The Russian Prick:
You’ve been avoiding me, m????.
I ignored Roman’s text—the needy fuck that he was—because a more interesting notification had appeared. Swiping up, I clicked on Instagram and immediately selected Violet. Her grid consisted mainly of her pretty, girly style of art.
It was over-the-top feminine, but hardened around the edges with the strange places she’d paint. Brick walls, corrugated metal, and other industrial-looking stuff. I’ve never understood art, but even I could admit her work was impressive in a‘I’ve accidentally overdosed and now the void is speaking to me’kind of way.
She rarely posted pictures of herself, and if she did her face was usually obscured with a half mask, her blonde hair tied up in a messy, long braid as she likely painted something she clearly wasn’t supposed to.
Honestly, her being a secret delinquent was kind of hot. Even if it was only graffiti.
The Russian Prick:
I can see you’ve read these, you know.
I left him on read.
Clicking on Violet’s latest post, I studied the moody shot of her reflection in a cracked mirror. The fractured glass splintered her image, giving her a beautifully broken look as she leaned her head into her hand, listlessly blowing a party horn.
Somehow, her hat had survived the night, sitting crooked on her head. The caption read, ‘Happy 25thto me.’
*Incoming call from The Russian Prick*
Groaning, I clicked answer. “Hello, you have reached the voicemail of?—”
“Stop being a cunt,”Roman growled through the headset built into my helmet, and I bit back a laugh.“You working?”
“I’m always working.” Throwing my leg back over, I pushed the button for the ignition. “Why?”
“I need you to swing by.”
The bike vibrated beneath me as I pulled out, heading home. “Who says I’m in London?”
“You have an open tab at the Duckling,”he replied dryly.“Which you actually need to pay. But that’s not why I called.”
I picked up speed, enjoying the way everything whizzed past me. “I already told you my answer. It’s no, by the way. If that wasn’t clear. Why would I work for your father when I can work for myself?”
“Not my father,”he grunted, a line he’d repeatedenough times that I only brought it up to fuck with him.“Look, Ryder, you’re my friend?—”
“I’m your only friend, Rome. But I still don’t want to be your bitch. So you canidina khuy,” I said, undoubtedly butchering the pronunciation.Fuck off,or something like that.
“Ty mnye kak zanoza v zadnitse.”
I slowed for the red light. “Did you just call me a pain in the arse?”
“Of course that’s the Russian you remember,”Roman laughed.“Chtob u tebya khuy na lbu výros!”
“You haven’t taught me that phrase yet.”
“It’s an insult.”
“Everything you say to me is an insult.” The light turned green, and I revved obnoxiously as I set off. “Anyways, I’ve got to go. You know how busy and popular I am.”
“Ryder—”
“Okay, love you. Byeeeeeeeeee.” I clicked off his call, envisioning him throwing his phone across the room as I smirked.
It didn’t take me long to get home, and parking my bike in the secure underground garage, I rode the lift up to my floor. The one good thing about being a thief was that I knew all the best security measures. I knew which systems were just for show, which ones could be bypassed with a magnet and a steady hand, and which ones even I wouldn’t try to crack.
