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

by Jillianne Hamilton

  “But I want to.”

  I let out a nervous breath and took his hand. He pulled me in close, his hand on my lower back. His nose and soft lips brushed my forehead. Visions of the other night kept popping into my head like distant memories I’d tried to forget. A mixture of happiness, excitement and fear rose up from my stomach.

  It wouldn’t surprise me if he heard my heart pounding.

  He tipped my chin up with his hand and kissed me lightly. His eyelashes tickled my skin. I looked up at him through my bangs and touched the front of his plaid shirt. He planted his hands on my hips and kissed me again, this time a bit harder and more determined. It felt so nice and effortless, like we’d kissed a thousand times before.

  This time we ended up in my bedroom. I pushed my mangled blankets and my suitcase onto the floor. We made out for quite a while, our legs entwined. One after another, articles of clothing were peeled away.

  This time around, it didn’t feel like a frantic, now-or-never race. My heart somehow managed to push away my thoughts of fear and doubt.

  But it couldn’t push away my stubborn bladder.

  I pulled my lips from Nate’s. “I’m so sorry. I have to pee.”

  I slipped into the bathroom quickly and did my business as fast as I could. I tapped my bare toes on the linoleum as I went. I fluffed my hair a bit and reapplied my lip gloss in the mirror. I skipped back down the hall and leaned against my bedroom doorframe, trying to be sexy.

  But Nate wasn’t even looking at me. He was looking at something in his hand.

  My passport.

  “Who’s Betty Bruce?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  If there is a lesson to be learned from any of this, it’s this one: unpack your goddamn suitcase as soon as possible. And don’t just push an open suitcase off your bed. Because it can ruin the mood big time.

  It also has the potential to ruin your life.

  I stared at Nate, my stomach turning. “What?” I said dumbly.

  I was still wearing a bra and underwear but I’ve never felt so exposed in my life.

  He didn’t come any closer. We just stood at opposite ends of the room, looking at each other.

  “Who is Betty Bruce? She looks exactly like you.” He held it up so I could see the (hideous) photo in the front cover. “Is Betty your real name?”

  Finally! Something I didn’t have to lie about.

  “No. My real name is Molly Miranda.”

  “Then tell me, who is this person?” He skimmed over the pages with his thumb. “This thing’s full of stamps. Do you have a twin who travels a lot or something?”

  Just say yes.

  “No.” I swallowed and exhaled slowly. “I don’t have a twin.”

  He flipped to the last page that was stamped. “The last stamps in here are from yesterday and Saturday.” He looked back at me, his eyes full of confusion and anger. The puzzle pieces were coming together in his head. “You didn’t go to Vermont, did you?”

  I felt sick. I opened my mouth to speak. Nothing came out. What could I possibly say?

  “Do you even have an Aunt Grace?”

  I looked at my feet. I was back to not being able to make eye contact.

  It wasn’t like I’d never lied to people before but lying to Nate felt … different.

  “Molly, would you just talk to me?” He looked at the most recent page of my passport again. “Heathrow? You were in Britain for three days?” He looked at a few other pages.

  I winced. “Could you keep your voice down?”

  He only got louder. “Why? Why do I have to keep my voice down? What’s going on?”

  “I was there for work.” I clenched my jaw and snatched the passport from his hand. “Just chill the fuck out, alright?”

  Nate glared at me and grabbed his jeans from the floor. “Is that all I get?”

  I pulled my T-shirt back on and glared right back at him. “There are things about me I can’t tell you. Why did you even look at this? This is none of your business.”

  “I like you, Molly, but I feel like I know nothing about you. I don’t even know your real name!”

  “It’s Molly,” I snapped. “I just said that.”

  “Then who the fuck is Betty?”

  Just say you have multiple personality disorder. There’s at least a ten percent chance he will believe that.

  “It’s me … as well.” I shook my head and crossed my arms over my chest.

  “But you can’t explain why you have two names.”

  I hesitated. “Right.”

  Nate found his shirt and stormed out of my room. I heard the front door shut a minute later, a little more forcefully than I’d have liked.

  I sat on the edge of my bed—formerly known as Molly’s Bed of Love—and threw my passport against the wall, an action much more dramatic with something bigger and harder than a booklet.

  My options were few, and none of them were ideal.

  1. Tell him the truth and risk him hating me.

  2. Tell him the truth and risk him hating me and going to the police.

  3. Make up an elaborate, twisted lie with far too many strange details. This will at least make me look like something better than a thief and he can continue to adore me without guilt.

  4. Take a flight to Florida, take on a new life and identity there and leave Nate and New York behind completely. I could find a different line of work, something less complicated. Maybe I could get a job playing a Disney princess at Disney World—it would be the perfect cover for someone like me. Maybe Cinderella.

  My phone buzzed. I grabbed it, hoping it might be a text from Nate.

  The number was a string of zeros. I rolled my eyes. There was only one person the text could be from: Rhys.

  00000000000: Hey sunshine. Still haven’t seen that money yet. You’ve got an hour. Please don’t consider not sending it to me. Ciao.

  I glared at the screen. I would not have been surprised if it cracked from the pressure. I didn’t want to deal with Rhys right now but I knew I probably didn’t have a choice.

  I wasn’t even sure if a text to a fake number would get to him, but I responded anyway.

  Molly: How do I know you won’t fuck me over, even if I do send it to you?

  A few seconds later, this flashed onto my screen.

  00000000000: I guess that’s just a chance you’ll have to take.

  I threw my phone onto the bed and stared at the wall. My throat tightened and my vision blurred as tears formed in my eyes.

  I have to do it. I have to send Rhys that money.

  I felt utterly and entirely defeated.

  If I told Nate the truth, there was a chance he himself would go to the police anyway. But if I didn’t send Rhys the money, then he most certainly would do something to put my life in jeopardy, and I wasn’t going to allow that to happen.

  But if I don’t send him the money and the FBI finds out who I am, I have the option of making a deal with them if I give them information on Rhys.

  I shook my head as soon as the thought appeared. I didn’t actually have any information on Rhys. That probably wasn’t even his real name anyway. I had nothing on him and nothing to offer the FBI.

  Besides, a British super-hacker is more of a CIA thing. Or would it be Homeland Security? I’m not even sure what the difference is.

  That reminds me—I haven’t watched the new season of Homeland yet.

  In hindsight, finishing college and getting a real job probably would have been a good move, and I could’ve avoided this whole mess.

  Yeah, right. Everyone coming out of college is finding a job right away. Hilarious!

  I went to my computer and logged into my bank account. (Isn’t online banking the best?) I stared at the screen, my finger hovering over the mouse button.

  Hold on. There’s still time to figure something out. He’s just bluffing. But if I do send it, it’s certainly not the end of the world. I have more money in the bank. I’ll be fine, just as long as Audrey comes throug
h with another assignment soon. Or I can get in touch with Paul. I’m sure he can set me up with something in the US.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and clicked. My whole body tensed up as I read the confirmation screen. In a single click, my bank account was drained of five hundred thousand dollars. Seconds later, my phone buzzed again.

  00000000000: Good girl.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Now, if you’re looking for something beautiful and fast, we’ve got the Mustang Convertible out there.” The guy at the car rental place pointed to the red car in the lot closest to the window. “She’s my favorite.”

  I gazed at it. She was certainly a pretty vehicle. I’m not the type of person who drools over cars. But the Mustang Convertible is not just a car and not just a way to get from point A to point B. This car made a statement. And that statement was “I’m fierce.”

  No need to waste money on a rental car that will stick out like a sore thumb. I need something to help me blend in.

  Beside it was a blue Toyota.

  “I’ll take the blue one,” I mumbled.

  It was the day after Nate had stormed out. I was also five hundred thousand dollars poorer, thanks to Rhys. Things weren’t going well.

  Once I got a coffee and was out of the city, I sped down the I-95. I’d made this journey a few times before.

  If I tell Nate the truth and he decides to turn me in, what then? Do I make a run for it? Do I go to prison, serve my time and become a useful member of society? I wonder how much time I would serve. Probably a lot. Although wouldn’t they need proof? And then there’s the whole thing with Rhys. He may not even know as much as he thinks he does. Or he could know everything—

  A nearby car blared its horn. I swerved a bit to the right so I wasn’t, like, in the middle of the highway.

  Maybe I should be focusing on the road and not the many ways my life is fucked right now.

  I stopped for the night in a crummy motel in South Carolina. The sketchy white trash desk attendant hitched up her bra strap as she gave me the once-over.

  “Are you travelin’ alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. That’ll be a hundred and sixty-three dollars. How will you be paying today?”

  You’re kidding me. This shithole is a hundred and sixty-three dollars?

  The room itself was just as bad as I thought. The air conditioner clunked and blew lukewarm air into the muggy room. The mini fridge was moldy inside and the TV looked like it was from the early nineties. And there were several suspicious-looking curly black hairs in the tub.

  Fucking gross.

  I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of giggling from the next room, followed by a loud, creaking bed. Someone named Pearl was very impressed with someone named Billy Bob and was very vocal about his performance. I folded the pillow around my head to cover my ears. It didn’t do much.

  I banged on the wall. “Keep it down over there, I’m trying to sleep in here!”

  “I’m sorry, little darlin.’ You care to join us?”

  They cackled to themselves and continued, even louder than before.

  Exhausted, I left before seven the next morning. I got a coffee and drank it in the parking lot of the coffee shop, leaning against the hood of my car. The small town was pretty lame but at least it offered fresh air. A cop, his hand on his hip, strutted over to me.

  Some people in my line of work don’t like police officers, for obvious reasons. They are the enemy. But I have no problem with them—they’re just doing their job. Just like I try to do mine.

  “Mornin,’ ma’am,” he said with a nod, a coffee in his own hand.

  I shuddered. Ma’am. Ew.

  I nodded back and squinted into the early morning sun. “Good morning.”

  “I noticed you’ve got New York plates. What brings you to this part of the country?” He slurped his coffee loudly.

  “I’m heading to Florida,” I said. “Gonna have a little fun in the sun.”

  “That’s great. I took the kids to Universal Studios last month, they loved it.” He looked back at me. “You look familiar.”

  I felt my heart jump in my chest but I tried to keep a friendly, chilled expression. “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I can’t put my finger on it…” He shifted his weight and stared at me for a few seconds. “Are you an actress or something?”

  I let out a startled laugh. “An actress? God, no.” I shrugged. “I’m … I’m nobody.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’re not nobody. No one is nobody. Everyone is somebody.”

  I smiled. “Poetic.”

  The police officer laughed and tossed his cup into a nearby garbage can. “You have a safe trip, ma’am.” He nodded and got back in his car.

  I got back behind the wheel, a little more awake now, and blasted the air conditioning. It was warming up fast outside.

  This would certainly feel nicer in a convertible.

  * * *

  I received a text when I stopped for gas early that afternoon.

  Ruby: I’m bored. Where are you right now?

  Molly: Key Largo.

  Ruby: Is that the new place in SoHo? Seems a little chic for you.

  I rolled my eyes. Thanks, Ruby.

  Molly: No. Key Largo, as in Florida.

  Ruby: SPRING BREAK WHOOOO!!!! (??)

  Molly: I’ll explain later. See you in a few days.

  Ruby: TTYL. Love you.

  I put on some Jack Johnson, slipped on my giant sunglasses and drove, bright blue water on either side of me. I rolled down my window and let the salty sea air lick my cheek. Despite the troubles of the past few days, the ocean waves and the palm trees were already helping ease my anxiety.

  Driving through Florida and into the Keys always makes me feel like I’m driving off the side of the country. Every available patch of earth is in use—docks, big homes, hotels and resorts. The only areas not packed in tight are the swampy bits lining the highway.

  I turned down a narrow street lined with white sand and drove by the familiar houses, all painted fun, tropical oranges and blues. At the end of the street, I pulled into the driveway of a bright yellow house with white trim. White curtains fluttered in front of open windows on the second floor and onto a balcony. The tops of palm trees peeked out from behind the house and there was an orange tree in the garden. A sporty, silver two-seater convertible sat in the driveway next to a shiny black SUV.

  I shook my head and smiled. Why live in New York when I could have this?

  I slowly stepped onto the veranda and rang the doorbell, peering in the nearby window. I heard someone check the peephole before opening the door.

  “Oh, my god,” a voice said from the other side of the door and whipped it open.

  A handsome older man wearing a terrible Hawaiian shirt stared at me and broke into a smile.

  “Well,” he said, a stunned look on his face. “Hello there!”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Dad, looking a bit grayer around the temples than I remembered, let me in.

  “How the hell are you?” he said, pulling me in for a tight hug. “It’s been a while! You should come down here more often, punkin.”

  I was a grown woman and he was still calling me ‘punkin.’

  “Same ol’ story.” I shrugged. “Life, busy, work. Et cetera.”

  He waved me inside and I flopped down onto his leather sofa. It felt nice and cool against my bare legs.

  Dad sat next to me, stretching his arm across the back of the couch, like he always does. It was strange seeing him with such a golden-brown tan. When I was a kid, he was so fair he was basically translucent, like me.

  He must’ve noticed me looking at his baked legs.

  “You should put some sunscreen on. You’re gonna burn to a crisp.”

  “I have some in my suitcase,” I said. “Are you going to be home for a few days? I could use a break. I probably should have called first. I’ve just been dealing with some stuff an
d—”

  “Don’t be silly. You’re always welcome here.” He sat back. “And I’m not going anywhere. You know I’m retired.”

  I nodded hesitantly. I couldn’t tell if he was lying or not.

  Dad didn’t intentionally pass on the family business to me. It just kind of happened.

  “Well, except for teaching karate on Wednesday evenings at the local YMCA.” Dad smiled proudly, even though he pronounced it like kah-rah-tay. “Are you still kickboxing?”

  “I switched to an aikido self-defense class.” I frowned. “I only go occasionally, though. I think the sensei hates me.”

  I dabbed at my neck. Sweat. The Florida humidity was already showing up on my skin.

  “You seem so at home here,” I said. “It’s so … colorful.”

  He laughed. “I used to be like you. I used to think New York was the center of the universe. I’ve been a lot of places and this is the place for me.”

  “But … alligators.”

  Dad shrugged. “We’ve got alligators, New York has drug dealers. And murderers. And prostitution. And—” He shuddered. “—Donald Trump.”

  “I don’t know how much longer I’ll be living there. Something’s come up that could potentially—”

  I heard movement upstairs and glanced at Dad. He shifted in his seat and an expression of pure discomfort and guilt washed across his face.

  He has a girlfriend. And I’ve walked in on … something. Well, that’s awkward.

  Dad paused. “That’s … a friend of mine. I should go tell her we have company.”

  Before he could take two steps away from the sofa, a fair-skinned creature with long blonde hair and legs for days pranced down the wooden spiral staircase at the end of the room. She was wearing a wide sunhat, a semi-transparent beach cover-up dress and a tiny bikini. The brim of her sunhat and her dark sunglasses hid her face.

  “Who was at the door?” she asked in a familiar English accent.

  “Audrey?” I stared at her, glanced at my father and then back to her, adding everything up in my head.