Stealing Hearts

by Rachel Shane

  “It’ll be yours, my sweet child. It’s always been yours.” She used to whisper those words deep in my ear, lulling me to sleep with her promise.

  But my parents were married at the ripe age of twenty-one after a quickie one night stand that resulted in a bun in the oven. They were young and stupid and didn’t bother to get a Pre-nup. Years later, their fighting about my mom’s drug use led to her throwing my dad out of the house with the intent to divorce his ass. Beside himself, he consoled his woes in a bottle of gin before she could even gather the paperwork. He drove straight into a telephone pole that night. “He was killed instantly,” the officer at the scene told me. “No pain.”

  I’d lost him and my mother was too far-gone to be mine anymore, but I clung to my grandmother growing up. And when she passed away, the only thing that got me through the grieving process was knowing the brooch would be safe in my hands, exactly as she wanted. But due to a legal technicality thanks to her not bothering to update her Will since before I was born, her possessions were still bequeathed to my father. And his Will transferred all possessions to his wife. My mother.

  As soon as my mother got her hands on the brooch, she put it up for auction.

  Thanks to its royal status and mint condition, it was estimated to be worth 3.5 million dollars. I nearly choked when I heard that price. That kind of cash could pay off all my debts. But it could also supply my mother in years’ worth of cocaine. Lawyers turned me away when I tried to hire someone to fight for the brooch because the legal technicality was binding and my lack of funds for a retainer fee proved even more binding.

  So I scraped together every last cent I had, pawned off all my possessions, and borrowed whatever I could from friends. Thirty seven thousand dollars later, I headed to the auction house with only a prayer and a back up plan: if all else fails, steal it.

  I slipped into a seat in the back row, trying not to fall apart as the auctioneer held up every item that came before the brooch. Paddles seemed to go even higher in the air after each million dollars the prices ticked past. My leg rattled on the floor and the corners of my mouth trembled. My only hope came from a necklace estimated to be worth 1.2 million but only sold for twenty thousand.

  “Next we have a brooch dating back to Charlotte Mecklenburg-Strelitz, Queen Consort of the United Kingdom. Three hundred diamonds surround a two teardrop rare rubies encased in gold.”

  I bolted upright in my chair, fanning myself in my face with my paddle. My gaze roamed around at all the chairs, each one a potential enemy. My heart pounded so hard and fast, it felt like the room was spinning.

  “We’ll start the bidding at ten thousand dollars.”

  My paddle shot high in the hair, and I gripped my elbow to prevent it from wavering.

  “Ten thousand.” The auctioneer nodded at me.

  I held my breath, squeezing tight on the wooden handle of my paddle as I brought it down to my lap. All auctions started at ten thousand but quickly escalated. I mouthed a silent prayer to whoever might be listening above to let this one go to me, fair and square. No lying, cheating, and stealing involved. Not when this should have been mine to begin with.

  “Do I hear twenty thousand?” The auctioneer scanned the crowd.

  My shoulders tensed.

  “Going once…”

  I scooted to the edge of my chair, clenching down on my teeth.

  “Going twice…”

  Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.

  The auctioneer lifted up his gavel to declare me the winner, but before he could say the official words, a guy rushed in from the main hallway, panting for breath. He thrust his paddle high in the air, waving it frantically. The auctioneer nodded and my breath came in shallow spurts as I tried to tamp down the panic.

  “Do I hear thirty?”

  The guy’s eyes widened, clearly in shock that the bidding only reached a measly thirty. A smile crested on his face as he sauntered toward an empty seat. The confidence on his face made me nearly crack into pieces right there.

  I lifted my paddle in the air, but the guy raised his right after me.

  We were at forty, I was out of borrowed cash, but he clearly had more money to play with by the way he relaxed in his seat and gave me a tiny shake of his head complete with a smirk.

  I raised my paddle again and again, driving the price up up up until he stood up. “Three point six million,” he said. “I believe that’s one hundred thousand more than the brooch is actually worth.” He turned to me, delivering a triumphant smile that clearly indicated checkmate.

  But he was wrong. The brooch was worth way more than any dollar amount to me.

  I set my paddle in my lap and let him claim his prize. But I didn’t leave empty handed. I walked out of there with a vow to find out who he is, where he lives, and steal back should have been mine in the first place.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ten minutes after catching me upstairs in his bedroom, Colby carries out all his equipment one by one and sets it all up on the dining room table where he can watch me without dragging his eyes from his three monitors. Whenever he slips into his office for a confidential phone call, Galina appears in his vacancy to scrub the countertops with renewed vigor.

  I’m playing a role here, and so I decide to play it in order to earn Colby’s trust and get his suspicious eye off me. Galina’s too. So I hum to myself while reading the cookbooks. I work extra hard to prepare his meals, following each recipe exactly and adding extras meant to impress him. Garnish here. A complicated dessert there. I even scrawl out menus onto fancy paper with intricate font work gleaned from Bullet Journal YouTube videos. Anything to make it seem like I care more about giving him a good meal than lulling him into complacency.

  A full week and a half passes with me biding my time, playing the long con, not even daring to open a drawer to search for the brooch. I catch him smiling to himself as he watches me gasp in delight at not burning the roast chicken, and I know I’m finally getting closer to being able to betray him.

  Colby takes a call at his desk instead of concealing himself behind a closed door. Another sign of trust. His face turns white while listening to the mumbling on the other line. He cups his hand over his mouth and shakes his head.

  My stomach flips at the sight of him, and my knife stills in my hands. A carrot rolls off my cutting board onto the floor with a sound as deafening as a bomb in my ears compared to his rapid breath.

  His voice is a whisper when he finally speaks. “Are you sure? Did they test everything?”

  I barely understand his calls, though I assume this one must be related to his dev team finding something really wrong with his newest app that’s set to go live next week.

  Colby stands up in a daze and shuffles to his office with the gait of a zombie. The door quietly snicks shut. I bite my lip, looking longingly at the empty spot he’d just vacated. Even though we rarely talk throughout the day, I’ve grown used to his presence in the room. A constant companion after I’ve been on my own for so damn long.

  I can’t shake the image of his scared face. He could use a pick me up, or at least something to potentially erase the moment from his mind thanks to black outs and a hangover.

  I abandon the carrots as well as the potatoes sizzling on the stove and grab a few bottles of liquor from the cabinet. This is second nature to me, muscle memory. When someone is upset, a bartender passes him some booze. I whip up the most comforting cocktail I can think of: a margarita on the rocks. Simple but effective.

  When he comes out of the room a few minutes later, red blotches rim his eyes. A half hour ago, he looked so put together, but now he looks as if he hasn’t slept in days. Wordlessly, I hand him the drink as he passes. He glances down at it, brows knitting, but then sucks back a sip. “Oh, thank God. How did you know I needed this?”

  “My culinary skills may need improvement”—I gesture toward the pan, where the potatoes are browning—”but my cocktail skills are always on point.”

  Colby’s nose
twitches at the butter and sage aromas. He glances at his workstation for a second, then back at me. It’s already six P.M., so instead of sitting back at his desk, he pulls up one of the stools in front of the counter island. “Why don’t you make one for yourself too?”

  “I’m working.” I scoop the chopped carrots into another pan and douse them in maple syrup.

  “You’re almost done.” He nods toward the roast chicken is resting on the counter.

  I start to protest again, but he meets me with an intense gaze. “Distract me.”

  I switch off the potatoes but let the carrots sauté a little bit longer. He watches the way I mix two more margaritas, and I shiver under his appraisal. This is probably the only time in my life I’ve had someone impressed by the real me, not the fake one I’ve created with the intent of impressing them.

  He taps his glass against mine. “Cheers.”

  “Don’t toast me yet. You may regret it after you taste tonight’s fiasco.”

  “Hey, don’t sell yourself short. It smells delicious.”

  I scoop some of the potatoes on a plate, line a quarter of chicken beside it, and finish it off with maple-glazed carrots. I smile down at the plate, a sense of pride welling up in me. I’d taken this job because it was the easiest way to infiltrate Colby’s world, but it turns out I enjoy the work.

  He pats the empty stool next to him. “Join me for dinner.”

  A little thrill travels through me. Usually the moment I set his plate in front of him and clean up the kitchen, I’m done. Off the clock. Out of his life. But he’s giving me an open door. I don’t hesitate to seize it, scooping up some of the extras onto my plate.

  I pull up the stool beside him at the counter, the two of us side-by-side, dangerously close. There’s an electric pulse that crackles between us. My elbow grazes against his when I slice into the chicken. We’re on the same side here, instead of me staring at him from behind the enemy lines of the counter.

  “So,” he says, swirling his glass and marveling at it with intense curiosity. “How did you get so good at making drinks?”

  I flinch, the way I always do when I’m about to lie on the spot. But I steady my breath. I don’t need to deceive him on this one. The truth, for once, is exactly what I tell him. “I’ve been on my own since I was sixteen.” I look down, picking at the seam of my apron. “My mom—” My voice cracks unexpectedly on the words.

  When I dare to lift my eyes to meet his, he’s turned stark white, his mouth parted.

  “My mom kicked me out so one of her deadbeat boyfriends could move in.” By that time, my grandmother was already in an assisted living home. She couldn’t rescue me, so I had to rescue myself.

  “Oh wow.” He reaches out a rogue hand toward me, but stops himself just before he touches my shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

  I should stop here. End this conversation. A key rule of being a con artist is knowing when to dole out information and in what quantity, and I’ve reached the maximum here. I even suck back a few sips of the drink to keep my mouth occupied. The tequila stings as it slides down my throat, but it doesn’t do anything to shrink the lump forming there or my need to get this off my chest. “She stole my inheritance,” I add, despite my better judgment. It’s almost like I need to explain away my future actions. A pre-emptive sorry. It wasn’t you, buddy. It was the brooch. With a startle, I realize I haven’t answered his actual question. I’ve only voiced the excuses eating me from the inside that finally crawled their way out into the open. “I started bartending because it was the easiest job I could get that actually made more than minimum wage. Worked in a few shitty places before getting a job in a trendy cocktail bar up north.”

  A cocktail bar I quit without notice to head down to Miami for this con.

  “You’re really good at it.” He slices a piece of chicken and slides it into his mouth. “At cooking too, despite your insistence otherwise.” He grins.

  His sentiment leaves me breathless. I wave a hand dismissively toward him. “Don’t lie.”

  “No really. Your eggs, well, those left something to be desired. But in only two weeks, you’ve improved significantly.” His gaze burns right through me. “I really admire how you’re going after your dream.”

  A sloppy smile etches on my face, and I force myself to look away so he doesn’t see my blush. “What about you? How did you get a whole dev team in India working under you?”

  He stretches, his body relaxing beside me. “I was something of a programming prodigy in college. In other words, I was ridiculously cool.”

  I laugh and he does too.

  “Spent all my spare time working on my own projects on top of the ones due for my classes.”

  I raise a brow as I bite into the delicious hearty flavors of the potatoes. “So what you’re saying is you were king of the frat guys?”

  “What I’m saying is I’m really really good at playing video games. And developing them.” He pauses to sip more of the margarita. “Anyway, I continued the tradition after college, working on my own stuff after hours while toiling at a dead end web developer job that paid next to nothing. The augmented reality gaming app I designed for fun quickly went viral. In the first month alone, it earned six point two million.”

  I choke on my drink. “Holy shit.”

  “Two more viral apps followed. Ever heard of Geohunters?”

  I gasp. That game was the next big wave after the Pokémon Go craze died down.

  He nods. “Long story short, now I have two hundred employees working for me, a brand new marketing company on board to strengthen sales, and a group of investors begging me to develop the next big thing.” He swallows hard. “But I’m all out of ideas.” He shakes his head and places a palm on his forehead. “God. I feel like a hack.” He lets out a breath, as if he’s relieved to finally say this out loud.

  He might have decided not to place his hand on my shoulder, but I take the risk. “You’ve had three viral apps. You’re not a hack.”

  “Shit.” He scrubs his hand down his face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to burden you with this. I just—” His shoulders rattle when he sighs. “Don’t have anyone to talk to.”

  It was the same thing I had thought to myself only moments ago. I remember his earlier plea—distract me. Whatever’s going on with work, it’s not what he wants to talk about. “What about your friends?”

  He lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “What friends? I have employees in other countries, a small household staff I barely speak to, and that’s it.” His face darkens in the fading light. “Sorry, I—”

  Something painful shoots through me at his words. I squeeze his shoulder with my palm. “It’s okay. It’s the truth.” But this time, I wish it were just a lie.

  “I’m from Indiana.” He pins me with a gaze so intense, I can only hold my breath in response. “Small town. Only three hundred people, a number that I’m pretty sure includes a few cows.”

  “Sounds like my town. Minus the cows. But add about a hundred criminals.”

  We both grin at that and I gesture for him to continue.

  “When my app made millions, the first thing I did was follow my dream to live near an ocean. I’d never even seen one growing up.” Colby laughs with his eyes closed and it comes out like a grimace.

  “Why Miami and not, I don’t know, LA?”

  “LA, San Fran, New York…they all intimidated the fuck out of me. All that hustle and bustle. Miami is more laid back. More my speed. More of what I was used to.” He pauses to take a few bites, closing his eyes to savor the flavor. “I’ve been here now over three years and I still haven’t made a single friend. In order to keep momentum with regular app updates, I’m constantly working. Constantly alone. It’s miserable.”

  I lean closer to him, squinting against the sunset causing a glare through the window and caramelizing edges of Colby’s hair a glistening bronze. “When was the last time you went out? Just for fun?”

  He pauses for a second, his eyes lifted to
ward the ceiling in thought, before he shakes his head and sighs. “I can’t even remember. I’m always on calls at night. When Romania sleeps, Beijing is awake. My international partners are there.”

  “You need some boundaries. Some you time. Tomorrow, don’t take any calls from your dev team after five P.M. It’s never good news.”

  His face suddenly goes white in a way that makes the smile flatline on mine. “That wasn’t a call with dev.”

  The tone of the room shifts abruptly and the crackling energy that seemed to lift his spirits suddenly plunges into darkness.

  He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “That was my mom who called.”

  “Oh.” I bite my lip, realizing I never even asked him about his family after pouring out my sob story to him in a margarita glass. “I’m guessing you two don’t get along.” I keep my voice soft, in league with his. We’re on the same page here.

  “We’re super close, but—” He grips the edge of the counter with white knuckles and gulps down a few desperate breaths. “Next month was supposed to be her one year anniversary of being in remission from breast cancer.”

  My body stills, and I stifle a twinge in my chest.

  “But she just called to tell me the cancer’s back…and it’s spread to her lungs.”

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” I throw my arms around him, pulling him so close I can smell his expensive soap and tea tree hair gel. He buries his head into my shoulder and shudders for a moment before ripping himself away from me.