Page 29 of Brazen Criminals

“You liked them,” he says, grabbing the other pink chair, leaving the small side table for me to carry.

“I’ll pay you back,” I say.

“Don’t worry about it.” He shoves the other chair into the bed of the truck, taking the table from me.

“Seriously. Give me a week or two and I’ll cover it,” I say.

From the back seat of the cab, he pulls out a tub of bungee cords and ties down the furniture. I go back for the cart, balancing the rug on the top, and wheel it all out, jamming the last of my stuff into the back seat. By the time I get the cart back inside, Trips is in the cab with the engine running. I climb up beside him, trying to catch his eye, but he’s determined to stare at the road.

Why did he buy those chairs for me?

Pulling out of the parking lot, Trips clears his throat. “If it bugs you that much, you can give me the chairs back at the end of the year.”

I stare out the window, not knowing what to say. Expansion bungalow after expansion bungalow drifts past my eyes, identical footprints mutated by time, years of additions, decks, porches, and landscaping making each one different from its neighbors.

“Thank you,” I say, my hand clenched, fingers itching to move, to dance my anxiety across my skin.

Am I excited that I got my dream chairs, that I’ll have a cozy corner in my room? Hell yes.

But who buys a stranger furniture? Because I am a stranger to these guys. I sneak a glance at Trips. His auburn waves are pushed back from his forehead, his blue eyes intense, but he’s, I don’t know, softer than he was this morning.

We’re almost back to the freeway when he glances at me. “Do you like coffee? Like, better coffee than that crap we got this morning?”

“I love coffee. All kinds.”

He pulls into a strip mall, once again parking across three spaces. “Come on,” he says.

I follow him into a tiny corner coffee shop. There are mismatched tables and chairs, couches and plants. It’s the sort of place you’d happily spend a snowy morning. The AC can’t seem to keep up with today’s humidity, the hum urgent. “I’ll take a depth charge,” Trips says. He turns to me.

“Umm… How’s your iced mocha?” I ask.

The barista grins. “Make it a hazelnut iced mocha and you’ll be glad.”

“That sounds perfect. Thanks.” I go to hand over some cash, but Trips waves me off.

“Trips, I can get my own coffee.”

“I promised you food while we were out. That shit from earlier doesn’t count. This is your replacement coffee.”

I sigh. “Can I pay you back?”

“No.”

Scowling, I stalk to the other end of the bar to wait for my mocha. I take a moment to observe Trips as he waits for his drink. His tennis shoes are new. His jeans are designer and seem to be cut to make his ass look perfect. I note the expensive smartwatch on his wrist as he snags his drink from the bar. Add to that a swank truck; the guy is loaded.

And now I feel extra gross about him buying me stuff—money works differently for rich people, and I don’t know their rules. I don’t play games I don’t stand a chance of winning. And Trips just tossed me into a new one without instructions. The barista sets my coffee down on the bar. I snatch it up, following Trips to the car, the pink velvet visible from the ground, enticing me with dreams of studying curled up as the rain splashes on my windows. The question is, what does that fantasy cost? And can I afford it?

Chapter 17

Jansen

Iwakeupcoveredin sweat to the roar of the AC, the battle hymn of the war against the humidity of a Midwest summer. It’s after two in the afternoon, but for once, the twists in my gut have stilled. A good night of spiked adrenaline is really the only medicine that works. And I had a good night—twenty-three wallets lifted, and twenty-one of them returned, no one the wiser. The two I couldn’t get back, well, I told the drunk idiots they left their wallets at the bar, and I even got a tip from one of them. Wins all around.

If I meditate every day for the next week, I might even pass for normal. And with Clara here, looking normal is important. God, I wish I could pass for normal sometimes.

I’m glad she’s here, even if it makes everything difficult. It’s better than her living with her asshole ex, that’s for sure.

I can’t imagine what it would be like with that jerk. He just expected her to come running back, expected her to be, I don’t know, something bland, just because he’s bland. Who wants bland? I mean, if you’re sick or something, bland is great. But otherwise? Life should be full of salt, sweet, sour, spice, all the good and exciting flavors. Clara should have all the flavors, too. With that riveting thought, my stomach grumbles.

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