Zipper Fall (20 page)

I grabbed his hand and yanked it off my shirt. The whole unfairness of his attitude got under my skin; it burned like salt. I gave him my best-ever death glare. “For your information, Azz-hole, I’ve spent fifty-three hours on that project for BW&B. At an extremely reasonable consulting rate of $80 per hour—which I could easily double, because that’s how I’ve been billed out by Pillory—that’s $4240 that I’m not being paid because you decided to extort me. I considered getting a roommate, but it’s kind of hard with just one bedroom, you know? Novack paid half upfront, which means I might get to eat this week. He referred another small client, his accountant, who needs to expand. Those projects have a long lead time, and it will be at least three weeks before I see any money out of it. I’m doing a lot of work on my own, for free. No secretaries, no support. Nothing. And you dare to tell me how to spend my time? And even if I could get more hours, do you really think I went to school just to wait tables full time?”

He didn’t even pause to think. “My heart bleeds piss-water, Gaudens. I did some things I shouldn’t have, and I got my second chance. All three of us did, at the firm. We’re doing it all legit now. I got off easy—I’m on probation. We all are. And here you’re risking everything for a few lousy bucks. Do you really think I want my boyfriend to go to jail?” His eyes ignited with anger. “Do you realize I’m violating my probation by consorting with a felon? That’s you, sweetheart. By not turning you in like I ought to, I’m aiding and abetting. You’re screwing up your life and taking me down with you. And for what? Money?” He spat the last word with contempt.

I didn’t have a good response to that, so I kept my mouth shut on the theory that silence never did any harm. He stared at me, his gaze pinning me in place, and as much as I wanted to, I didn’t see a way out. I wasn’t going to apologize. I’d have to think over the fact that he might be getting hurt here, but it was hard to do right then and there, since he was in lecture mode. I hated lecture mode. It turned him from an awesome, sexy guy into a pompous ass. I focused on the mechanics of my breathing.

Damn… keeping mum was hard.

“I bet your father would really disapprove.”

I set my jaw. Of course he would. “He already knows I’m no good. What of it?”

“I bet your mother would be really proud of your safe-cracking skills.”

I blanched and swallowed, then I huffed to cover it all up. “Keep my dead mother out of it, Jack.”

He took the glass out of my hand and set it on the counter and eased closer to me, his thighs barely brushing mine, the wall of his chest looming over me. I strained to hear his strangled whisper. “You’re doing it for all the wrong reasons, and one of them is a nice adrenaline high.”

This made me lift my eyes again, a slight quirk tugging at my lips.

Finally.

Finally he understood.

“Yeah,” I said, growing a full-out smile. “I never know if I’ll make it in, and I never know if I’ll make it out. I never know what I’ll find. It’s so… unpredictable. I almost got caught today—the neighbors were walking their dog.” The grin on my face was victorious.

He leaned over me, looming. His breath broke against my skin as he spoke. “You want unpredictable? You want adrenaline?” His handsome features were suddenly marred by scorn and I could see his fury build up beneath that controlled mask. “Do you?” he shouted. He reached out to grab my biceps, stopping short. He willed himself to step away, breathing hard. Four paces took him into his dining room; he reached inside a cupboard full of paperwork and pulled out a stack of documents. “You want excitement? Here is some excitement for you. Here, this will give you some adrenaline!” He flung the lightly rolled papers at my face; I felt the wind of their passing against my cheeks. The sharp sound of crisp paper impacting the cabinets by my face broke the silence like a whip crack.

Pages fluttered to my feet.

“Page four, paragraph two. Fifteen year probation. Page six, community service, five hundred hours. Page seven, conditions of probation. Paragraph three—no association with known felons.” He cited all this by heart.

I had never known.

“You wanna be a felon? You don’t talk about what you do. Felons who talk about the thrill they get out of what they do are known as inmates.” His breathing was still heavy, but he stilled for a bit, except in my peripheral vision I still saw his fists open and close, open and close.

My breathing was heavy as well—I also felt an adrenaline rush, but this time it wasn’t accompanied by that familiar sense of control over a dangerous situation. There was a dissonance to it, and I wanted to hide away from it, make it go away. But as bad as it felt, and despite the discord and upset and anger, I felt almost whole again. I could… I could
feel
again.

I felt alive.

I stood straight, willing my slump away. My heated gaze sought out Jack’s enraged one. “Jack.” I reached out. There was nothing I wanted to do more at that moment than stroke his cheek, trace his jawline, pull his neck in for the deepest of kisses.

“You want this?” He growled.

“I want you.” The chase after this man and the extent of my actions flashed through my mind, and all of a sudden, I knew there was nothing I wouldn’t attempt to keep him from shoving me out his door and out of his life.

“If you want me, you’ll return this. If not—”

“Don’t say it….” There was a pleading note in my voice. He was annoying, exasperating, arrogant. He also had his soft and entirely sweet, even vulnerable side that made me weak in the knees after I got to see a glimpse of it last week. Aside from which, he was hot enough to melt cheese just by staring at it. I shook my head as if to dislodge the cobwebs clouding my mind.

I wanted him in my life. So much. “Okay. Okay I’ll do it.”

His eyebrows quirked up. “You will? Why?”

“For you.”

M
Y
HEART
beat fast as I jumped off the wall again and landed in the grass with a soft thud. The cash envelope was in my jacket pocket; I walked to my donor’s house and looked around. Nobody was out, and lights were on behind people’s curtained windows. The Pirates game wasn’t over yet, either, and to everyone’s shocked delight, the home team was beating the Cincinnati Reds by a landslide; I had at least half an hour. I bent over and retrieved the keys from under the fake rock. It occurred to me perhaps I could just leave the money with the keys under there, but I have my pride and like to see a job well done. In this case, that would mean going up to the guy’s bedroom and replacing the envelope exactly where it belonged.

I unlocked the door and, keys in my hand, I walked up the soft, carpeted stairs. There, second door to the right was his bedroom. I opened the door slowly, peeking in.

Nobody there.

I retrieved the cash envelope from my jacket pocket and was opening the carved wooden box when the closet door burst open and out spilled a bald guy wearing Bermuda shorts and a Cincinnati Reds baseball shirt. There was a gun in his hand. “You picked the wrong house, you little twerp.”

I froze, stunned that he didn’t recognize me as a young, adorable, and harmless female. Then I remembered the purpose of my mission. “I’m returning something that belongs to you.” I placed the envelope on the bureau and edged toward the door.

“You asshole! The Markovs told me somebody was prowling around here!” He aimed at me and pulled the trigger. The sound of the gunshot filled the bedroom with a deafening boom, and we both froze in the silence that followed. He looked stunned, which is exactly how I felt.

I looked down my body just to make sure, but there was no blood. He missed me. From the way his startled expression changed into one of determined anger, it was too late to try to talk my way out of this one. I turned to flee, but I tripped and had to reach out to grab the door jam. Right next to my hand was one very destroyed light switch, which told me the shot didn’t miss me by much. I was out that door and down the short hallway like greased lightning; another shot sounded, then another. As I ran down the stairs, my foot slipped on the carpet and I fell on my side and slid down like a kid. That probably saved my life, since just as I did, I felt a slug whiz through the top of my cap. He’d fired four shots.

Two more and I’m safe.

If only. In my panic and confusion, I headed for the kitchen instead of the front door; Ernie charged after me, spewing obscenities and pulling the trigger. I ran through his galley kitchen; another shot took out his microwave. Like a raging bull, Ernie was capable of achieving surprising speed. I ducked around the corner and heard a shot shatter a case full of tchotchkes I’d noticed earlier.

Six! He fired his six shots!

It felt like forever before I ripped the front door open. “Your keys!” I yelled at him, throwing the ring of keys in his direction.

I shouldn’t have stopped to return his keys.

Ernie wasn’t shooting a revolver.

Another round was discharged and I felt something sting my butt, but I didn’t stop to investigate as I poured out the door and hustled through the neighboring cul-de-sac to reach the wall. And the wall was there all right, nice and tall, and I jumped—and fell right back down. Straight on my butt. It hurt more than usual, but I didn’t care. I had all that adrenaline pumping through my system, so I tried again. No luck. My jumping muscles took an unexpected vacation.

I ran to the front gate where the guard sat, reading magazines and listening to the radio. He lifted his head, surprised to see me run past his little booth. That’s when I realized Ernie was no longer pursuing me. A police siren sounded from afar.

Fuck.

Nobody was out on the street; the wall sheltered me from the prying eyes of the privileged denizens of that particular gated community. I ripped off my hat with its attached hair along with my microfiber cap, and ran my fingers through my hair in an effort to smooth it down. I took off my green windbreaker, revealing the pink floral tee underneath. After removing my lock picks from my pockets, I ripped my latex gloves off; then I rolled the whole mess together and carried the small bundle while taking a leisurely stroll toward my car. I had to go slow anyway; the adrenaline I was so fond of was starting to wear off, and I had to focus so my limp didn’t show.

Finally, my car. Nondescript and modest, it would blend into most neighborhoods. I beeped it open and slid behind the wheel just as the police cruiser sped past me with sirens blaring and lights flashing.

Only when I settled into the driver’s seat did I realize why my butt hurt so much. That jerk shot me in the ass.

I’
D
NEVER
been shot before, so I didn’t know quite what to expect, but I knew I couldn’t afford to stick around that particular neighborhood. The damage was done to my left butt cheek, which was fortunate, because I was able to shift my weight onto my right hip and operate the controls of my modest, automatic transmission vehicle with the tiptoe of my right foot.

My butt throbbed. It hurt like the devil. As the happy chemicals started to leave my system, I felt the pain like a red fog, covering my eyes and impairing my functions. What had been a mere sting in the beginning had bloomed into a raging, burning hotspot on an otherwise delicate area, and to make it even worse, my hands began to tremble.

Sometimes, when the adrenaline wears off, I get the shakes. I used to get them all the time at first, but as I got used to breaking and entering, I just got the fun adrenaline high. Being chased and shot at took my experience to an entirely new level. Ernie had brought me to a new pinnacle of ecstasy; he plain tapped me out.

I navigated the main street toward Route 28 and headed for the city, crossing the 40th Street Bridge toward my apartment in Bloomfield.

Waste of effort.

Controlling my shakes kept my attention on driving and away from my injury, and from the way I felt light-headed, and also from my stomach, which kept doing nasty flip-flops on me. The traffic around me seemed to have sped up and, pretending I had mechanical trouble, I clicked on my hazard lights. City drivers were fast and focused; I didn’t want to become their speed bump.

Somehow—and I don’t quite know how I managed—I made it to my street. There was no parking available, so I pulled up to the fire hydrant. I’d get a ticket… but now I had bigger fish to fry.

Once I turned the engine off, my system started to shut down. My hands stopped shaking, and that was good, but my body wouldn’t do as I requested, and that was definitely a big minus in my book. I just couldn’t get my bloody ass out of that car.

Bloody ass.

After some fumbling, I managed to turn the dome light on, and I looked down and behind myself. I was sitting in a pool of blood, and it had soaked into the gray fabric upholstery of my car and dripped onto the carpet. I unlocked the car door and reached for my cell phone. Last thing I remember doing was hitting the redial button. The phone rang and rang.

“Yo, Wyatt. It’s almost midnight.” Jack’s voice was fuzzy with sleep.

“Jack….” Panic seized me. I forgot where I was and why. “Jack!”

“What? Hey… Wyatt?”

“I’ve been shot.”

I heard him draw a breath, and his voice dropped down to his no-nonsense register. I would have gotten flushed just from hearing it if I had enough blood to spare.

“Where are you, Wyatt?”

“In front of my building. The car… the car.”

“Stay there!”

“Jack….” I heard him click the phone shut as I drifted off and darkness claimed me.