interrupted us, though. I’m really sorry.”

  “Not a problem,” I say. It’s time for me to chill out. If anyone should understand work emergencies, it’s me. The number of times I’ve interrupted something to respond to a murder scene is appalling. I have a habit of allowing my work to reach me whenever and wherever I am. So I have no room to judge.

  For the first time I realize that I don’t even know what Noah does for work. And I guess he hasn’t asked me either, but I’ve been so busy talking about myself all night that it hasn’t even occurred to me.

  “Although,” I add, “I don’t know if I ever asked what it is you do for work? You’ve had me talking about myself so much.” It takes a concerted effort to sound casual and not suspicious.

  “Nothing wrong with that.” He smiles. “Besides, I don’t have a very exciting answer for you. I run a gallery.”

  “A gallery? Like for art?”

  Noah’s laugh makes me realize how bluntly surprised I sounded. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound rude. That’s just… not what I would’ve guessed.”

  He shrugs. “I don’t blame you. But yup, I run a gallery. For art.” He smirks at me. “Photography, actually.”

  I’m almost at a total loss for words, and I don’t really know why. Maybe because Noah has a sculpted physique, knocked out a dude twice his size, and came dressed in a silk dress shirt instead of a turtleneck.

  Though I suppose I can see it. I knew he was more sophisticated than he let on.

  “That’s really cool,” I finally say. “Where is it at?”

  “Downtown. A few blocks from the water.”

  “Oh wow, what a great piece of real estate. I’m sure I’ve seen it, I love that area.”

  “Eh, maybe,” he says. “It’s still only a year or so old.”

  “Well I’ll have to stop by! Is photography your passion or is the gallery just something you manage?”

  “No, I love it. It’s—” Noah falters as Antonio delivers the bill. “Hold up, I think we’re going to grab some dessert.”

  Antonio spins around. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. Let me bring you another menu.”

  “That’s okay, Antonio,” I chime in. “I’m too full.”

  I’m avoiding Noah’s gaze, but I can feel it on me. Antonio’s eyes dart back and forth. “Are you sure?” he asks.

  I smile and nod at him. “Thank you anyway.”

  “Yes, thank you anyway,” Noah echoes. He’s still looking at me when Antonio leaves. “Was everything okay with your meal?” he asks.

  “It was great,” I say. And it was. My lobster ravioli was thick and zesty without being too rich. It was the perfect blend.

  “Good,” Noah says, but the dejected tone of his voice doesn’t go unnoticed. It’s like a pinch to my skin.

  Guilt washes over me as I watch him sign the bill. I’ve done it again.

  Noah has a guarded exterior, but once it cracks and gives way he overflows with humor and charisma. And for whatever reason, he’s cracked for me. And the more he opens up the more I’m drawn to every thing about him. Everything from his straight smile to his subtle mannerisms. There’s something utterly magnetic about him.

  And here I am, sitting in the nicest restaurant I’ve ever been in because Noah wanted to treat me to dinner. And I went and screwed it up. Per usual.

  Antonio is quick to collect the bill and return with the customer copy. “Thank you sincerely for dining with us tonight,” he says. “I hope you enjoyed your meal.”

  Noah and I thank Antonio, who bows his head and wishes us a pleasant evening. I push back in my chair and go to stand soon after he leaves. The feeling in my gut hasn’t subsided whatsoever, no matter how hard I try to bury it.

  Noah follows, reluctantly, and I can’t help but steal a glance at the amount he leaves as a tip. Which is enormous.

  I do my best to look relaxed as we wait for the chauffeur, but Noah’s demeanor suggests that I’m doing a poor job. He hasn’t gone silent, but he’s far from the captivating gentleman that led me into the restaurant. And there’s no doubt that I’m at fault, at least partially, but I can’t help but wonder if that phone call also dulled his mood.

  It may have been work related, but who uses an additional old flip phone just to manage a gallery?

  “Well?” Noah says once we’re back in his car. “How was your dinner?”

  “Incredible.”

  He chuckles. “Besides that. I want to know what you actually think.”

  “Sorry, I don’t think I have enough adjectives to describe it. I’ve never eaten anywhere remotely that nice before.”

  “Really?”

  “Never,” I repeat. “Thank you, honestly. That was really exquisite.”

  “You’re welcome, Soph.” He smiles at me and I’m tempted to set my hand on top of his, but I resist. It’s unfair of me to waver between buzz kill and flirtatious, and I’ve already made my decision. My gut is going to keep me from having the night with Noah that I’d hoped for.

  But I can’t take the risk.

  I don’t speak much more than to prevent the silence from engulfing us. And Noah seems to be doing the same. I know he’s picked up on my apprehension, but I’ve also given up trying to hide it.

  “What do you think about some dessert?” he asks before signaling to turn down my street. “We kind of missed out back there, but I’ve got a pretty impressive selection of my own.”

  “That’s okay.” My reply sounds more haste than I intended. “I’m really stuffed,” I add as if to soften the blow.

  “Are you sure? I only live about a few more minutes up the road.”

  This time I refrain from answering too quickly, and I can feel his Audi gradually slowing as I hesitate.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry,” I finally say. My chest tightens and my toes clench in my heels. I should quit while I can, but the guilt is aching me. “I hope you know it’s not you.” I hate the words as they leave my lips, but I turn to look at him all the same. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

  I sound pathetic, I know I do, but there’s nothing I can say to explain myself.

  “It’s okay,” he says in a voice stiff with disappointment. The next thirty seconds pass in silence until finally we stop outside my door.

  The feeling hasn’t left my gut, but there’s also a warm energy in my bel
ly. There’s nothing I want more than to reach behind his neck and pull his lips to mine while I clench his thick hair in my fists.

  Noah turns and grins politely at me. The weight of his eyes has me anchored in place. I’ve already ruined enough—he deserves this.

  We both do.

  I close my eyes and lean forward. My body floods with exhilaration when I feel the soft pressure of his lips against mine.

  I can smell his cologne in the air between us. His hand rests on my thigh and I grasp his neck, my fingers drifting down until they catch on his collar. I pinch it in my hand and linger between his lips.

  Then, without thinking, I pull myself away and step out of the car.

  There’s a chill in the night air and his car remains idled as I walk toward my house, but I can’t bring myself to look back, even as I step inside.

  Chapter Ten

  Noah

  I slam the door behind me. The bang reverberates off the wall and I throw off my coat as I walk through the dark into the kitchen. I flip on the light and drop onto a stool.

  What the hell just happened?

  The fire in my stomach surges into my chest.

  Cliff’s phone call is what happened. It changed everything.

  We were having a great time until my phone rang. What terrific fucking timing. Those conversations require overly protective discretion, and she sensed it immediately.

  It wasn’t an option to answer there at the table, but I should’ve ignored it. He would’ve hated it, but now he’s pissed off anyway. At least Sophia and I could’ve finished our night.

  But fuck it. She had no idea why he was calling and still got weirded-out anyway.

  And she couldn’t have known. Right?

  No—there’s no way.

  But it doesn’t matter. I’m done with her. I hate admitting it, but I’m done. That was a waste of time. It shouldn’t have been—I’ve never met someone like her. But the tides changed and there’s no reversing them now.

  God dammit. Congratulations, Cliff. With that call, you derailed my whole night you impatient son of a bitch.

  I select his number and leave it on speaker while I pour myself a gin and tonic. It rings over and over.

  Neither of our burn phones are programmed with a voicemail so it’ll continue ringing until he picks up, but God forbid I was to ever do the same. I’d never hear the end of that.

  Finally the ring is cut by a thick voice on the other end. “What?”

  “What do you mean, what?” I say, bringing my drink over to the phone. I pull out a stool and take a seat at the island. “I told you I’d call back.”

  “Yeah, and it’s about damn time. I don’t appreciate you takin’ your sweet time and infringing on my evening.”

  “You interrupted me. I said I was busy, and now I’m not. So what do you want?”

  “Speakin’ of,” Cliff begins, his southern accent like sticky syrup on his tongue. “I was gon’ ask what it was that had you so busy tonight anyway?”

  “It’s none of your business. Now are you going to tell me what you want? Cause I’m about to hang up and go to bed.”

  “Lighten that tone, son. I been more than patient with you tonight.”

  I take my time with a long swig from my glass. “Cliff, what are you calling about?”

  “If you wasn’t so busy you’d already know. But since you had better things to do, I went ahead and called your partner.” His words come out lazily. Cliff is a public figure, but in private he allows his tone to slip back into its rural foundation. “You two have some talkin’ to do,” he says. “I told Owen you’d meet him tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? Are you fucking serious? We just hit a job last week.”

  “Yeah, and I arranged a new one. Independence Bank,” he says. “It’s just a few miles from the Marvel County border.”

  “Indepen—No. Cliff, no. It’s too fucking soon.”

  “Your partner had a different opinion.”

  “I don’t care.” That fact that Owen already agreed doesn’t faze me at all. There’s no way in hell he’d argue with Cliff. “I’m putting my foot down on this. It’s too fucking soon. We need at least a few weeks.”

  “A few weeks for what?” His southern drawl turns sharp. “I’m the one that’s makin’ this work. Don’t you talk to me bout no too soon. If I say we’re hittin’ a new spot then we’re hittin’ a new goddam spot.”

  “The Feds are on our ass.”

  “Those boys are all foam and no beer,” he says. “They’re a bunch of suit wearin’ dogs that bark left every time they should look right, they ain’t on to nothin’.”

  I snort a fake laugh. “Good, why don’t we let them bark a little more then. I’m not running another job this soon.”

  “You’re gon’ do whatever I say you’re gon’ to do. No questions asked. I don’ know what makes you think this is a debate. If you do what I tell you then I ensure your safety and we all get richer for it.”

  I pull my phone away from my ear and squeeze it in my fist. “You don’t have as much influence as you think you do. This is too risky.”

  “Well let me tell you a somethin’, my influence could just as easily ensure a world of hell for you, son. You understand that?”

  Instead of replying I sip from my gin and tonic.

  “I said you understand?” he thunders.

  “Yes, I understand, Cliff. I’m not deaf.”

  He grunts. “I didn’t think you was so opposed to makin’ money.”

  I almost hang up at that, but I think better of it. “I’m opposed to going to prison. I said it’s too soon, that’s all. And I swear to God, if this doesn’t—”

  “Oh hush, you sound like a child,” he says. “You ain’t goin’ to prison. Not if you do what I say.”

  “I’ll talk to Owen tomorrow.”

  “I think that’s a good idea.”

  I punch off the phone without so much as a goodbye. My glass is empty so I pour another with hardly any tonic and down it on my way to bed.

  I’m already waiting at the coffee shop when Owen arrives the next morning. Aside from my kitchen, it’s the only other spot we use to plan. Small, off the beaten track, family owned, and most importantly—never more than two other customers.

  Owen ducks as he steps through the doorframe. He’s wearing a plain t-shirt with ragged jeans. Our heists have been profitable for both of us, but Owen sinks most of his cut into his ’69 Mustang. Aesthetically, he looks no different from the first day I met him. No one would ever guess this guy has a few hundred-grand stashed in his bank account, and I’ve always liked that about him.

  “I guess Cliff got in touch with you last night,” he says after taking a seat.

  “Yup.”

  “Good, cause he called me asking where you were.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “Nothing.” Owen shrugs. “I didn’t know, so I just said you were probably at home.”

  I nod. There’s not one part of me that cares to revisit last night in the slightest.

  “We did talk for a while after that, though,” he adds. “I assume he told you about the next spot?”

  “Yeah, how do you feel about it?” I’m studying Owen’s eyes but there’s not much to discern.

  He just gives another shrug. So damn indifferent. “Seems easy,” he says. “Cliff said they don’t even staff full time security down there.”

  “No, Owen, I mean how do you feel about it. Not how Cliff told you to feel.”

  “Oh. I don’t know.” There’s a short beat of silence, but I wish it lasted longer. I wish he’d take a few fucking seconds to actually consider it. “I kind of just assumed you two had coordinated it,” he says. “I guess I didn’t really think too much about it.”

  Of course not. I nod again.

  His eyebrows pinch together. “Why? You not telling me something?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that.” I pause. “He’s just pissing me off.”

  “Cliff?”r />
  “Yes, Cliff,” I say. “I’m sick of his overbearing shit. Does he not infuriate the hell out of you?”

  “I don’t know man,” Owen says in a tone much lighter than mine. “I wouldn’t be doing this if you hadn’t brought me in.”

  That takes the words off my tongue.

  “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve got your back,” he continues. “I’m with you no matter what. But for the most part, I kind of just try to stay quiet and do what we need. It works best that way I think.”

  “I know. And I’m only doing this for my nephew, you know that. But sometimes—” I trail off and pause to collect my thoughts. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think about how much worse his situation would be if I went to jail. That’s not something I can risk.”

  “Hey, come on.” His voice has a new note of sincerity. “Fuck Cliff. Look at me, we’re not going to jail anytime soon. Neither of us.”

  “There’s only so much he can do, Owen. Only so much we can do, too.”

  “Don’t worry about the Feds man,” he says. “We’re smarter than those cocks.”

  I’m about to retort when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket.

  I tell myself that there’s no way in hell—but when I look down I’m staring at the name I never expected to see again.

  Sophia.

  “Is that Cliff?” Owen asks.

  “No, it’s nothing.” I met his gaze with my hand clamped around the phone in my pocket.

  What is this—an apology? Cause it’s a little too late for that. That opportunity came and went about fifteen different times last night.

  But whatever. I’m done with her.

  If she wants to play games then she can find some pushover somewhere else. I don’t have the time.

  I silence the vibration and press again to ignore the call.

  “You good?” Owen asks.

  “I’m fine. Let’s just get this over with. What’s left to plan?”

  “Actually, I think Cliff has most of it worked out already.” Owen removes a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Independence Bank in Kingstown. Off the highway, easy access. They’ve got a Brinks truck that restocks their registers every Wednesday.”