Page 13

“That’s right.” Bertha beams at Jerry, and Journey’s “Separate Ways” belts out of the speakers. Brothers, I tell you. Much more so than my other brothers and I ever were. I should’ve met this guy years ago. Maybe we’d have been friends. Maybe Bertha’s my long-lost madre.

“Does he ever sail them?” I ask, thinking of those maps, those faraway places, those legends as yet undiscovered. The treasures.

Perhaps he uncovered one and that’s what Nick’s after. Or maybe it’s a map—just hopefully not a magical one. You wanna talk about Trouble with a capital T, we can go on quite a Magical Maps tangent.

But hell, Nick could be hunting down a map, not that I think he’s gonna take up pirating or anything, but maybe he’s got a buyer.

“Sail? Oh, yeah, they sail all the time!” Jerry’s flipping again. I wonder if he’s a fidgeter like me. “Bring back all kinds of cool stuff—”

He cuts off. Suddenly. Suddenly enough to Pique my Interest. You know, with a capital P.

“What kind of cool stuff?” Shit, I almost feel bad, trying to finagle deets from these folks. They’re so nice. And Jerry, honestly, I’d chill with this guy, like talk about music over a beer, in another life.

But then I remind myself that this ain’t another life. I’m not their friend. I’m not anybody’s friend.

And besides, it’s not them I’m stealing from. It’s the people who keep them at the bottom, working class, waiting on them—for lifetimes and generations, for fuck’s sake. The grumpy Mr. Morton. Who may or may not be dealing with magical maps or some shit.

But before I can wrap my mind around any further questions—

“Jerry, I think it’s time we go back to work.” Bertha stands, clearly indicating the conversation’s come to a close.

Ah, well. I got enough chitter chatter for now. This house is chock-full of possibilities and super-secret shit Nick could be after. Endless possibilities.

And yet, none of them track. I’m missing something here, but I don’t know what.

What am I goddamn missing?

But, here’s the thing. As much as I want to go after Nick, figure out why he’s here, thwart his plans and all that jazz, I’m not entirely fucking hung up on some revenge plot dredged out of the distant past. If I’m gonna do all this work, crash whatever shitshow of a party is about to unfold, I’m not about to leave empty-handed.

I don’t know what Nick’s hunting on these grounds, but I’m not convinced that stalking him will equate to me coming out with a sick haul—not like if I were working this fancy-house heist of my own accord.

So . . .

I’ll be multi-tasking come showtime. Playing two different ball games. But hey, nobody ever said I didn’t love a challenge. I’m Jax Winter, and I decided a long time ago that rules don’t apply to me.

Besides. Nothing is impossible if you put your mind to it. Any outrageous feat is founded in a strong sense of belief, and all my allegedly impossible heists and shit are no exception. Pretty sure if I grew big enough balls to give it a try, I’d be capable of flight.

Sadly, even my balls ain’t big enough for a winged attempt—yet—or my heists would probably be a lot easier.

But where’d be the fun in that, amiright?

three

Party Prep

“It’s a masquerade ball .” Rachel crosses her arms, tucking the fold of stiff black cloth beneath her left biceps. She props a tulle-covered hip against the edge of her white-wood makeup table. Dresser? Whatever the shit that little tabley thing with the mirror on top is called. “You gotta wear a mask.”

Honestly, it doesn’t mean much to me. I’m always in a mask. What does, however, tickle my thieving fancy is the prospect of a whole lot of rich folks mashed together in a single house, practically begging to be robbed.

“Whatever you say, love.” I shrug, then flash her my flirtiest grin, donning a disguise far more powerful than the one in her hand. “You know I’m gonna be fucking cute with or without the costume.”

Rachel groans. “Really, Jax?”

She’s already assumed an itsy-bitsy, string-bikini version of a sparkling gold mask that does little to hide her knife’s-edge features—the hard angle of cheekbones, the full curve of lips, the playful sparkle of brown eyes. The contrast with her dark skin is quite striking. Her Beauty and the Beast style dress clings to her bust and hips before unfurling in a wash of gold tulle and sequins, further highlighting her easy elegance.

I lift my brows in picture-perfect innocence. “I mean, are you surprised?”

“Your ego is ridiculous.” She slaps at my arm, but she’s biting down on a smile too.