Figures. Beckett likes to pretend he’s invincible. He’s not—he’s just young.
I open the fridge and grab a bottle of water, pressing the cold plastic to my temple before twisting off the cap. “Weird. I just tripped over his surfboard on the back deck. Yet mine is mysteriously missing.”
Lola’s grin widens. “Maybe if you didn’t keep yours in such perfect condition, he wouldn’t steal it every five minutes.”
I snort. “It’s not stealing. It’s sacrilege.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s not.” I roll my neck from side to side, easing the tension that’s been lodged there since running into Gage outside Marty’s warehouse. “What if I wanted to go surfing?”
She gives me an unimpressed look as she pads barefoot to the counter. “Please. You only surf at dawn or dusk. You’re basically allergic to mid-day waves.”
I huff a laugh because she’s not wrong. “Those are the best hours. You know that.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she says, waving a hand. “Golden hour mermaid, blah blah.”
She always says that like it’s a joke, but surfing is one of the few things that’s ever felt like freedom. I learned when I was ten, on a board too big for me, in waves too mean for beginners. After everything went to hell years later, it kept me sane. Dawn and dusk. Quiet, empty beaches when no one was watching. When no one could follow. When the world felt completely mine for ten minutes at a time.
I lean against the counter, letting the cool quartz absorb the residual heat in my palms. The apartment smells faintly of lemon cleaner and the coconut-scented dry shampoo Lola uses when it’s not a hair wash day. Sunlight slants across the living room, catching on the cracked ceramic lamp we found at a garage sale, the thrifted bookshelf bowing under the weight of Lola’s paperbacks, and the pile of Beckett’s hoodies perpetually occupying the corner armchair.
Lived-in and scrappy. A little chaotic.Ours.
“So,” Lola says, grabbing a fizzy water from the fridge. “How’d it go? What’d Marty say?”
I take a long drink before answering. “He thinks he can move the pieces. The rings definitely. The watches might take longer. He said two or three weeks.”
“That’s not bad.” Lola cracks her can open with a hiss. “So we’re solid with Marty?”
“Pretty solid,” I say. “For now. Depends on what we line up next.”
Lola taps a fingernail against her can, a little spark lighting her eyes. “Speaking of next. I think I have an idea for another job.”
I glance up, interest sharpening despite myself. “Oh, yeah?”
She shrugs, the rollers in her hair bobbing. “I mean, I need to get a little more info first. Some recon. But I think it might be a really good score. Like,reallygood.”
The familiar hum settles low in my chest. The familiar buzz of possibility. The part of me that still knows how to plan three steps ahead. “Okay. Let me know when you’re ready to bring it to?—”
“The council,” Lola interrupts with a grin.
I groan. “Why do we call it that?”
“Because we’re dramatic,” she says, wiggling her brows. “And because none of us gets to crown themselvesthe boss. Democracy rules, babe. Unanimous vote, or it doesn’t happen.”
She’s not wrong. That’s been the rule since we were kids: if one of us feels off about a job, we walk away. No exceptions. Surviving is easier when everyone gets a voice.
I push off the counter, stretching my back. “All right, then. Bring it tothe councilwhen you’re ready.”
Lola reaches up and tightens one of her rollers. “Well, at least between Marty and the yacht haul, we’re set for the next few months.” She wiggles her brows again. “And maybe we can finally get that portable AC unit before we die of heatstroke.”
A laugh breathes out of me. “Maybe.”
The truth is, we have a handful of storage units scattered around the country. If we hauled everything back here, we could breathe easy for a while. But I don’t let myself do that.
Staying mobile keeps you sharp. Getting comfortable gets you caught.
It’s then I notice she’s wearing a little black dress underneath her pink silk kimono. “Going out tonight?”
