The boys can be frightening enough on their own. Although Stefan has never shown his teeth to me, just being boss is enough to let me know he has them and they’re far more damaging than anything Caylon could inflict.
My mind flits back to the warehouse. To the clean-up crew they’d called to make the mess with Robbie go away.
The same crew wouldn’t blink an eye while carting my remains away to god-knows-where. In six months, it might be my friends or sister outside Stefan’s club, begging for someone to say what happened to me.
Then I snort at the ridiculous notion. If I go missing, the only person who’d care would be Zach and I’m not a hundred percent sure about him. He probably already knows what Caylon’s asking. Probably gave permission.
When the bell for homeroom rings, I jump. My nerves are fired up already. If this is what it’s like living through the practice run in my head, it’ll be a disaster tonight. Even if I luck out and the wallet’s in a jacket pocket rather than his trousers, my fumble fingers won’t be able to snag it without them noticing. From there, it’s a short step to Stefan.
Maybe I could call in sick?
But this isn’t dodging a shift at the dairy or ducking a class. The stakes are higher; my employer is far scarier than a guidance counsellor or old Mrs Kuzmanic. I need the job to have any chance with my sister. Even if Bradley comes through, Carla will baulk if I don’t meet my agreed stipulations.
I can snitch.
The idea rolls around in my head, trying to find a suitable place to rest. It’s the unthinkable. The undoable.
It’s also undeniably attractive.
At least until the repercussions hit.
With a sigh, I let the idea float away. Maybe Stefan won’t kill me and leave my body out back for someone else to dispose of. My fingers might discover they’re nimbler than I thought, and I’ll get the wallet to Caylon with ease.
Or perhaps a pig is flying past the window and that’s why it feels like there’s a shadow obscuring the sun.
* * *
When the schoolday is over and I’m prepping for work, I still haven’t constructed a plan for what I’m going to do. The various ideas bounce around the inside of my skull like a pinball machine, never landing on a fully fledged solution.
My outfit is fashioned from slinky satin, the material heavy enough that it falls to the floor, pulling the fabric tight against my upper body on the way. The dark rose colour suits my skin, bringing out a faint flush that matches to the tinges of pink.
Even without makeup, the dress causes my eyes to shine and appear darker than anything I wear to school. With it, my age goes up the scale a few years until I stop appearing inappropriate when measured against the average club clientele.
The greatest miracle is the way it instantly transforms me from poor to rich. It’s a pity I didn’t know this party trick from a younger age.
At the club, I nod to Trent, who’s on guard duty near the door. Not a bouncer, nothing as common as that, but his role overlaps until it’s just semantics to call him anything different.
The tables are crowded, the bets and the booze already flowing when I take a seat at a card table with three serious players already ensconced. I try to keep my mind on my job but with my nerves so fired up, I have a hard time keeping track in my head.
After twenty minutes, Trent drops by, passing a folded square into my hand. It’s like being at school as I wait until the other members from the table are staring at their cards to check the message.
Wilbur Braxen. My eyes float around the room until they pinpoint him at table thirteen. The clock reads eight seventeen. Plenty of time.
Except my armpits are sweaty and my stomach performs a never-ending series of forward rolls. When I see Caylon standing in the entranceway before slipping upstairs, I excuse myself from the table and follow, catching him in the hallway near the main office.
“I can’t do it.”
His eyebrows raise, but there’s no other sign that he heard what I said. I don’t know why I’ve never noticed how little he reacts, how often Caylon seems to drift in a daydream rather than interacting with his immediate environment.
“Did you—?”
“Then the gun goes to the police. Are you sure that’s what you want?”
I rub a hand over my abdomen, already pulled tight by strings of anxiety. “Can’t you think of something else? Anything? Something I actually have a shot of pulling off?”
“Something you’re good at?”
“Yes.” I frown at the note of ridicule in his voice. “Why not?”
