Smash & Grab (10 page)

“Actually, I accidentally left something here the other day, and if I don't get it back, I'm as good as dead,” he says dramatically, leaning in so that it seems as if he's whispering it into my ear. I can feel him smiling. “What's one or two missed classes compared with that?”

“As good as dead, huh? What'd you leave behind? Military secrets?” I joke, giving in to the back-and-forth that's developing so easily between us.

“Worse. A family heirloom.”

“That doesn't sound death-worthy.”

“You don't know my family,” he says, eyebrow raised flirtatiously, obviously enjoying himself.

“What kind of heirloom?”

“A medal on a leather rope.”

“You mean a necklace?” I say.

“No. I mean a medal on a leather rope…that I happen to wear around my neck.” He struggles to keep a straight face.

“Ah, okay. Man jewelry.”

He groans. “No! That sounds even worse.” We laugh. “It used to be my grandfather's. He says it gave him luck when he left Mexico for the United States. He gave it to me when I started applying for colleges.” He seems embarrassed or something. All of the sudden he won't look me in the eye.

“Yeah, I can see where you'd catch some heat for losing that. Any idea where to start the search? Did you leave it by the ATM?”

“Actually, I have a pretty good idea about its exact location.” He hesitates. “This is going to sound weird, but how would you feel about helping me? Get it back, I mean? Up for a little intrigue?”

The way he's asking is part plea, part dare. The line moves forward once more, and it's my turn. I step up to the ATM, and he backs up a respectable distance, giving me space while I punch in my PIN. It's been good talking to him. Standing here all this time, waiting by myself, I would've been stressed about whether the money was still there. I logged into my account several times this morning already. Every time, the balance indicated that the funds were there, but until the cash is in my hands, I feel as if the FBI might swoop in and seize it. I press my finger to the numbers and hold my breath. The machine begins to whir, and a stack of bills appears.
Thank god.
I exhale shakily and slip the money into the inside zippered pocket of my bag and hug it close. Relief washes through me.

The boy is watching me intently, his head cocked to one side, and I want to laugh. I must've looked crazy just then. Who stresses that hard about a withdrawal?

“So that's done,” I say, patting my bag. “Now you. How can I help? What would I have to do?” I'm suddenly feeling generous. My money is all there. I took out enough to make it easier to breathe. By now Quinn's probably withdrawn some of his, too. We have enough to get groceries and stuff. At least for a little while.

“I think the medal is inside the bank. In the second office on the right.”

I raise a brow. “Okaaay. So just go in and get it. Can't be that hard, right?”

“Normally? No. But the lady who works in that office is not too happy with me right now. I used to date her daughter.”

“Used to?”

“Until I broke it off last week. It didn't, uh, go very well.” He blushes, which makes him that much more adorable.

Bad breakups are something I understand intimately. I'm the queen of them.

“I dropped off some stuff here yesterday. You know, things my girlfriend gave me while we were dating that she wanted back. I was wearing the medal, but once I left, I realized it was gone. It has to be in the office. But I don't want to go in and see her mom again. She was less than cool about it. Besides, the bank was robbed yesterday. You knew that, right? She probably doesn't need to see me again, you know?”

I nod. “Yeah. I was here, actually. One of the robbers ran right into me.”

His eyes widen.

“But let's not talk about that right now. Let's focus on your ‘medal.' ” For some reason I want to help this guy. Probably because it's no big deal. It's a problem with an easy solution, unlike the ones in my own life. And talking to him has been the first fun distraction I've had since I jumped off the Bank Tower on Saturday night. “You want me to go in and get it, right?”

“Right,” he says. “Without her getting suspicious. Think you can make up some reason for going into her office?”

Not quite a BAM-worthy maneuver, but it has the same feel to it. How can I say no?

“I think I can manage,” I say dryly, and he laughs, shaking his head like he thinks I'm a real piece of work.

This boy has no idea.
Piece of work
doesn't even begin to cover it.

I watch the girl
walk into the bank and try to chill. That she actually decided to help me still has me shocked. I did my best to flirt, but truth is, I always feel like a giant tool putting on the charm. And with this girl, I'm not sure I pulled it off. I don't have half the game Benny claims I do. Gabriel's better at it. Girls practically throw their phone numbers at him the second he raises an eyebrow in their direction. But whatever I did must've been enough, because there she goes, past the teller counter and toward the offices. I close my eyes and breathe deeply as she disappears from view.

It'll be there. It has to be there.
I can picture it in my head. A small silver disk lying on the floor, half under the desk. The more I think back, the more I'm positive that's where it is. It feels right. I don't let myself think too hard on the fact that the cops probably already have it and are on their way to my house right now to arrest me. Mom opening the door, the look on her face. I shake my head.

No.

My medal is inside. It has to be.

I try to picture where the girl is now. Maybe signing in at the little kiosk you have to go to first before someone helps you. Would she try to just walk into the office? Or worse—will she tell her she's here to pick up her daughter's ex-boyfriend's medal? I pace the sidewalk.

Calm the hell down, man,
I tell myself as I move to the edge of the sidewalk near the curb.
She'll get it. It'll be there.
That she showed up this morning—that she's the one helping me—feels weirdly like fate, like maybe God is giving me a sign that he's going to let me get away again. I lit a candle at the church on my way home last night. Ducked in and struck a match, like one of the tias. Then I got here this morning and there she was, looking up at me, those blue-green eyes of hers, not exactly trusting but curious, and I just thought,
Okay, so here's the answer to my prayer.
The medal's in there, and she's going to get it for me.

I can't see much of the bank's lobby from here, just the guard, the same guy who was there yesterday, looking more alert than he did before, staring at every person coming through the door as if they're a threat. It's weird to see the victims afterward. It kind of feels like another violation or something, like I'm hurting them twice—him and the girl. I don't like it.

I look down at my phone. Five minutes. It's only been five lousy minutes since she went in. My skin feels like it's crawling off my bones. I can't stay still.

I reach into my pocket and take the girl's student ID out and stare at it. I swiped it when I helped her pick up her wallet. I didn't really plan to do it; I just saw it and wanted a better look. I shouldn't have, but I'm curious about who she is. Alexandra Scott. Sophomore class. Student number 5756439. Westwood Preparatory. Never heard of it, but obviously it's one of those rich-kid schools, probably in Orange County somewhere. Figures. She's got that rich-kid look. Nice clothes, the air of cool confidence that only comes from getting whatever you want, whenever you want. I must've totally flipped her out good yesterday. It had to be the first brush with crime this girl's ever had.
Maybe that's why she came back here this morning? To revisit the scene of the crime?
I've heard some people are into that, that they find it exciting or something. I laugh. Yeah, it's exciting all right. Until you get caught.

I wonder what she told the police afterward. Did she notice anything in particular about me? Something that could help them? My nerves are getting the better of me. I stare at the ID again and rub the corner with my thumb.
Please, please, please. Hurry.

A few more minutes pass, and then she's coming out, scanning the street for me. I wave her over, feeling suddenly anxious about more than just whether she found my medal. She's tall, lean, and graceful as a dancer, walking like she's on a catwalk. Her blond hair bounces with every step, falling over her shoulders in perfect, loose waves.
Alexandra.
It fits her. Guys passing by turn back around for a second look, and I have to laugh because I'm ridiculous to think she'd want anything to do with me. I feel out of place standing next to her in my faded jeans and white T shirt.

“Did you find it?” I ask, running my hand nervously through my hair and trying not to stare into those deep-ocean eyes of hers.

She smiles and holds up one hand, and dangling from it is my Saint Jude's.
Holy crap. It was really there.

I go to take it, but she pulls it out of reach and turns the medal over in her hands. “Christian Ruiz? Is that your name?”

Actually my last name is Sims, like my dad's, but I wanted Ruiz instead so it'd be the same last name as Benny's. I get a little closer and cover her hand with my own, trapping the medal between them. “Yeah,” I say as I untangle the leather cord from her fingers. I let out a sigh of relief. I feel as if I haven't breathed since the medal went missing.

Her face is close to mine, and she's staring at me. “So do you go by Chris or…”

“Christian.” I almost call her Alexandra but catch myself. “And you?”

“Mata Hari.” She laughs. “No, it's Lexi.” She tilts her head to one side and watches as I slip the medal around my neck.

“Thanks for getting this back for me, Lexi.”

Our eyes meet.
Say goodbye. Turn around and get the hell out of here,
I tell myself. “Listen, I know this place down the block. Best doughnuts in the city. Let me buy you a couple. To say thanks properly,” I say instead.
What am I doing?

“Doughnuts?” She narrows her eyes, but her mouth turns up a little, a sexy half smile that makes my stomach turn a slow flip.

“Fresh out of the oven. The kind that sort of dissolve when you bite into them, they're so light.” I don't know why I'm trying to sell the idea so hard. I can't actually get to know this girl. Besides, she's going to say no anyway. A girl like this agreeing to go somewhere with me, a guy she barely knows? No. Never gonna happen.

“Lead the way.” She folds her arms over her chest, and that smile—it goes from playful to challenging. She knew I didn't expect her to say yes, and now she expects
me
to wuss out.

I clench my jaw tight to keep it from dropping open. “Cool,” I say, forcing an easy
I'm totally up for this
grin, my heart suddenly jackhammering in my chest.
Way to go, genius. Now what?
I rack my brain for something to say.

“So. Who's the dude on the medal?” she asks, beating me to it.

“It's Saint Jude. The patron saint of lost causes,” I say.

“Is that what you are? A lost cause?” Her smile gets wider.

“Nah, I just seem to get mixed up in them.”

She takes this in, not saying anything, just giving me an appraising look as she slips her arm through mine and we step off the curb and into the street.

I walk her a couple of blocks over to my favorite place: Fried Dough. There's nothing fancy about it, but the doughnuts are ridiculous and, best of all, cheap. We're nearing the door when I start to smell them. She sniffs the air and closes her eyes.

“Oh wow.”

“I know. They taste even better, trust me.” Her fingers tighten on my arm, and I feel the stress of the past day—all that worry over my medal and whether the police discovered it—disappear. I'm okay. The job is over. I got the medal.

I look down at Lexi. I should order our doughnuts to go, but curiosity's got the best of me. I want to see if she'll tell me about yesterday. Her take on things. What it was like at the bank once we were gone.

The store is warm and thick with sugar. The air tastes sweet. I come here every time we start to case a job downtown. Something about the coziness of it is comforting, and it's central to at least a dozen banks. In fact, the first one we hit is almost directly across the street.

We order our doughnuts—a couple of chocolate-iced ones for me, a maple bacon one for her—and settle at a table near the front window, where we can watch people walk by.

“Hey, look. They've got games,” she says, pointing to a basket near the door with a stack of old games inside. Chess. Scrabble. Sorry.

“Chess. Nice. You play?” I ask.

“Do you?” She looks at me all shocked.

“I've been known to play. When I'm not breaking hearts and stealing cars,” I joke, an edge to my voice. To a girl like her, I must look a little street, but I'm no thug. To an actual thug, I'm laughably far from it. “My grandfather taught me. He's big into chess.”

She looks down, color rising in both cheeks. “I didn't mean you didn't look like you played. Lots of guys I know don't. I barely do. I mean, I'm not horrible, but I don't exactly practice….” She's talking fast, rambling because I've made her feel bad. Not how I pictured this going.

“No. My bad. I get defensive sometimes,” I tell her. “You wanna play?”

She raises her eyebrows. “Sure.”

I get the board and start setting out the pieces. “So I guess you want to be white?” I ask, taunting her now.

“Oh, whatever,” she says, grabbing the black chess pieces from me and setting up her side. I laugh and she looks up, pretends to glare, but the smile tugging at her lips gives her away.

I make the first move. She takes a bite of her doughnut and makes a move of her own right away. It's bold. I'm not sure if she's just playing recklessly or if she's really good. I focus on the board.

“So you were really at the robbery yesterday?” I make my next move.

She looks up at me, startled, and I mentally curse myself for not being smooth.

Her eyes get a faraway look. “Yes. I still can't believe one of them ran into me.” She countermoves. I try to determine what her strategy is, but so far, I'm not seeing it.

It's weird to hear her talking about me
to me
without her knowing that's what she's doing. Weird and kind of fascinating. I move my rook.

“He was coming out of the bank and I was about to go in and we just…crashed into each other.” She moves.

“Were you scared?” I ask, really wanting to know. “Check,” I say.

She studies the board and moves her king. “No. I was just taken off guard, that's all. She takes a bite of her doughnut, a surprisingly enthusiastic one. A bit of icing is stuck to her cheek. Without thinking, I reach out and brush it away. Her eyes jump to mine, and I freeze. I pull my hand away and quickly move again, taking one of her pawns this time. Lexi taps her finger on the bishop and considers the board.

“So what happened after? Did you have to hang out and talk to the police?” I feel like I'm balancing on a dangerous tightrope between seeming curious and nosy. I talked to her yesterday. Not a lot, but I did speak. If she's thinking about the robbery when she hears me talk, will something click inside her head? I watch her take my knight, and I consider my options. I move. She moves. The game feels like a dance.

“Yeah. They didn't keep me long, though. I didn't see much. Well, except the van they took off in. That I could describe pretty well.” She rubs the back of her head. “I hit my head, and things got pretty scrambled. Like, for example, I couldn't remember exactly how many of them there were, but I know that I saw them all run past and pile into the van. See? I've got a lump back here the size of an egg, I hit the ground so hard.” She grabs my hand and puts it to the back of her head.

All at once I'm leaning over the table, my face right up close to hers. I don't think she meant for us to be this close, so close that to anyone else, it must look like we're about to kiss. Suddenly this dawns on her, too.

“Um, TMI. Sorry,” she says, surprising me by not giggling or blushing. How is she this chill when I'm about to go crazy being this close to her? The temptation to try to unsettle her the way she has me is just too much. I lean a little closer, tilting my head sideways like I'm making a move. She hesitates, her eyes going wide…until I move my queen and scoop up a pawn. I grin.