Page 5 of Ruthless Bonds

No, that evil shit wasn’t worried about his twin, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her that. He’d come here to steal from me, something I had caught him doing in the past. Only the threat of calling the cops on him had made him stop. I despised the police, so he knew I meant business.

I’d done everything I could to keep Dylan and Dove safe from Ray after my mom passed away, and for a while, things were good. But slowly Dylan had started disappearing more and more, and I soon realized he was back working with Ray. It was hard for him to accept that we didn’t have a lot of money, that you were supposed to work hard for a living, especially since Ray had brainwashed him his whole life.

Ray was a professional thief and had raised us tofollow in his footsteps. If it wasn’t for that last score gone wrong, I would probably still be picking locks and snatching wallets off innocent people. I wanted a different life. One where I didn’t have to look over my shoulder or hide in alleys to escape the police. And if that meant living paycheck to paycheck while I pursued my dream job as a professional photographer, then so be it. I had goals. Ambitions. Dreams. Hell, we were all living in the gutter, but I was reaching for the stars. Dove and I were passionate about having a better life, and we weren’t afraid of hard work to get it. But Ray and Dylan were always looking for a handout. Or their next score.

“He looks different. Rolling with some motorcycle club now. Seems very sketchy.”

I sucked in a deep breath, a million thoughts screaming through my mind. There was no backup plan. No plan B. I would rather die than ask Solene for money.

At least he hadn’t taken anything else from my box of secrets. I rummaged through the stack of notebooks of IOUs, something I had done after I started stealing. The notebooks were filled with names and places I had stolen from.

Sometimes I stole so we could put food on the table after going hungry for days. Other times, I did it so we wouldn’t be homeless. After my mom got sick, Ray had guilted me into bigger scores, telling me we couldn’t afford Mom’s medicine unless I helped him.

Then there were times I stole because I thought people deserved it. Like the smug businessman on the subway who made that pregnant woman stand for six stops before he gave up his seat. He was an easy mark.

A familiar unease fluttered in my stomach. I often worried I was a terrible person for stealing, even when it felt justified and necessary. At fifteen, I’d had two siblings to feed and a mother on her deathbed while my snake of a stepfather spent his time drinking and gambling. There hadn’t been a choice.

Them or us.

I had to keep remembering that.

My fingers brushed against the baby-blue envelope nestled under the notebooks with my name scribbled on it. The urge to tear it open and see what was inside was overwhelming. But I couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Jameson’s final gift, given to me when I turned eight, would stay sealed, a reminder of the life we’d lost.

Maybe it was the guilt of knowing if it wasn’t for me, he would still be alive. Or maybe I just wasn’t ready to let go of him. I probably never would be. And until then, his last message to me would remain unknown.

I let the envelope slip from my grasp, my attention drawn to the crumpled black business card. The amount of times I had smashed that card between my hands, tossed it in the trash and then hours later run back to retrieve it was comical. It contained a single letter and a phone number. It didn’t matter that the ink was faded or that the card was worn; I had memorized it years ago. I traced my finger over the letter “K” inked in black, my mind flashing back to that night in the alley. I could call him… but what would I say?

Hey, K, remember me? The girl you almost killed but fucked the life out of instead? Mind if I borrow two thousand bucks?

I scoffed and tossed the card back into the box, and slammed the lid shut.

No. I didn’t need anyone to come save me. Life had already taught me there was no knight in shining armor coming to the rescue.

I dialed Dylan’s number, blowing out an exasperated breath when it went straight to voicemail.

“Dylan, I’m going to kick your ass from here to Queens if you don’t give me back my money. I’m not playing. That’s all I have for rent. Call me back ASAP.” I went to press end on the call but muttered a quick “Be safe,” before hanging up.

The chances of him calling me back were slim, and me getting my money back? Probably zero. I would have to pawn my camera again if I didn’t get that money before the end of the month.

Dove pushed the bathroom door open and threw her hands in the air as if to ask,What’s wrong?

“It’s nothing. Just wondering about him is all.” My cheeks heated at the lie, but she just nodded and headed back to the living room.

I threw on a pair of tight ripped jeans and a black tank top that showed off my cleavage. Working in a bar, I tried to dress sexy enough to get decent tips, but not so sexy that men felt entitled to my body or tried to follow me home.

I stuffed my switchblade into my combat boot, dabbed on some red lipstick, and sent a prayer down to Satan that a big wad of cash would fall into my lap tonight.

Dove poured me a cup of coffee to go and handed me a paper bag with my dinner and some blueberry muffins she had baked. She’d heard baking was supposed to help with stress and keep you calm. She’d turned into Martha Stewart on crack. Not that Iwas complaining. I threw in two more muffins for Zeke.

“I’ll be late tonight. Going to take pictures at the cemetery since the moon is full.” I kissed her cheek and then the picture of Mom and Jameson on the fridge.

“Be safe.”

“Always.” I rushed out the door. It slammed behind me as I juggled my keys, coffee cup, and giant bag.

I only made it five feet before I groaned internally at the wave of cheap cologne that permeated the hallway.

My landlord Dario strolled down the hall toward me, whistling and twirling his keys. His hair was in his usual slicked-back style, sweat stains covering his off-white shirt. He was the true definition of a slumlord. Never around to fix anything, always hounding tenants for the rent even though sometimes the building had no heat or water. Then there was hassling me to go on a date with him, even though he had to be at least twenty years older than me. According to him, he had connections all over the city and would take care of me real nice. Fucking gag.

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