Stepbrother Thief (2 page)

I felt all kinds of things in that moment—fear, hope, anger, the dying embers of a once requited love—but Gill? Shit. From the look on his face, from the dull, familial hug he shrugged over my shoulders, he didn't feel anything for me. I mean, not that I cared. I've long since moved on, to be honest with you. As Solène is proving to me, preteens might well be capable of holding onto some serious grudges and unrequited passions, but as an adult, I just can't do it. Takes too much energy, gives too much pain, and offers absolutely zilch when it comes to the future. Still … I'll just be glad when this is all over, I have my payout, and Cliff, Solène and I are cozied up in some sweet Seattle digs. Gill'll leave again and things can go back to normal.

“I'm gonna call home,” I say, not even bothering to think about the massive international phone charges I'll be racking up. From this point on, I am officially rich. Yup. That's right.
Loaded.
Regina Corbair is now capable of buying a house in Mount Baker, a vintage car like the one in
Supernatural—
holy crap, Sam and Dean are
hot
—and adopting some ugly mixed breed dog of questionable parentage. A friend of mine once picked up a short-legged, half-hairless beast more akin to a rat than an actual pooch from a Native American reservation in California. She paid eight dollars for the creature and loves it like the kids she doesn't have. Considering the amount of green that Gill promises I'll be swimming in, maybe I'll fly down to Cali—first class, of course—search out the sister I haven't seen in years and camp out at her place on the reservation until I find the right canine companion. Hell, I don't even have to work anymore, so why not?

I smile and search around inside my purse. The expression only lasts so long as it takes me to realize that my phone is missing.

“Gill.”

“You didn't really think you'd get to keep the phone, did you?” he asks, again letting that low, deep rumble of a laugh seep into his words. This time, I'm ready; my shields are up and the sound doesn't so much as scrape across that barrier I erected so long ago.

“Guess I'll call them when I get to the hotel then,” I say, sitting back with a sigh, letting the patter of Seattle rain soothe my nerves. As much as I fell in love with Paris, I missed the hell out of the Pac Northwest. I can't explain why but something about it says home to me. Must be the dreary weather, cheers me up somehow. It's like, how can I be upset when the sky's already weeping for me?

“Unfortunately, you'll have to wait until they land to see them. Right now, phone calls are too risky.” I give Gill another show of my 'ugly face' and stifle the urge to say something mean. It's not his fault, really, just nerves. No matter what happens from this point on, I have to take responsibility for my own actions. Gill might've made the proposal, but I'm the one that went along with it.

“So … how exactly does this all work?” I ask, wishing I was the kind of person that was okay with comfortable silence. To me, though, all silence is awkward, punishing. I have some sort of strange compulsion to fill it. “I mean, you deliver the diamonds to your client and poof, he hands over some cash?” Gill's full lips twitch, but he doesn't respond right away, probably mulling over what he can and can't say to me, what might break some rule of thievery that I'm not in the privilege of knowing. “Sorry,” I say, before he tries to placate me with some bullshit that I'm not likely to believe. I hold up both hands, palms out. “I don't even want to know.”

“I'll answer your question if you answer mine,” Gill says, a bit of wry humor sneaking into his words. I stare down at my bare toes, at my purple painted nails, and I try to remember when, exactly, it was that I lost my high heels. The day's a complete blur, a twisted snarl of shock and adrenaline, a fuzzy, blurry memory that I know won't come into full focus until I'm completely relaxed and at ease. Stressful situations are like that, you know? In the heat of the moment, they're just smears across your consciousness, a series of actions you take from muscle memory and reflex. Afterwards, when you're lying in the dark and the full force of your decisions comes crashing down, that's when things get high def.

“What's your question?” I ask, my stomach tightening with anticipation. I have no clue why. I mean, I trust Gill as a business partner, as a master of his trade, but otherwise, he means nothing to me. So why is my body trying to act otherwise? “If you tell me, I'll give it some serious consideration and then perhaps I'll take you up on the offer.” I turn and lift my chin, giving him my haughtiest facial expression; it only makes Gill laugh.

“Why didn't you tell me you had a boyfriend?”

Gill's question catches me completely off guard, and my cheeks go up in flames; my jaw clenches.
Shit.
Yes, Mathis caught me by surprise this morning, showing up at the jewelry store with brioche in one hand, coffee in the other. He practically ruined the entire gig with his romantic notions. Still … the gesture was kind, and I'm already starting to wonder if I'm going to miss him.

“Didn't seem relevant to the situation,” I say, knowing that's complete crap. I let my gaze fall on the window, on the water droplets clinging to the glass and then spinning away like leaves in a storm. Absently, I smooth my hands over my white pencil skirt, straightening out the wrinkles. As of now, this is the only outfit I have. For Gill's plan to go off without a hitch, I had to leave it all behind, everything I owned. Well, all except for my mother's things. I'd rather die than let go of those. I lean against the car door and let the comforting pressure of my purse dig into my side, just to make sure it's still there. “I'm sorry he tried to tackle you, but you did have a gun to my back.”

“He's a handsome guy,” Gill says, and I swear to God, it sounds like he's gritting his teeth.

“Gill, don't,” I say, glancing over and finding his usual calm expression sitting pretty on that rugged face.
Son of a bitch.
“We're not friends anymore.”

“We could be,” he says, his voice even, no hint of what he's really trying to say with those words.

“Oh?” I ask, more than a dollop of sarcasm creeping into my tone. “You planning to settle down in Seattle? Getting to know your sister, maybe?” My words have such a double meaning, one that I hope Gill doesn't notice, that I end up being the one clenching my teeth. Old anger rides over and through me, but I ignore it, letting it seep away into the sudden silence. Gill's lack of an answer is all I need to know that he's never going to change, never going to stop doing what he does best: stealing shit. He might call himself a thief, might be able to pull off jobs that nobody else can, but so what? In all reality, he's just a common criminal and that's it. Nothing—and I mean
nothing
—is more important than family. But my stepbrother apparently thinks so, so screw him. “If you want to tell me how I almost screwed everything up and got you arrested, go ahead, I deserve it.”

I slump back in my seat and run my hands over my face. Makeup smears across my skin as I drag my fingertips over my eyelids and down my cheeks, dropping my fists into my lap. I would've liked to tell Mathis goodbye, gauge his expression when I told him I was leaving and never coming back. This time though, it was my turn to run off and disappear without a word. Right now, shock's got a cold, white hold on my heart, and I can't seem to feel much of anything. I wonder if it'll hit me later, some sort of overwhelming grief. I mean, Mathis and I weren't head over heels in love or anything, but he made me smile. That's gotta count for something, doesn't it?

“I'm not angry with you, Regi,” Gill says, taking a waterlogged exit out of the flow of traffic, our tires splashing mud and leaves against the guardrails on either side. “And I'm sorry I dragged you into this, truly I am, but—”

“But the payoff was colossal, I get it.” I raise my hands up, copper bracelets jingling. The smell of my perfume drifts in the air between us, the scent of peonies suddenly cloying. I roll the window down a crack and let cool droplets of water splatter against my face. “Besides, my position at the store made it an easy gig and all that. Stop apologizing, Gill. It's not like you forced me into this, remember? I made my own choice.”

I don't let myself wonder
why
I made the choice to begin with. All that matters now is that I've got a chance at a fresh start, an easy life, an opportunity to sit back and figure out exactly what it is that I want from this spinning hunk of dirt. I want to prove to myself that I'm more than stardust, some cataclysmic chain reaction that started with the Big Bang and ended up with little ol' me. I want to feel again, really feel something like I did when I was a teenager, before everyone significant in my life died or left and drew open this gaping hole in my heart.

I grind my teeth again and roll the window down a little further, closing my eyes against the spray of cool autumn rain.

“We're here,” Gill says, not bothering to acknowledge my statements. Why should he? After today, we might see each other one, maybe two, more times. Me and him, we're just strangers now. “Reservation's under the name Mia Logan, credit card's in your bag.”

“I got it, Gill,” I tell him as he pulls the car up in front of the lobby, “I know the plan.”

I shut the door and step back, pausing to say something, anything to him before he leaves, but the window's being rolled up, and the gray Taurus is disappearing into the grainy gray of the storm.

By the time I hit the hotel room, exhaustion is already sinking its ugly claws into me, drawing me onto the bed without even bothering to climb under the covers. As soon as my head hits that pillow, I'm done for, lulled into a solid sleep that even my anxiety can't find a way to penetrate. Everything else fades away—Mathis, the heist, the day long plane ride, the hotel employees raising their eyebrows at my bare feet—even thoughts of Cliff and Solène whisper away and leave me with … memories.

Sixteen is a rough age.

What a crock.

I roll my eyes and flip through the songs on my iPhone, looking for something cheery and upbeat. Outside, the sky breaks into pieces and sheds the tears that won't fall from my eyes. I can't cry anymore; I refuse to.

“Dad is dead,” I whisper, but the words don't drop me to my knees like they used to. Three years now and I can say that without having a panic attack. Still, what my mom's doing seems like a slap in the face—both to me and my sister. To Dad. “I hope that wherever you are,” I say, brushing my fingers across a picture of Dad and me at the St. Patrick's Day Parade, “you can't see what she's doing. It's not right.”

I start a playlist titled 'CHEER UP, BITCH' and shake out my shoulders. I can't believe my mom's trying to chalk up my attitude to my age. It's not the decade and a half that I've lived, or the many years I'm lacking on her, it's the fact that my dad is dead and gone and nobody can replace him.

Cancer.

I fucking hate cancer, especially the kind that sneaks up on you and bites you in the ass. Dad was healthy; nobody in our family ever died from cancer except my Great Aunt Blythe and she smoked. Dad just … he ran a lot and he didn't wear shirts. Or sunscreen. The poison, it got into his skin, and now here I am, pushing aside my curtains and looking out the window, at the car that's pulling up outside.

My sister, Anika, already bailed to live with our grandma, left me here to face this crap alone. But that's because she's selfish, always has been, nothing like an older sister is supposed to be. Mom
needs
us, not in spite of the bad decision I think she's making but especially because of it.

The doors to the car open and I back away. I don't want to see Cliff, the man my mom's going to marry, even if I like him. And I especially don't want to see his seventeen year old son either.

I hold my arms out to either side and fall back on my bed, the music drilling its way into my skull as I mouth the words and wish I was somewhere else, anywhere else, but here.

After a dozen or so songs, I realize that nobody's going to come looking for me. Either … they're trying to respect my privacy or … they don't care. Truthfully, I'm not sure which one's worse right now.