Stolen Lust

by Charmaine Pauls

  His eyes spit fire. “You could’ve gotten us killed.”

  “You’re here, aren’t you?” I drawl.

  Ruben shuffles his feet.

  Leon flings the chair aside, sending it crashing into the wall. “Over a fucking woman.”

  It’s not the broken chair that makes me push to my feet. It’s his choice of words. “Careful, brother. This time, we came close, so I’ll let it slide, but don’t insult her again.”

  He stares at me as if I’m sprouting a dick on my forehead. “I can’t believe you did that. I can’t believe you compromised our plan, a plan I worked out to every meticulous detail and fucking second, to go after a woman. A stranger.”

  “Is the money in Lesotho?” I ask.

  “We crossed the border without any problems,” Ruben says in his nasal voice.

  I face my brother. “Then it all worked out.”

  Leon scrubs a hand over his face. “You got shot.” He pins me with a stare. “You call that working out?”

  Raising my palms, I keep the calm my brother can’t. “I’m alive.”

  “Because you got lucky,” he grits out. “If Ruben hadn’t tackled the guard who took a shot at you—”

  There is, however, a limit to my patience. “Is there a point to regurgitating yesterday’s events?”

  He looks at me like he can’t believe I said that. “A good one.”

  “Which is?” I taunt, pushing him because he needs a vent to blow off steam.

  “It can’t happen again.”

  It won’t. Beautiful, doll-pretty Cassandra Joubert is a one-off woman. There’s no two of her in the world. A woman like her only crosses a man’s path once in his life—if he’s lucky.

  Yeah. Contrary to what my little brother believes, I got extremely lucky. So much, I must be the luckiest bastard alive.

  “Mistakes make the difference between life and death,” Leon continues. “You may not be so lucky next time.”

  “There won’t be a next time,” I say again.

  Cas was a one-off experience, but even as I have that thought, it doesn’t sit right with me.

  Leon pinches his thumb and forefinger together. “We were this close,” he snarls. “All you had to do, was wait another ten minutes for the guards to change their shift.”

  In ten minutes, she could’ve been gone. I’d barely caught up with them on the road. It was pure luck I’d turned for Rustenburg. They could just as easily have headed toward Pilansberg. The possibility of never having met her, smelled her skin, touched all that velvet softness, and sunk deep inside her leaves me with a bottomless unease. That unease has been a persistent gnawing in my gut since the minute I dropped her off in front of her apartment building.

  “Let me see,” Leon says, motioning at my shoulder.

  My voice is gruff. “I’m fine.”

  His lips thin with annoyance. “It needs stitches.”

  I shoot him a look that says to drop it. “Done.”

  He frowns. A moment later, his forehead smooths out with comprehension. “You made her stitch you up.”

  The statement goes without saying. I don’t waste my breath on redundant words.

  He swallows. The air grows thicker. “Did you kill her?”

  I go still. The words vibrate in my skull. I want to knock his head against the wall for nothing other than uttering it.

  Ruben rubs the back of his neck and averts his eyes. He makes to move, but I speak before he does. They both need to hear this.

  “No.” We steal. We don’t kill. It’s a rule cast in stone, but I’ve upset the applecart, and it leaves them uncertain as to where we stand on matters. “Anyone touches her, that motherfucker is dead.” There’s no mistaking the sincerity of my threat. “I don’t care who he is.”

  Both of them stare at me. Silence stretches as they consider this new dynamic. I’ve just put a spoke in the wheel. Our pact is above everyone and everything, because it ensures our safety. I’ve never put anyone above my own brother. Money is our goal. I’ve never made something else more important.

  Disbelief is an ongoing battle that wages in his eyes. “Where is she?”

  The word falls hard from my mouth, making it clear I won’t be challenged on this. “Home.”

  “Home.” He no longer looks at me in disbelief, but like I’m certifiably nuts. He laughs. “Now you’re probably going to tell me you made sure she got inside safely.”

  My eyes tighten with an involuntary tick. “Yes.”

  “Fuck, Ian.” He spears his fingers through his hair, pulling at the ends. “What if she talks?”

  “She won’t. I made sure of it.”

  He drops his hands and nods like a dashboard figurine. “You made sure of it.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Ruben shuffles to the door. “I’m packing up. It’s all over the news. We need to move.”

  “Start with the bedroom,” I say, not moving my eyes from my brother’s face.

  When Ruben goes down the hallway, Leon says in a lowered voice, “They’ve got your DNA now. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Meaning the blood I’ve shed on the casino carpet. Up to now, we’ve managed to keep our identities unknown.

  “I hope she was worth it,” he says, bitterness lacing his tone.

  Grabbing the beer, the very bottle she’d pressed to her pretty, plump lips, I tip it back and down half of the flat alcohol.

  “What about the Porsche?” Ruben asks, sticking his head back around the frame with his arms full of blankets.

  “Burn it.”

  He nods and goes out the backdoor.

  Leon still contemplates me as if I’ve ruined his life, which I suppose I have, and not only yesterday. I set that wheel in motion twenty years ago when I let him run away from home with me.

  “We need to hang out at the chalet for a while,” I say, “until the dust settles.”

  “I figured.” He straightens and pulls back his shoulders, cracking his spine. “I’ll tell Ruben to hurry.”

  “Take the Land Rover. You drive.” I don’t trust Ruben to handle the vehicle on the mountain pass.

  He regards me with surprise. “What about you?”

  “I’ll follow.”

  Balling his hands at his sides, he says, “Why?”

  I hold his gaze squarely. “I need to take care of business.”

  His nostrils flare. “Does said business have anything to do with that woman?”

  The icy tone of my voice holds a warning. “Cas. Use her name if you’re going to mention her.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” he says. “The area is swarming with cops.”

  My patience is for his benefit. I need him to stay calm and handle Ruben until they’re over the border. “I’m not getting caught.”

  “Fuck, Ian.”

  “Get Ruben to Lesotho and stock up the cabin. Think you can handle that?”

  He doesn’t acknowledge my sarcasm. He only stands there staring.

  “What?” I drawl, dragging the book closer as his cue to go.

  “Was it?” he asks again. “Was it worth it?”

  Every precious second of it.

  If given a choice, I’d do it all over again.

  I’d happily take ten bullets for another night with her.

  My face must say it all, because he gives a tight nod before stalking from the room and slamming the backdoor behind him.

  Opening the book on the page I marked, I continue reading the chapter about heart conditions.

  Chapter 8

  Cas

  Hyperventilating, I take the phone from the box.

  There’s only one explanation. It’s the same one that explains how the money got into my wallet.

  I press a hand to my heart. He was in my apartment. Ian. He must’ve broken in while I was at work, but there are no signs of forced entry, which means he picked the lock.

  The phone in my palm taunts me. He didn’t have to replace the one he’d destroyed. Why do it?
Why give me money? He didn’t feel guilty for what he did. No. There was no remorse on his face when he kissed me and told me he knew where I lived.

  Shit.

  I drop the phone on the bed. I’m stone-cold sober, the buzz gone. My skin, damp from the bath, contracts with more than just cold. Feeling exposed, I fumble around in my closet for some clothes and pull on a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt. I rush to the window that overlooks the street and close the blinds. I do so with every window in the apartment until the interior is basked in a gloomy light.

  Grabbing my laptop from the coffee table, I sit cross-legged on the sofa and balance the computer on my lap to do something I should’ve done the minute I’d gotten back from the police station. I look up a local news channel.

  Hit on Sun City. Phantom robbers make off with five million in cash.

  My blood runs cold. The more I read, the more my veins fill with dread. Three men held a casino manager and security guard at gunpoint, forcing the manager to hand over the winnings of the evening. The manager was preparing to transport the money to the safe. The manager issued a statement, claiming the hotel staff has no idea how the gang managed to smuggle guns and disguises through security. All camera recordings from an hour before the robbery have been remotely deleted. They can’t offer an explanation for that either. Security personnel are being questioned for possible involvement. None of the Sun City staff members have been injured, but the notorious Phantom gang leader was shot. Roadblocks have been put up, and the police are patrolling the area.

  I swallow away the alcohol-induced dryness of my mouth.

  The gang of three men has been nicknamed the Phantom robbers by the police due to their disguises that consist of Phantom branded athletic masks and suits. Police have been after them for over fifteen years for a variety of crimes involving heists of money and valuables. To date, there has been no clues as to the men’s identities. The article speculates that the gang leader must be losing his touch, seeing he slipped up for the first time last night by getting himself shot. A reward of ten grand is offered for information that would lead to the gang members’ arrest.

  The screen blurs in my vision. The robbery took place at the cashier office next to the poker tables not five minutes after Mint and I had left. The fast food court is only a few paces from the poker room entrance. The gang was there, a short distance away from where we were having dinner.

  Shuddering at the thought, I type the name of the gang into the search field of my browser. The list of articles that pop up is long. Every heading I click is linked to a news station, newspaper, or online media site, reporting on one of the gang’s multiple crimes.

  The gang doesn’t play around. They go for the big prizes, and their thieving stunts are daring. A fan site, mostly made up of geeks and wannabee crooks gushing over the Phantom gang’s nerve and skill, claims the gang is openly taunting the police who have been unable to find a single lead in fifteen years. That’s why Ian was so meticulous about not leaving evidence and why he went to the trouble of blowing up his truck. Will he burn down the house in which they were hiding out? Probably. There’s no doubt in my mind they’re long gone by now.

  As the pieces fall into place, the behavior of the detectives makes sense. No wonder they want to catch Ian so badly. No wonder they pushed me so hard. Contrary to what I thought earlier, they knew he’d been shot. Yet they don’t understand Ian’s motive for taking me. He didn’t need another car. If the truck’s tank was full, he could’ve driven all the way to Bloemfontein. Do they guess he needed me to stitch him up? Judging by appearance, you’d never say I’m capable. I know what they see when they look at me—the same thing the man at the slot machines did. They see a blond bimbo, a woman whose best skill lies between her legs.

  Is that why Ian said it had been a while? No. He didn’t look at me like that. If he’d made those kinds of assumptions, he wouldn’t have asked if I could handle Mint’s car and the blood. When he said, “It’s been a while,” there were no foregone conclusions. He saw me as a person, not a generalization, not that I’m defending his criminal actions.

  The intensity of his dark gaze is drilled into my memory. I see it so clearly in my mind’s eye, it’s as if he’s looking at me right now. I know with instinctive knowledge despite his murder-free record, he’s capable of killing. It was written in his comportment and in the way he carried himself. He’s not scared of violence. On the contrary, he thrives on it. He’s just mastered his violent side well, squashing his more animalistic needs with frightening control.

  A cold shiver creeps over my skin as I throw another glance through the open door at the phone that lies on my bed. Though expensive, it’s not valuable enough to pass for a bribe. Besides, he doesn’t need to use bribes. His threats are enough.

  I shut my laptop and rub my hands over my eyes. I don’t get why he replaced my phone, but that’s not the thought that lingers with disconcerting unease. It’s how he got into my apartment.

  Scrap that. A man like him can easily enough pick a lock. It’s that he did it unnoticed and that he locked the door behind him when he left. Wait. Oh, my God. Does he have a key?

  My only consolation is the belief that he must be over the border by now, Mozambique or Botswana perhaps. Nevertheless, I drag the mohair blanket from the back of the sofa over my legs and shift down until my head rests on the cushion. From this position, I have a clear view of the door, and I have no intention of moving.

  I jerk awake with a start and blink. Sunlight filters through the cracks of the blinds. It’s the yellow, dust-particle-speckled light of early morning. I was so tired after the ordeal and an almost sleepless night I passed out.

  The next thought hits me with a rush of adrenaline to heat my veins. I’m late for work. Then I remember. A sick feeling descends to the pit of my stomach, wiping away my hunger.

  Throwing the blanket aside, I sit up and flinch at the headache that threatens to split my skull. That’s what I get for drowning my problems in wine.

  Unlike Ian, I don’t have the luxury of not polluting my body with chemicals. I go to the bathroom and take two painkillers with the pills for my heart, swallowing them down with water from the faucet. With the medication in my stomach, I have to eat.

  After a bowl of fruit salad and yoghurt drizzled with honey, I have a shower while I wait for the coffee to brew. I stay under the spray of the water for a long time, but when the warmth does nothing to alleviate the tension in my shoulders, I turn off the water and dry myself.

  With a towel wrapped around my body, I pour a big mug of coffee and sip the liquid fortification while studying my closet and contemplating my outfit.

  I need to go job hunting. My qualifications don’t allow for any occupations that require a tertiary education. I never thought I’d need a degree. The farm had been in my blood, just as it had been in my dad’s. Branding cows and planting maize don’t require a university degree. I know how to read the cycles of the moon to determine sowing seasons. I can tell by the color of the soil if it’s fertile. I don’t need a degree in agriculture or a fancy mineral analysis to know when to add compost, but the farm is gone. That leaves me with clerkly or waitressing work or a receptionist position if no typing is required.

  Settling on smart casual, I dress in jeans, a white shirt, and a black jacket. As I have to walk, I pull on my sneakers but dump a pair of flats in a tote bag just in case. After applying make-up and brushing my hair, I study my reflection in the mirror. The signs of stress aren’t showing on my face. Thanks to Ian’s money, I’ve slept a long night of alcohol-induced sleep. Even if the drinking rewarded me with a headache, at least I feel better rested. Already, the dull thudding in my skull is diminishing as the pills take effect.

  For luck, I dab the perfume I only save for special occasions behind my ears. A sudden memory of Ian telling me I smell nice assaults me. Involuntary heats floods my core, but I push the memory and its symptoms aside. After making a quick salad for lunch, I throw it with
an apple into my tote bag, grab my handbag, and dash through the door. I make a mental note to have my lock changed the minute I can afford it. That’s to say if I don’t get evicted. For now, I lock up, checking the door twice before I set off to town.

  Mrs. Steyn watches me through the window of her kitchen as I walk by. When I wave, she drops the frilly curtain.

  I start with the stores on the main street, asking if anyone is hiring as far as I go. By the time I hit the restaurants in the Midtown Mall, I’m a lot less optimistic. I don’t have better luck at the bigger chain stores. Exiting the hardware store, I run into Dean, the manager of Rustenburg’s one and only strip club.

  Too late to pretend I didn’t see him, I offer a hurried greeting. My spirits sink when he calls after me.

  I turn with reluctance. “Yes?”

  “I couldn’t help but overhear back there.” He throws a thumb toward the store. “You looking?”

  Obstinately, I act dumb. “Looking for what?”

  His smile is thick. “A job.”

  “Yeah, so if you hear of anything…” I start walking.

  “Told you, you can always get a job at the club.”

  Taking off my shirt and flaunting my boobs in businessmen’s faces while they shove money and God knows what else into my panties? “No, thanks.”

  “You know what they say.” His taunting voice follows me down the pavement. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  Ignoring him, I cut the corner and bite my nail as I walk toward the industrial side of town. Pole dancing isn’t beneath me. I’d just hate to grovel at Dean’s feet, and he’d definitely make me grovel. I’ve rejected his date and job offers for too long. Men don’t forget those kinds of rejections, at least not men like Dean. They bide their time to take revenge, and if my day continues like it started out, I may not have a choice but to grovel.

  My hope continues to dwindle as I go around all the steakhouses and restaurants. I even try the cinema and the beauty salon. No luck. Times are tough, and there are more people than jobs.