Page 111 of Corrupted Pleasure
Yep, we’ve all goneloco.
“Ah, okay,” Juliette commented about me visiting my grandfather. “That makes sense. Let’s go. We can finish unpacking when we get back.”
I exhaled a sigh of relief. Thank God.
We piled into Wynter’s Jeep. She let us use it. I certainly wasn’t going to drive the Rover that Liam bought me. No amount of lies could explain why I suddenly have a brand new car. Besides, Wynter assured me that she was mostly on campus, and when she went out, herfriendcame to pick her up.
Juliette sat in the passenger seat and Ivy sat in the back. I drove since it was the only clause given by Wynter. She didn’t want Juliette totaling her car, and Ivy struggled driving on the right side of the road. Though she swore we drove on the wrong side of the road.
Opening the roof and turning on the stereo, because I wasn’t in the mood for conversation, I sped out of the city and towards New Haven.
As I neared the campus, a little bit of nostalgia hit me. Yale’s residential college had been our home for the past four years. The stunning buildings centered on a green courtyard were our everyday scenery and the end came too quickly. A random assignment of our living space brought the four of us together. It made us best friends, and a support system for each other. The four of us were so different but complemented each other perfectly. Sometimes, I wondered if someone that worked at the school knew us better than we knew ourselves.
Maybe we could make something like this happen in our school. Slightly different, of course. Because instead of academic knowledge, we’d be teaching skills required to survive the criminal underworld.
Once I parked the car, the three of us rushed through the door of our old building. I had sent a heads up to Wynter before we left the house, so she wouldn't be caught unaware.
“We’re home,” I exclaimed as we entered through the door, not bothering with knocking.
The three of us stopped abruptly to find Wynter bent over the window, speaking in a hushed tone.
“What are you doing?” Juliette blurted out, scaring the living daylights out of Wynter. She bumped her head on the top of the window.
“Ouch,” she muttered, then whirled around while rubbing her head.
“Who’re you talking to?” Ivy asked, eyeing her dubiously. Her eyes darted around the room, as if she expected to find someone else here.
“Nobody,” she muttered. “I was breathing some fresh air through the window.”
I suspected we missed whoever was here. My eyes traveled around the room. The sheets on Wynter’s bed were tossed. A faint scent, that I’d bet belonged to a man, lingered in the room. And a man’s watch sat on the little nightstand.
The same second I noticed it, so did Wynter. Our eyes connected and her cheeks blushed. Ah, the ice queen had found her king.
I winked.
She breathed a little sigh and smiled gratefully, then shifted her body to block the view of the watch before inconspicuously shoving it into the drawer.
“How are you holding up without us?” I asked her, though she seemed to be doing really well.
“Ah, you know,” she muttered. “Been busy with ice skating and working on a project for Professor Hall.”
Juliette’s eyes narrowed. “There isn’t a single book open,” she remarked.
“Well, I’m done now,” she replied. “I knew we’d be outlining our plans for the Philadelphia heist.
“Let’s all sit down,” I suggested. We lowered down onto the floor since most of the furniture was already out of the room. We formed a circle and Juliette dug through her shoulder bag, then laid out the paperwork. I skimmed the paperwork laid on the floor, and for the first time, I was floored by her.
I had honestly never seen her make such a detailed outline foranything. Not for her assignments. Not for her theater roles. Not for any goddamn thing.
And here she had a detailed building plan of the casino in Philadelphia, each exit marked, the best escape routes out of the city, rush hour times, events scheduled for the next week, and their times, that could possibly interrupt our escape.
“Jesus, you went all out, huh?” I muttered, eyeing all the details.
“Well, we want to get those millions,” she claimed proudly.
Wynter reached under the bed and pulled a notebook out.
“I have the schedule and route that the truck takes,” Wynter said, her eyes shining excitedly. “They alternate, but never mix it up. It is always the same. One week it's South Christopher Columbus Boulevard, next it’s Market Street, then they take the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, next Delaware Ave, and then all over again. This Saturday, they’re taking South Christopher Columbus Boulevard.”
