The Thief

by Kate McCarthy

  Casey snatches my wrist, his grip hard and tight. The glass drops from my hand and shatters to the hardwood floor, drawing the attention of the guests around us. “That’s enough,” he growls through gritted teeth. Slim is his nickname for her and his alone. That I’ve just used it is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. “I may have walked out on you, but I was coming back. Damn you, I was coming back.”

  My lips flatten. “Trouble is you didn’t.”

  Casey drops my wrist and steps backward, his face paling. “This is not the time or the place.”

  “It never is,” I retort with heat and look around. Clusters of people surround us—women in glittery dresses and men in sharp suits, their hands holding glasses of champagne and their eyes on us. They’re staring, mostly at me. At the wild beast let loose upon their world.

  “Perhaps you should leave,” my brother says in a flat, monotone voice.

  The goading has worked. Casey has given me the out I need to get the hell out of here. And it’s for the best. It’s far better to leave than remain where I don’t belong. “Perhaps I should.”

  Our feet crunch over broken glass as Fox and I walk away. People step out of our path, leaving the exit clear. I don’t look back.

  Fox and I are jogging down the front steps when a voice calls out, “Wait!”

  We both stop and turn. It’s Jake Romero. He’s an old friend of Fox and Jamieson’s drummer. They used to run together, back in the day when Romero was a henchman in the King Street Boys—a gang that has since disbanded thanks to the law and Mackenzie Valentine, his old lady.

  He’s wearing a suit too, though he’s sans tie. I wonder how he got away with that. He jogs down the stairs, reaching us, his voice an accusation. “You barely stayed five minutes.”

  Fox shrugs. “We got shit to do.”

  “Yeah?” Romero’s brows rise. “What kind of shit?”

  “Sentinels shit,” is all Fox says. Despite their past friendship, we’re a brotherhood and we don’t share our business with outsiders.

  “Right, okay.” Romero nods. He gets it. Then his gaze shoots to me. “I wanted to have a word.”

  “About what?”

  He looks around. “Not here.”

  My eyes narrow. “Let me guess, it’s not the time or place.”

  “Cool your jets, Daniels. Here on the steps of the Florence Bar where we happen to be blocking the entrance is not the place.”

  I fold my arms. “Then where?”

  “What about Fix?” he replies, referring to a coffee house in Darlinghurst. It’s situated across the road from the office of Jamieson and Valentine Consulting. “Ten minutes?”

  Curious, I give him a nod. We have nothing better to do with our night. Our so-called Sentinels shit was just Fox giving an unquestionable excuse for us to make our getaway. “See you there.”

  Romero turns and jogs back up the stairs while Fox and I make our way to the parking lot behind the popular venue, taking our time.

  “What do you think that’s about?” he asks.

  “No clue. I guess we’ll soon find out.”

  We reach our Harley Davidsons. I swing my leg over, kicking up the stand. The bike settles beneath my heavy weight with familiarity. I run my hand down her glossy black gas tank in a loving caress. Hello, my baby. Miss me?

  She responds with an answering growl when I turn the key. The engine vibrates deep down inside my soul, aligning its tune with the beast inside me, soothing it. I liberate the bow tie from around my neck and undo the first three buttons of my shirt. After tucking it inside my saddlebag, I look to Fox. He’s doing the same. When freed, his lungs expand, drawing in a deep breath. Then he looks at me and grins. Let’s ride.

  We roar out onto the main road together and my hands relax their hard grip on the handlebars, easing into the ride. Harleys are low and heavy. Riding them is about the journey, not the destination. By the time we arrive at Fix, my hair is mussed and my clothes rumpled, but my heart is lighter.

  Fox’s eyes are lit as we walk toward the coffee house, having parked half a block down the street. Riding makes him happy too. My brother is a paramedic. He’s seen some seriously bad shit. Last night’s shift was some dude fucked-up on meth swinging at him with a baseball bat after beating his son unconscious. Fox is a better man than I am. I would’ve ripped that bat from his hands, splintered it in two, and stabbed the fucker with it. This is why I tinker with bikes and cars and not with people.

  We reach Fix and Romero is already there, his Dodge Charger gleaming in its park out front. He grins. “Beat you.”

  “It’s not about the journey—”

  Romero cuts Fox off, finishing our habitual spiel. “It’s about the destination. Yeah, yeah …”

  “Get stuffed, Romero,” he retorts.

  They’re both laughing as I slap my palm on the glass front door and push it open.

  2

  Arcadia Jones.

  I look up from my phone when the door of Fix opens. I don’t know why I do because I can’t hear anything other than my music. I’m at a table in the back, tucked away in a dark corner with my textbooks, earbuds in as I flick through my favourite playlist on Spotify. I’m prepping mentally. Tonight is my last boost before I hit the straight and narrow, so it needs to be perfect. The right frame of mind is crucial. I have to be focused and calm. And it has to be dark and late, but not late enough there aren’t any cars on the road at all, because you need to blend in, not stand out.

  The instant I see him walk inside it’s a physical punch. I flick down my list of songs, tap my go-to song “Joker and the Thief” by Wolfmother, and hit play. It’s the song I always hit when I see a car I have to have. It’s a recognition and a craving, all at once. An exciting, pulse-pounding moment that steals the breath from my lungs. A hunger so fierce it forms an obsession that won’t leave me alone. I’m feeling all of that and more when he steps inside the busy coffee house, two big burly guys following behind him.

  The beat pulses through me as I watch with furtive eyes, knowing he won’t notice me looking. I’m dressed in a way that leaves me inconspicuous, with my mass of dirty blond hair hidden beneath a beanie and a scarf obscuring my neck and chin. It’s cool tonight, the kind of cool that settles deep in your bones. He seems unaffected by the chilly temperature as he stalks toward the counter like a lion on the hunt.

  I push black-framed glasses further up my nose, studying him as my song plays out. He’s not my type. I don’t do suits. And he’s wearing a fine one. It’s tailored, highlighting a trim waist and shoulders wider than the engine block mounted in my garage. His hair is shoulder length, as though he’s growing out a shorter cut. It’s tied back with loose strands tucked behind his ears.

  I’m good with the smaller details, and he has ones that don’t add up. The facial hair isn’t a full beard, but it’s not stubble either. Wearing a suit like that, his face should be smooth. And his hands … I watch them as he reaches inside the pocket of his jacket. They’re large and calloused. A working man’s hands. He pulls out a wallet. It’s leather with the appearance of a battered, old work boot. Its age tells me when he finds something he loves, he’ll only let it go when you pry it from his cold, dead hands.

  My eyes shift to his suit-wearing friends as he pays for their order. They don’t add up either. One has long hair tied back in a braid, the other has hair buzzed short, and the hint of a tattoo peeking above the collar of his crisp navy shirt.

  The paradoxical trio turn from the counter with coffees in hand and walk my way. I return to my textbook, blind to the words as my heart pounds. The song fades in my ears, and I hear them take the table next to mine. Chairs scrape on the floor and deep voices wrap around me like a warm blanket.

  A new song kicks in—“Him and I” by G-Eazy and Halsey—and drowns them out. I try focusing on my subject, something about supply and demand, when the ding of a text message cuts through the music in my ears. I flick it open.

  Echo: Get a hold of yoursel
f.

  Bitch. My eyes dart up, scanning the ceiling perimeter. One security camera is anchored in the top, back corner, facing outward. My table in the back is obscured from its view. Then I shift slightly, looking to the front. Damn. A camera sits fixed above high shelving behind the counter, blending in beside ornamental mugs and large mason jars.

  My best friend can hack into anything she chooses, leaving no trace behind, and tonight she’s choosing to hack into Fix’s security and watch me.

  Ellington “Echo” Reid is a prodigy. We became friends at the age of sixteen when my ex-boyfriend leaked a picture of my naked boobs onto Facebook. Echo was my new lab partner at the start of the term. She sat beside me, always wearing so many coats that most didn’t notice her at all. I thought she was mute until she slid her phone across the table and muttered, “These your tits?”

  I jolted at the sound of her rough voice, and my eyes widened on the screen. They were indeed my tits. Everyone would know they were mine too. Not because my face was in the picture—it wasn’t—but because I was wearing a necklace my ex-boyfriend Johnny bought me that spelled out my name. I wore it every day.

  “I’m going to kill him,” I hissed, only I couldn’t do it right then and there because he cut class early that day.

  “Want me to remove the picture?” she asked.

  My brows winged up. “You can do that?”

  The slow smile that creeped over her face was downright sinister. “I can do all that and more.”

  But for what price? I come from a long line of thieves, having learned that there’s always a cost for anything, even when you steal something that doesn’t belong to you. I’m a descendant of the great Racer Jones, not that I advertise my heritage. I can steal anything thanks to the tutelage of my grandfather, but cars are my forte. Their sleek pretty lines and powerful engines are a siren song, and the adrenaline from driving them is better than any drug you can manufacture. “What do you want in return?”

  Her eyes darkened with a malevolent glint. “I want Miles Howard’s car.”

  My brows winged up even higher. Not because my lab partner knows my private business, but because it’s a big ask. Miles Howard is the school bully. He’s renowned for fixating on a particular student and grinding them down until they’re nothing but dust in the air, swirling listlessly through the school hallway. The only good thing about Miles Howard is his sweet, sweet ride. “A car for removing my tits from the internet is not quite an even deal.”

  She shrugged. “You can take it or leave it. But if you decide to leave it, that picture will haunt you for life. You’ll find it on social media, porn sites, and blogs. Hell, people will even make memes out of it and share that shit far and wide.”

  “Okay, okay.” My lab partner painted a hideous picture. Not to mention, if my older brother found my tits leaked all over the internet, I was dead anyway. And Miles deserved it. “Deal,” I said, holding out a hand.

  She shook it. “Deal. I’m Ellington by the way,” she added. “But you can call me Echo.”

  “Ace,” I replied.

  “Nice to meet you,” Echo said as she started packing up her books halfway through our lesson.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “The longer your tits are out there the longer it takes to remove them.”

  “Good point.”

  My new friend slunk out of class, leaving me to take notes for the both of us. Two hours later she found me in the cafeteria, having spent the morning pretending to ignore the suggestive jibes and snickering laughter from those around me. It hurt though. How could I have liked a guy who felt it okay to do something like that? I’ll never be so stupid as to trust a guy with private photos of myself again. Lesson learned.

  Echo pulled out a chair and sat down with a thump and a smug grin. “Done. Where’s my car, Ace?”

  “Out in the parking lot where Miles left it, I imagine,” I said mildly and took a bite of my ham and salad sandwich. My parents were health nuts. It sucked to sit there in the midst of winter smelling deep-fried food while I chewed on kale and grainy bread. “Proper nutrition keeps a clear head and strong mind,” they liked to say. “All the better to boost your cars with, darling Ace.” Nice to know they cared about my health but are seemingly unconcerned with the probability of prison. “You’re a Jones. We don’t get caught.” Their belief in me was absolute.

  Echo snatched the sandwich and took a huge bite. She grinned around the giant mouthful and said, “Well, what are we waiting for?”

  I picked up my drink, slurping down cold-pressed cucumber, pink lady apple, and mint juice. “There are cameras in the parking lot.”

  Her grin evolved into an expression of superiority. “Seems they’re suffering a technical glitch today.”

  Excitement rising, I fist-bumped my new mischievous friend and stood, abandoning my crappy lunch. “Let’s ride.”

  Hours later we had that car boosted and sold to the Marchetti Brokers’ chop shop for a tidy sum. Not wasting time, they began disassembling the car that afternoon, selling off the individual parts for a big profit. Miles Howard would never find his ride again.

  “What did he do to piss you off?” I asked her later that afternoon as we sat in a local cafe, Echo choosing to drink a coffee and me slurping down a double shot chocolate milkshake.

  “Besides being the one who took the photo from your ex-boyfriend’s phone and uploading it himself?”

  “It was Miles who did that?”

  “Yup.”

  I scowled. Stealing his car wasn’t payback enough for what he did, but it would have to do. “You still haven’t told me what he did to you.”

  “I’ll tell you one day.”

  The second song on my playlist ends, and the clink of coffee mugs and the whoosh of the frothing machine draw me out of the memory and back into Fix.

  I tap out a reply to Echo’s message.

  Me: I do have a hold of myself. I’m focused. It doesn’t get more focused than this.

  She starts typing an instant reply, seeing through my lie thanks to camera number two. I watch the three little dots flicker across my screen until it pings.

  Echo: You’re not. Look out the window.

  “Stop the Rock” by Apollo 440 starts playing when my eyes flick up. Instead of hitting the window and beyond, they land on him at the same time his land on me. I stop breathing. And moving. I sit there, music blaring in my ears, pinned to my seat by the cold, hard gaze of his blue eyes.

  They move over me, curious, landing on my textbook before rising again. Then he looks away to his friend with the braid, who’s talking. I’m dismissed. I take a deep breath.

  Echo: The window, ACE. Not the sex god.

  I try again, this time looking beyond the man and outside. My mouth goes dry and flutters fill my belly. It’s a Dodge Charger. 1979. Candy apple red with white racing stripes. Mint condition. Holy hell. Come to Momma, baby girl.

  This is Echo’s definitive knowledge that I’m unfocused and off my game. How did I miss that? I drag my eyes away long enough to respond to my friend.

  Me: Who does she belong to?

  Echo: Sex god no. 2

  My eyes land on the guy in the suit with the braid.

  Echo: Not him. The other one.

  They shift to the suit with the buzz cut. He looks like a man who would hunt you down to the ends of the earth if you so much as touched the gleaming paintjob on that sweet, sweet ride. I crack my knuckles, suppressing the grin. I love a challenge.

  Echo: His name is Jake Romero.

  Me: What else?

  I know Echo’s digging deep when it takes ten minutes for her to respond.

  Echo: Bounce it. He’s the drummer for Jamieson. Too much trouble. Too many contacts.

  I don’t want to bounce it.

  Me: What contacts?

  Echo: King Street Boys. Sentinels. Valentines.

  The King Street Boys are an old gang and old news. But the Sentinels MC aren’t. Neither are the Valentines. I
’ve never met any of them, but I’ve heard of them. Like bulldogs, they sniff out trouble, and not only do they dig it up, they tear it apart.

  Me: Boo. I’m going out for a closer look.

  Echo: Oh great. Well done. Yes. Go put yourself on their radar.

  Ignoring her froth of sarcasm, I down my last mouthful of coffee—it’s cold—and grimace. Standing, I slap my textbooks and papers closed and shove them inside my book bag. Flicking to a new track on my playlist, I tuck my phone into my pocket, sling the bag over my shoulder, and head outside. They pay no attention to my departure.

  Cold air hits me like a slap to the face when I step outside. It’s worth it to get a closer look at that car. And I’m not the only one drawn by her pretty spell. Two other guys, early twenties, are standing nearby, talking and eyeing her with admiration. I walk to the other side of them, hiding behind their stature so I have more time to stare.

  Echo: She’s glorious.

  I sigh. Of course, there’s a camera focused on the entrance to Fix.

  Me: She really is.

  Echo: Finish up and walk away. Your sex god is on the move.

  My sex god? Pffft! But she’s right about the first part. I need to get going. My composure is rattled. I won’t be boosting any cars tonight at this rate. Maybe I should go home for a power nap. The problem is that I live with my older brother and I’m not in the mood for an inquisition on my whereabouts tonight. Mason is out of the business. He’s busy making sure I am too. And I want to be. I really do. I’m studying for a bachelor degree in Business, majoring in Finance. It doesn’t get any straighter or narrower than that.

  I even try looking the part, making an effort to wear my reading glasses and a smidge of makeup when I usually wear none. I’m dressed in a collared shirt and tailored pants, teamed with a pretty pair of pointed flats on my feet. I do admit to having a pair of Converse in my book bag. I can’t boost a car with impractical shoes.