by M. S. Parker
“You can figure all that out just from looking at his back?”
“You studied criminal psychology, right?” she asked.
I nodded. And I'd been trying to use it all week to figure out what Bron was thinking.
“While there's a general profile that fits most grifters, you'll find that there are as many varied motives for them as there are for sexual predators and murderers.”
Maybe this was what I needed, I thought. Someone who didn't know Bron, whose opinion wasn't colored by the biases of the past. Benita could give me insight into the different types of grifters she’d experienced on the job, and maybe then I could figure out what motivated Bron and understand why he'd changed.
It was also a relief to not have to play dumb for a few hours. I could be honestly interested and not have to worry that Benita would question the reasons behind my interest. During the four hours it took us to go to the museum, speak to security, then the owner, grab the files and finally get to the station, she kept up a steady stream of information, often leaving off mid-thought to conduct some business, then picking back up again as if nothing had interrupted.
There were the Theatrics, the grifters who favored getting the victim to hand them the prize or money gladly. Often years would pass before the target realized they had been conned – if they ever realized it at all. Sometimes these were long cons, but often they were short and so simplistic that people never suspected them to be false. These were generally run by people who were in it for the money, but also enjoyed the thrill that came with escaping undetected, the knowledge of having been so clever that their crime was often unnoticed.
Then there were the Moles. They were similar to the Theatrics, usually burying themselves into the world of whatever place or person they were trying to rob. These were generally long cons, where the mark was drawn into a relationship of sorts with the grifter. They could take months or even years. This sort almost cared more about the game than the prize. They often had narcissistic personalities, believing that their lives were the only ones that mattered. When they were done, they often didn't care if the mark knew they'd been conned or not.
Spies would con enough to get relevant information to break in and steal whatever it was they wanted. Their cons were simply a means to an end. It was the prize that mattered. If they were able to get their information without conning someone, they were fine with that too.
There were the Extortionists who dedicated all their time to finding out salacious secrets about their victims and then blackmailing them for exorbitant demands. They got off on the power as much as the money. Rather than being indifferent to the opinions of others like the Moles, they enjoyed the cruelty of their acts.
And then there were the Sharks. Despite their name, they were the lowest on the totem pole, and apparently the butt of jokes in grifting circles. Sharks were penny-ante nobodies who got along by on ripping off the poor and already desperate. These were the kinds of grifters who'd given carnies bad names, working circuits with shell games or scamming old people out of their life savings.
From everything Benita was telling me, grifters respected stealing from the wealthy and powerful. The more elite the target, and the smaller the ripple a grifter made, the more respect they earned. And with respect came employment, should a con be interested in taking on such things. Which is why Sharks were basically pariahs since they cared little about subtly, or the harm caused to their marks.
A code of ethics among criminals wasn't unheard of. Organized crime had their own do's and don'ts, their own code of honor. Assassins and hit-men were regarded as a different sort of murderer than those who killed for their own pleasure. And everyone knew that in prison hierarchy, people who hurt kids were the lowest of the low.
A part of me was almost glad that it seemed like Bron wasn't a Shark. There'd been no violence, no loss of savings. But since Benita still seemed to think that this had been a theft for hire, it wasn't possible to know if money was his only motivating factor. How good he'd been at every step of the theft, including the fact that he'd done it as a con rather than a straight robbery, indicated that this wasn’t his first time. The question was, were all of his cons simply a way for him to make a living, or was there more to it than that.
While Benita's lesson had given me a bit of relief from pretending, it hadn't truly helped me figure out why Bron had turned to a life of crime. The only thing she'd been able to get from the security footage was that he was patient, careful, and meticulous. All things that we'd already assumed based on the ease of the theft. He'd eliminated any associates who lacked that sort of elegance, but that still hadn't narrowed the pool by much.
When we finally called it quits for the day, we weren't really any closer to finding him than we were that morning.
I wasn't sure if I should've been glad or frustrated, but I did know that it supported my decision to take the night and not think about work at all.
As I headed toward the subway, I found myself wishing that just this once I had driven to work. Normally, I tried to be eco-friendly and use public transportation or walk the short half-mile, but today, my brain hurt. My eyes hurt. My head hurt.
By the time I got home, I was tempted to just throw myself into bed and sink into blissful sleep, but I knew I needed to get out of my funk. I couldn’t keep existing in a cycle of work, maybe sleeping, sometimes eating. I needed something distracting, something different.
But first, I needed a shower. The hot water felt heavenly on my tired body and stiff muscles. For once, I took the time to wash my hair and leave in my conditioner for the full five minutes the bottle called for. From there, it was a slow but steady progression of blow-drying my curls, putting on a light bit of make-up – though more than I wore to work – and picking an outfit that was the perfect balance of sexy and I will punch you in the face if you cross a line.
I settled on a golden, glittery top that complemented my skin tone, and a short black skirt. It would be a bit chilly outside since it was the middle of October, but I knew the club would be packed on a Friday night, and I'd be grateful for the bare skin. It was a bit more than I usually showed, but every once in a while, I felt the need to cut loose, and the return of my lost first love had definitely sparked that need.
I shook my head. This was supposed to be a night off. I needed to stop thinking about him.
I grabbed my winter coat instead of a jacket, put on a pair of three-inch heels – the highest I ever dared to wear since I was already taller than a lot of guys – and headed out the door. I was ready to make this night mine. No responsibilities. No case dogging my back. Just fun.
The walk to the club I had in mind was relatively short, and my thoughts only drifted to Bron twice. Both times, I sent them scurrying away. Once I was inside, I checked my coat and headed straight to the bar.
The place was decent, subtle lighting, not too crowded and a large dance floor a bit away from the bar. I was able to pick my way through the patrons fairly easily and perched myself on a bronze stool. I'd never been much of a club girl, but on the rare occasions I did want to dance or find someone to hook up with, this is where I came. While there were some college-age kids around, it was mostly people in their mid to late twenties, and I'd never seen any colleagues here, which made it all the more appealing.
The bartender was there in less than thirty seconds, which was pretty impressive for a Friday night. “What are you having?”
“Long Island Ice Tea.”
He nodded and started setting up my drink. I used the time to survey the room and see if I could spot anyone I might possibly be interested in taking home. I didn't do it often, but since my job and relationships never seemed to work out well, every so often I had to scratch that itch.
“One LIT.” The bartender called my attention back to the tall drink now waiting for me.
I slid his tip across the bar and reached for my glass. I tried to pace myself, but it was hard to resist the delicious taste and the warmth that
was already starting to fill me. The alcohol relaxed me, and I felt the anxiety that work had caused start to slip away.
This was exactly what I needed.
Why was I so worried about the case anyway? It was stupid. I was too good at my job to be worried about protecting some guy I hadn't seen in over a decade. He probably didn't even remember me. I'd been his buddy growing up. Nothing more.
I looked down at my empty drink and frowned. I didn't want to think about Bron. That's why I was here. I leaned over the bar to wave down another LIT when I sensed someone sidle up to me.
“Can I help you?” I asked as I turned toward the handsome man now leaning on the bar.
He was about as tall as me, even with the heels, and had thick black hair that was that perfect balance between working professional and chronic bad boy. Decently muscled, he had a jaw strong enough to join a weightlifting competition. Not exactly my type, but he'd do.
“I was just considering asking if I could buy you a drink, but then I thought that a woman as beautiful as you was probably used to silly tactics like that.” He gave me a charming smile.
“Oh, so what’s your plan now?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, I thought I might go in with a line about legs that go on for days, but that was too trite.”
“Mmhmm,” I agreed playfully, appreciating his vocabulary. I wasn't a snob, and I wasn't looking for a great conversationalist, but I'd always found brains more attractive than brawn.
“So then, I told myself that I should just talk to you like a normal human being, rather than some macho caveman conquest.”
That actually made me laugh in surprise. This guy wasn’t half bad. “Huh, a bold strategy. I think it’s working.”
He winked at me, his dark eyes bold. “But I would still like to buy you that drink.”
I leaned back and gestured toward the bartender. “I wouldn’t protest.”
Only a few seconds later, I had another Long Island in my hands, and my new friend had a whiskey sour.
“I suppose I should call you something other than beautiful woman at the bar,” he murmured, putting his hand on my arm. The touch was electrifying.
It'd been too long since I’d thought about anything other than work-work-work that I felt like my body was jumping into hyper drive. What was that one saying? All work and no play made Jane a dull girl?
Well, I was ready to play.
The alcohol made it easier, but I'd had this tension building in me for a while.
“No. That sounds just right.” I gave him a saucy grin.
He tilted his head back and laughed. It was a nice sound, rich and deep. “Fine then, beautiful woman at the bar, you can call me Cameron.”
“Karis,” I offered back when he didn't press for it.
As I finished my drink, I made my decision. He was handsome, he was decent at conversation, and most importantly, he wasn’t a ghost from my past or a suspect from my present. He'd certainly take my mind off of things for a while, and maybe relax me enough so I could get a decent night's sleep.
“Why don’t we finish all this small talk at my place?”
He looked surprised that I was the one who brought it up, but a slow grin spread across his face. “I think I'd like that.”
“Safety first,” I said as I pulled out my phone and snapped a quick picture. “A girl can never be too careful.”
When I saw respect rather than annoyance or condescension on his face, I knew I'd picked a good one. I could let myself go with him and not have to worry about any messy strings or follow-up. We were definitely on the same page, and that was a good place to be.
As we headed for the door, I reached back to take his hand and had a sudden flash of memory. A different hand in mine, smaller, younger. Fingers threaded between mine. Warmth and strength. Even after we'd gotten older and knew how other people would see the gesture, Bron had never stopped reaching for my hand. Not until he'd vanished.
I pushed the thought from my head. I wasn't with Bron. I'd never been with Bron in that way. And I never would be. Whoever Bron was now wasn't someone I could even consider being with. No matter what I decided to do, that fact wouldn't change.
We weren't on the same side anymore.
Chapter Ten
Karis
We barreled through my door like a couple of high school kids rushing to get done before our parents got home. I was all for that. I didn't want love-making. I wanted to fuck.
Our mouths moved fervently against each other in a fierce and desperate sort of dance while his hands were all over me, over and under my shirt, down over my ass. Caressing my sides, sliding down my spine, grabbing a hold of my ass and pulling me flush to him. I was breathless, and giddy, and entirely into the moment.
I kicked the door shut before we could give my neighbors something interesting to talk about.
Then his warm, deft fingers were pulling my shirt up and over my head. I raised my arms, tilting my head back with a trill of happy laughter. I deserved this.
Oh yes, I deserved this.
My hands were busy too, not wanting to miss out on the opportunity. I yanked his shirt over his head before he could kiss me again. Damn, he was built just like I'd imagined. I ran my hands over his chest, then slowly slid them down to tug at the waistband of his jeans.
He pushed my hands away, his eyes darkened to near-black. He stepped toward me, backing me against the wall. His capable fingers traced along the lacy edges of my bra, found a nipple through the thin fabric, and gave it a gentle squeeze.
My breath left my mouth in a gasp, and I arched my back, pushing my breast into his hand. He smiled down at me, a few inches taller than me now that my heels were off. He moved his thumb over my nipple, and it hardened. He had a good touch, and I couldn't wait to feel more, skin against skin.
I gave him a heated look and deftly began unbuckling the inconvenient barrier to my Friday night prize.
“Don’t worry,” I whispered, leaning forward to let my lips just barely brush against his ear. “I’m an excellent host.”
I tossed his belt to the side and set about unbuttoning, then unzipping his jeans. I could tell he was struggling to keep his breath steady, but I could practically smell his desire thick in the air. Once I had my way with his troublesome pants, I reached in and pulled him from his boxers, pushing the waist lower on his hips.
I wasn’t disappointed. I wrapped my fingers around him, loving the feel and weight of him. He groaned as I gave him a gentle squeeze. He was a little over average in length, but thick. I ran my hand from the top down to the very bottom, my fingers barely touching when I reached the base.
My pussy clenched at the thought of what he'd feel like inside me.
“Anything I should know before we take this any further?”
“No,” he ground out. “I'm clean.”
I wasn't going to take his word for it when we got down to fucking, but for what I wanted to do next, I'd take the minimal risk if it meant I didn't have the taste of latex in my mouth.
“We're using a condom later,” I said, just to make sure we were clear.
He nodded, swallowing hard as I sank to my knees. I glanced up at him with a smile, then leaned forward and wrapped my lips around the tip of him. He swore, the sound breaking off in a strangled sound when I took more of him.
“Fuck,” he whispered breathily.
“Probably in a few minutes.” I stopped my ministrations just long enough to get the phrase out before returning to my sweet torture.
I worked my tongue around his shaft, teasing him with varying pressure before hollowing my cheeks and sucking hard. He hissed as my teeth lightly touched him.
“Damn,” he growled. “Want you.”
I winked at him but didn't remove my mouth as I moved my head up and down over him until I managed to take all of him, my nose brushing against the dark curls at the base. I glanced up to see his mouth hanging slightly open and listened to his inhales coming in as short, desperate
little pants.
“I’m close,” he rasped, gripping my hair. “I’m gonna–”
I pulled away abruptly, his cock bobbing back up to slap against his stomach.
“Not yet,” I insisted as I got to my feet. I looked down at myself, then back up at him. “I think I’m a bit overdressed.”
“And I think I agree.”
The next thing I knew, his hands were at my bra. He unclasped it with one hand even as his mouth came down on mine. I took a moment to be impressed, and then his tongue was sliding between my lips. Our tongues battled for dominance, and he slid a hand up my side and around to grasp my breast. His touch was just rough enough to have me moaning.
By the time he pulled away and gave me a hooded look, my pulse was racing. “Which door leads to the bedroom?”
I pointed, and he swept me up into his arms. It was more thrilling than romantic, but I'd never been with a man tall enough to manage it before. In a few feet, we reached my room, and he tossed me on the bed.
I laughed, but before I could right myself, he was peeling off his boxers. He'd been impressive before, but now, somehow, he seemed even larger.
I tried to sit up and take control again, but he moved over me, raising an eyebrow as he slid down my body, nipping lightly at my skin until he reached my bellybutton. He tugged down the side zipper of my skirt, then pulled it and my panties off at the same time.
His eyes were almost black as he settled between my legs. He muttered a curse, then brought his mouth to my lower lips. Tongue wet, he parted my folds, and I was in heaven. He found my clit fairly quickly, dancing around it in long, languid strokes while one of his fingers circled around my entrance.
“So good,” I murmured.
A new sort of tension began building inside me, the good kind that would explode into a release of pleasure. Then he did something with his tongue that made my eyes cross.
