Page 23 of The Love Bandits

I answer, and he doesn’t bother with a greeting. He just says, “I’m getting tired of waiting for you, Jake.Your brother’sgetting tired of waiting for you. I think I’ll let him play eenie, meenie, miny, mo to decide which hand I’ll take. Seems only fair, don’t you think?”

“Very menacing,” I say with a sigh. “I know. I’m going to the house tonight. This’ll be over soon.”

It’ll be over tonight.

But he knows I’m usually more cautious. If he finds out I’m planning to throw caution to the wind, he’ll ask why. No way am I going to tell him about Elaine.

I may resent the woman, and she definitely screwed me over, but I won’t shove her into the sights of a potentially dangerous man. The thought makes me bristle inside.

“See that it is,” he says, with the sigh of a man who’s been deeply disappointed by me more than once. “I’m giving you two more weeks. Any longer than that, and I’ll know you’ve lost your ability.”

“Can I talk to Ryan?” I put in quickly.

There’s a very good chance shit’s going to go FUBAR tonight, and I figure I’d better warn him that he might need to fumble his own way out of this one.

“Does this look like a Club Med?” he asks, sounding pissed, and the line goes dead.

So he’sreallyangry with Ryan, as if I didn’t already know.

I get dressed in my black tie optional suit, then pick up a couple of bouquets for the bride-to-be and Mrs. Rosings. JakeJeffries, therapist, is the kind of man who buys women flowers they probably don’t want or have nowhere to put.

Anthony told me he put me on the “list,” and I should meet him and his fiancée at Smith House, so I head over there next. A guard at the gate instructs me to park outside and then allows me entry on foot.

One guard. He’s fifty or maybe sixty, unarmed, and about as threatening as a warm glass of milk someone’s mother made them. He pats down my pocket, takes a look at my wallet and Jake Jeffries’s ID, and sends me in on my merry way.

The house is old, ugly, and stinks of money. It looks like a gingerbread house left too long in the oven, or a comparatively small, less impressive copy of the Biltmore—kind of like the necklace in my shoe looks like the Heart of the Mountain. I’ve seen the house before, of course. I’ve studied the blueprints and done drive-bys. I’ve watched the full, dry-as-dust documentary about the treasures of the Eastern shore, which discusses the Heart of the Mountain from minutes 45 to 50. I’ve studied Anthony’s family history and possibly know more about it than he does. I could write a five paragraph essay about the Smith family, but I don’t need to do that. All I need to do is steal that necklace and get the fuck out. Easy.

But I’m not as good without Ryan, and I know it.

I’ve lost my edge, and I know that too.

I need for those things not to matter.

An animal brays so loudly it makes me flinch, followed by a woman swearing. Is that from…the yard?

I glance around the side of the building, but whatever’s back there is hidden by shrubberies so thick a man could hide inside of them. Duly noted.

When I get to the door, I have to smile. A large photo of Anthony and Nina is arranged beside it, displayed on an intricate gold stand.

Damn, Anthony’s mother is savage. It’s a fine enough photo…other than the fact that one of Nina’s eyes is half closed.

I knock, and the door is opened by a woman wearing what looks like a Red Lobster uniform—black pants, black shirt, red tie. “Welcome to Anthony and Nina’s happily ever after,” she says with a fixed smile that reminds me of a painted doll.

Yikes.

I plaster on a fixed smile of my own. “Thanks.”

Her eyes widen when she notices the flowers in my hand.

“I’ll take those for you, sir.”

“They’re gifts for Nina and Mrs. Rosings,” I say.

“And I’m sure they’ll becherished,” she responds. I don’t need to be good at reading people to know they’ll be in the trash within the next five minutes. Wasteful as hell, but fine by me. It would just mean the gesture is being accepted in the spirit in which it was made.

I hand them over, and she directs me to the “drawing room” for cocktails and “light” conversation.

The contrarian in me wants to ask if I’ll be thrown out if I tell everyone I’m suffering from an existential dilemma, but I’m here to do a job, and so is she. I shut the fuck up.

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