Page 65 of Thief

She pursed her lips and flicked her attention towards the elevator.

“If I track them down, you’ll be the first to know.” He bent and pushed his lips to her cheek. “See you around, Pussy Cat.”

Then he was gone. His body heat lost as he stepped past her and headed towards the dawn light of the street.

She turned and watched him stride up the concrete ramp. He was doing his best not to limp, not to look like the broken man she knew he was. She held her fingers to her cheek. She could still feel the press of his lips, the scratch of his chin and the warmth of his breath against her skin.

It was a lousy goodbye, so quick, so impersonal after all they’d been through, but it was all she got—it was more than she deserved.

His silhouette went abruptly from view as he turned the corner. She tugged at her bottom lip and made for the elevator, stabbed number thirteen with her fingernail and cracked it way down low. It stung instantly. She swore and clasped it in her opposite fist.

She stepped in and looked at her face in the smoky mirror doors and recalled how he’d just looked at her. It was a look full of disappointment. She’d been a tool to retrieve his diamonds, and she’d turned out, as far as he thought, to be useless. Failed to do her job; failed to live up to his expectations.

But what did it matter? Relying on another person’s opinion to feel good about herself was never going to work. She was independent; she could fulfill her own needs. She didn’t need John to do that.

I don’t need John full stop.

So why did his sudden absence feel like a gaping hole? An emptiness like falling out of an airplane without a parachute. Why did she feel like a planet knocked off orbit by a cataclysmic meteor strike?

She didn’t.

She was fine.

She had the diamonds.

She stepped onto level thirteen, ignored an elderly neighbour’s polite ‘good morning’ and barged through her front door. She resisted the urge to check the place out. She was done with her obsessive compulsive disorder. What good had it done her anyway? Instead, she walked straight into the bathroom and flicked on the shower. Sod John, she thought, hurt turning to anger. He’d been using her, but she’d used him too.

She walked into her bedroom and peeled off her leathers. Dropped her tattered dress and ripped bra on the floor. She was desperate to feel the hot jets of water pummelling her tired, aching body. Flaked with semen and alive with John’s scent, she needed to wash him away, forget that he’d ever managed to crack her shell and make her feel alive.

She strutted naked down the corridor into the steamy bathroom. If John had managed to slide open the bolts protecting her heart, she’d just have to ram them back into place again. Make sure no one else ever got the chance to release them and make her vulnerable and weak.

She slammed the bathroom door and flicked the lock.

* * * *

John dodged early morning commuters as he headed to the front entrance of Kat’s building. He strode through the lobby. “Morning,” he called to the sleepy security officer, waving a cheery hand in the air.

“Mornin,” the man called back with a relaxed smile. “Gonna be another nice day out there.”

“Yep, the sun’s feeling warm already,” John said lightly as he called the elevator.

It had to come down from level thirteen to collect him.

He stepped in, grateful not to be using the stairs. Sharp spikes of pain were nipping the bones in his knee like an annoying terrier snapping. The lift pinged shut, and he couldn’t help but stare at his reflection in the dark mirrors.

He looked rough. He didn’t take much notice of his appearance on a day-to-day basis, but today, he certainly looked like he’d been up all night.

He peered closer. It was something more than tiredness. His shoulders had sagged and tipped sideways because of his nagging knee. His eyes were dull, barely open, and they had no life in their depths.

No fighting spirit left.

John realized—for the first time ever—he looked truly wounded. Like he’d been shot all over again, but this time couldn’t drag himself up from the dirt. He’d come to live with the pain in his leg, but this pain was different. These wounds were different. Just when he thought he was healing he was right back at square one, no, make that minus one.

And it was all Kat’s fault. She’d done this. Somehow, she’d made him feel good, like there was someone worth living for. How she’d managed in such a short space of time he had no idea. But she’d touched a place deep within him, and now, just as quickly as that feeling had arrived and settled itself in his chest, she’d snatched it away. She’d shot him down as devastatingly as the Taliban son of a bitch had two years ago.

He should be thrilled their parasitic relationship was over. She was a thief and a liar. He’d been a fool to trust her, and predictably, she’d stabbed him in the back.

He snatched his gaze from his reflection. He’d never had any intention of giving her half the jewels. All along, he’d planned on taking the vast majority for himself. They were his. He’d stolen them. They were for his sweet future.

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