Molly Miranda: Thief for Hire (Book 1) Action Adventure Comedy

by Jillianne Hamilton

  One of the few people who asked me about this was Nathan Bryant, who evidently bought my story because he moved in with me shortly after. That was six months ago.

  I let myself in as quietly as I could but my sneakers squeaked on the wood floor. I left my suitcase in the hall, slipped off my shoes and crept to Nate’s open doorway. It was the middle of the night and he was asleep at his desk, snoring softly. His arms were folded under his head, resting on a stack of drawings. The desk lamp’s glow shone at the back of his neck. He was still wearing his glasses. A blue colored pencil lay beside his elbow on the desk.

  He continued to slumber as I stepped toward him. I picked up a discarded sketch from the floor and smoothed out the creases. The drawing depicted a slender woman in a classic superhero cat suit, a blue cape billowing around her, her full lips curled into a coy smile with one blue eye covered by side-swept bangs. Wind whipped back her pixie cut-style hair, and her tiny nose was dotted with freckles.

  Freckles?

  Nate snorted and jerked his head up. He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes.

  “Hi, Molly.” He yawned. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Not long.” I flipped the drawing around. “Is this me?”

  “That depends. Do you like it?”

  “Her boobs are a lot bigger than mine.”

  “Well, you know how female comic book superheroes are.” He smiled shyly.

  Oh, that smile. It will ruin me.

  “Can I have this?”

  “Sure.” He stretched. “What time is it?”

  “Around midnight. You should probably just go to bed.” I turned to leave his room.

  “How was Vermont?”

  I stared at him for a second.

  Vermont. Right. Because I told him I was going to visit my parents.

  “It was fine. Go to bed.”

  Nate set his glasses on his nightstand and started unbuttoning his cotton flannel shirt. He had the most beautiful, perfect collarbone. A tuft of chest hair peeked over the top of his T-shirt. His facial hair grew in thick overnight. He looked nice with facial hair. Really nice, in fact.

  He raised his eyebrows at me. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m just tired. Good night.”

  Also, you are a beautiful, beautiful man and we should cuddle aggressively.

  I fled to my bedroom before he could catch me staring at him some more. I stripped off my jeans, T-shirt and bra and flung my clothes behind me, almost hitting the framed photo of Mom, my sister and I on my bookshelf. I crawled into my unmade king-size bed. If you’re going to get a good quality bed and you have the space, you might as well sleep on a king and pile it high with pillows from Barneys and the softest, most expensive bedding Saks Fifth Avenue has to offer. Obviously.

  I stared at the bare walls and high ceiling, physically exhausted but wide awake at the same time.

  I had been hoping to avoid Nate. And, therefore, avoid awkwardness.

  That could have gone worse.

  The last interaction we’d had before I took off for the United Kingdom (not Vermont) involved drinking wine, laughing, talking, sharing, making out and falling asleep together on the sofa.

  After living in this spacious, beautiful and well-maintained apartment for a year, I had considered getting a cat. Maybe two or five. But I’m not home often enough to keep a pet, and there’s only so many conversations you can have with yourself before you think, I should probably just get a roommate.

  My best friend Ruby mentioned her cousin was looking for a place to live and I tailed him for a few days. I learned about Nate’s work, hobbies, personality, criminal record and all the important stuff one needs to know when choosing a roommate.

  Yes, I know most people don’t stalk their potential roommates but I wanted to make sure he wasn’t some sort of creep. Although one could argue stalking Nate makes me a bit of a creep.

  Before I met with Nate to officially interview him and show him the apartment, I thought he was attractive but I didn’t expect feelings to just show up.

  Inviting Nate to live with me was a stupid, stupid mistake. He was just a friend and that was all he could ever be. My life was too complicated for a live-in friend with benefits and always would be.

  But I ached to go back to his room, crawl into bed with him and snuggle in close.

  You can’t always get what you want. I think Mick Jagger said that. Or maybe it was Steven Tyler.

  * * *

  I dreamt my phone was ringing but I couldn’t reach it. I was standing in the middle of a busy street in London, forcing traffic to stop for me while I rummaged frantically in my Chanel handbag, which was weird since I didn’t actually own a Chanel handbag.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t find it!” I yelled at the driver of a black cab as he honked at me.

  I finally woke up. My phone was ringing for real. I blinked, trying to remember what continent I was on this morning.

  I felt around my comforter and found my phone under the pillow. I squinted at the screen, trying to focus my stinging, weary eyes. It was Audrey.

  “Good morning,” I mumbled.

  “You haven’t responded to my email yet.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I emailed you two hours ago,” she said. I looked at my watch. It was almost ten. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

  Her tone swam in a pool of sarcasm. She was not apologizing for anything.

  “I just got home a few hours ago. Can’t you just tell me what the damn email said?”

  Audrey clucked her tongue. “Tsk, tsk. Do I sense ungratefulness in your voice? I do have others I can go to but I figured you’d want this one.”

  I paused. She was dangling a tasty treat in front of me, knowing I would jump for it. I hated this game.

  “Is this the thing you mentioned yesterday in the email?”

  Audrey sighed. “No, this is something a little bigger. I have a new client—an art enthusiast.”

  I nodded. I’d done several art thefts in the past, especially since switching my focus to United Kingdom assignments. I guess people in North America just don’t value art as much as they do ‘cross the pond. Usually it’s the weirdest paintings. I was once paid a hundred grand to steal a painting called The Void. It wasn’t a huge canvas—maybe two by two feet—and it was nothing more than a big black square.

  Yes, that’s right. One hundred thousand bucks for stealing and delivering artwork I could have painted and framed myself for about $15. This job is truly bizarre sometimes.

  “My client and her husband divorced a few months ago,” Audrey said. “He kept several paintings they commissioned together when they were married. My client would like two specific paintings acquired from his estate.”

  For those of you just tuning in, “acquired” is Thief Speak for “stolen.”

  “Do we know how large these paintings are and what kind of security his estate has?” I was wide awake now, sitting up in bed and fully alert. Sometimes getting a call from Audrey is better than coffee.

  “I’ll email you all the details later today but it looks like one medium and one large canvas. His security looks to be limited to cameras. I’ll let you scope out the ex-husband and his home for a few days beforehand.”

  Inside my head, I was laughing. Educated, well-spoken British women sound ridiculous when they are discussing a felony.

  “How much am I getting paid? In American dollars, if you please.”

  “About five hundred thousand each.”

  I nodded, smiling wide at my bedroom ceiling.

  One million doll—

  “For each of you, rather.”

  Smile gone.

  “Pardon?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Betty. You only have two hands. You cannot retrieve two paintings by yourself. What are you going to do, make two trips?”

  I pouted. I felt like screeching, “This is so unfair!” into the phone but I needed to sound like a mature, responsible and capable
burglar.

  I knew Audrey well enough to know she might just give the job to someone else, and I wasn’t stupid enough to let pride get in the way of half a million dollars.

  I closed my eyes. “So who, pray tell, will I be working with?”

  “Does that matter?”

  “Absolutely!” I said. “I’d rather not go to prison because I’m stuck with an amateur who fucks up and gets us caught.”

  I pictured Audrey sitting at a minimalist-style desk in a modern and immaculate office, staring into her phone with a look of disgust at my use of the F-bomb.

  “Oh, Betty, don’t flatter yourself,” she said quickly, almost under her breath. “Some might say the same thing about working with you.”

  Touché.

  “Alright,” she continued. “Your flight to Aberdeen is in two weeks.”

  I bit my lip and didn’t say anything.

  Audrey sighed again. The woman was a factory for exasperated sighs.

  “Aberdeen is in Scotland.”

  I snickered. “I knew that.”

  I did not know that.

  “The estate is an hour outside the city. I’ll arrange for a car and lodging for you and your partner. He’ll be taking the lead on this one because he has more experience and knows the area. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Taking the lead?” I blurted. “Um, no—and you hung up on me. Awesome.”

  What a warm, personable individual she is.

  I’d only been to Scotland once before, on one of my first jobs working with Audrey. She’d sent me to Glasgow to steal a signed football—or soccer ball, as I found out later—from a guy’s personal collection. It wasn’t a high-paying job and it rained the whole time I was there. But at least I got to work alone on that assignment.

  It hadn’t gone so well when I worked with a partner once before. I don’t even remember her name. She mostly just followed me into a guy’s house while I did all the work. She couldn’t pick the lock and she couldn’t hack into the security system. In the middle of the job, her goddamn phone rang. And she answered it.

  “Heyyyyy youuuu!” she squealed into her phone.

  My jaw dropped and I prepared to bolt. She saw me staring at her and held her hand over the receiver.

  “Do you mind?” she hissed.

  I went on with cracking a safe—oh yeah, something else she didn’t know how to do. On the way out, she was thiiiis close to knocking over a marble bust. She was responding to a text instead of watching where she was going.

  I told Paul, my former employer, about her lack of professionalism the next day when I gave him the documents we were sent in to retrieve. I slid them across his desk and folded my arms over my chest.

  “She didn’t do anything but slow me down. I could’ve done that job on my own. It was a basic assignment. In fact, I did do everything myself! Why the hell did you send her in with me?”

  Paul shrugged and reached for the document. I slapped my hand down on it.

  “Seriously. It won’t happen again. Or I’m done.”

  He didn’t try it again. Instead, he introduced me to Audrey, and soon after I was occasionally working for her on a trial basis. Eventually, she trusted me enough to hire me a few times a month. I didn’t need Paul anymore.

  I had the place to myself so I pulled on an oversized T-shirt and went hunting for Froot Loops in the kitchen. I stared out the big window in the living room, chewing lazily. Taxis on the street below looked miniature as they crept along together in a herd. I could see the tops of trees in Central Park. People on the sidewalk looked like ants, scurrying around down there. A view like this made me feel like a queen.

  “You’re not wearing pants.”

  I jumped and my cereal bowl and its contents flew into the air. Cold milk splashed onto my bare feet. I whipped my hands in front of my underwear.

  Nate laughed his head off.

  “You scared the shit out of me!” I yelled as I scurried down the hall to my room. I grabbed some PJ pants. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  “I don’t go in until three,” he said.

  When I came out—this time not half-naked—Nate was already cleaning up the mess from my cereal with paper towel.

  “Sorry about that.” He smiled up at me.

  I shrugged. “It’s okay. I probably shouldn’t be walking around in my underwear anyway.”

  “No, no. You wear whatever you want.” He stood up.

  I rinsed the bowl out in the sink and avoided eye contact. It was difficult since he was looking directly at me, still smiling.

  “So, what did you do in Vermont?”

  “Mom and Joe just got Netflix so we watched some movies.” I leaned against the counter. “Ya know. We just kinda … hung out.”

  Liar, liar. PJ pants on fire.

  Nate was already dressed in dark jeans and a faded blue tee, he had shaved and his chocolate brown hair was neatly styled. I suddenly felt a little silly in my SpongeBob SquarePants PJ pants.

  “What did you get up to here while I was gone?”

  “I had the day off so I went to Connecticut to visit my grandmother. She keeps suggesting I just quit my job and try to make the comic artist thing work.” He laughed. “She has no idea how much this city costs.”

  Nate’s day job was waiting tables at a super fancy restaurant in Midtown. Like many creatives in this city, he fantasized of one day leaving that job to pursue his dream job full-time. In Nate’s case, this involved drawing and writing comic books. The rich older ladies who dined at the restaurant loved him and tipped him well—so well that leaving would mean a major loss of income. More than once, he said he thought he might be stuck waiting tables forever.

  Nate glanced at the bowl in the sink. “Why don’t I make us an early lunch? I destroyed your breakfast, after all.”

  “It was cereal. It’s really not a big deal.”

  “No, really. I was thinking of making eggs anyway.” He playfully waved me out of the kitchen. “Come back in twenty minutes.”

  After a delicious lunch of omelet, toast and orange juice, I sat back in my chair and wiped my mouth on a napkin. I didn’t even know we had napkins.

  I really should learn to cook. Or at least stop depending on delivered pizza and Chinese food so often.

  “That was yummy. Thank you.”

  “So… That thing that happened…” Nate looked at me from behind his coffee mug and took a sip.

  I raised my eyebrows at him.

  “Are we just going to pretend nothing is going on?”

  He knows. Nate knows what I do for a living. He knows I was in England stealing that ribbon. Shiiiit.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know what to say. It’s complicated.”

  My throat suddenly felt dry. My right hand started to shake so I whipped it under the table, out of sight.

  Nate smiled. “It doesn’t have to be.”

  The hell…?

  I frowned. “Wait, what are you talking about?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I asked you first.”

  Nate shifted his gaze to his empty plate. “I’m talking about what happened the other night. On the couch.”

  “Oh!” I burst out laughing, relieved. I stopped and cleared my throat. “Yeah, that’s what I meant, too. Of course.”

  “Okaaaaay… Are we going to talk about it?”

  I picked up the empty plates and took them to the sink. “If you want to.”

  He didn’t say anything so I tried to go first.

  “Uh, well, you and I … um…” I giggled awkwardly.

  Say something, you idiot.

  He took my hand and stood closer to me.

  He smells like nature. How is that even possible?

  “This is really hard to talk about,” I whispered.

  “I know. It’s okay.”

  Screw it. It’s go time.

  I grabbed the front of his shirt and brought his lips to mine—a little harder than I meant to. Our teeth
knocked together.

  “Oh, my god, I am so sorry!” I yelled, rubbing my mouth.

  “That kinda hurt,” he said, laughing.

  He smiled and touched my cheek. And then we attacked each other like two drunk teenagers on prom night.

  I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him again. The dining room chair he was sitting on got knocked over on its side. I somehow got my legs wrapped around his waist and he carried me to the sofa. Nate’s hands moved up my torso. I struggled to get my T-shirt off as I straddled his lap.

  Stupid sleeves, why are you so difficult sometimes?

  I couldn’t stop myself. I went for it. What can I say? I’ve always been kind of a go-getter—just not usually in the sexy sex time way.

  “Are you on the pill?” he whispered between kisses to my neck.

  My eyes flashed open. “No. Uh, it makes me cry sometimes so I went off it.”

  Actually, I constantly forgot to take it at the right time because I switch time zones on a regular basis.

  I swallowed. “Do you, um, have condoms?” I whispered the last word. Why do sexy times become so unsexy when protection is brought up?

  Nate kissed me hard on the lips and said, “Mmm-hmm.”

  I clawed at his T-shirt and pulled it over his head, tossing it aside.

  “I’ve wanted this for so long,” Nate whispered, lowering me down onto my back.

  “Me too.” I smiled up at him.

  He struggled to get his pants off, tripped over a pant leg and landed on me, elbow first. Right into my stomach.

  I yelped in pain and then laughed as he apologized eight times in a row.

  I pointed down the hall. “Maybe we should just go—”

  He grabbed my hand and led me to his bedroom.

  I wish I could say the sex wasn’t awkward. Nate got a leg cramp partway through but recovered quickly, thankfully. I dug my fingernails into his shoulders a little too hard. I banged the back of my head on his night table and there was a lot of sweat and he still had his socks on and my bra was, like, half off. It just wasn’t how I’d imagined it.