THIEF
Part One
KIMBERLY MALONE
Copyright © 2015
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter One
“Klepto bitch.”
The girl in the seat across from mine stares me down, but I make sure to keep my temper in check. Punching some waspy volunteer on my first day isn’t going to help my formerly squeaky-clean record.
Okay, it wasn’t like my record was really all that clean: I just never got caught. Until a couple months ago.
I shut my eyes while the girl fake-whispers to her friends, all of them giggling and shooting glances. One of them is wearing a Ralph Lauren Polo, bright red. The collar looks pressed. Everyone on this shuttle looks like they have butlers and chambermaids to dress them, and I’m stuck in this wrinkled neon yellow T-shirt that reads, “HI, I’M NEW!” Literally—it’s emblazoned across my tits.
“Stereo system,” one of the girls hisses.
“No, an iPad.”
Another guesses, “A whole crate of iPads.”
Wrong, wrong, and I wish, but also wrong. It’s almost funny, listening to a bunch of high schoolers judge me. Look, I want to tell them, life isn’t as simple as you think. Just wait till graduation.
The shuttle hits another pot hole. The driver looks ancient. I hate admitting this to myself, but he’s the kind of guy I liked to target in my early days: barely-there glaze across his eyes, probably a war vet with injured knees who can’t chase me down, even if he did know what was going on. I’d usually do the whole bump-into-and-apologize act, making off with the billfold. Old men have stupidly shallow pockets.
By the time we pull up to the ranch—a mile and a half from the main road—I’ve got a nice swipe of sweat across my chest, the edges of my bra showing through the fabric. My hair is stuck around my neck. Suddenly, I can’t remember if I wore deodorant today or not.
“Have a nice day, folks,” the shuttle driver whistles, and everyone pats him on the back and thanks him personally. Turns out, his name is Irv. I don’t like knowing his name; it just intensifies my guilt about how he’s exactly the kind of guy I’d pickpocket on the street. When I was really into it—swiping a wallet or two, sometimes a whole purse, every day—I usually just grabbed the cash, then brought the wallet to a nearby cafe and turned it in. “Found this on the ground,” I’d say sweetly. “Didn’t know if one of your customers left it here.”
I never checked the ID, never took credit cards: if it had a name, I wouldn’t touch it. Names make you remember the targets are humans.
At least I got that going for me, I think. At least I’m not a monster.
The girls from the shuttle cross the dirt road, heading for the lodge. Figures. They’re probably the volunteer-for-the-summer types, just getting a few hours to slap on their college applications. I watch their perfect ponytails swing with every step. For a second, I forget I’m almost twenty-one; I feel more like fourteen, awkward and sweaty, watching the popular girls roam the halls.
“Hey. You here for community?”
I snap out of it. “Uh…yeah,” I answer, turning. A muscular, kind of butch woman in a tracksuit is staring at me. “Erin St. James.”
She nods, crosses my name off her clipboard, and hitches a thumb towards another dirt road. “Let’s go. I’ll train you for a few hours, then cut you loose after lunch.”
I look back at the lodge wistfully. It’s a sprawling log cabin, with a golf course stretched behind it and private stables next to it. I can see one of the high schoolers from here, feeding a carrot to a blonde philly. Somebody should film her for the ranch commercial.
“Not there,” the woman says, reading my mind. She puts a hand on my shoulder and herds me forward. “That’s the main ranch, for the country club.”
Ah, of course, I think. Those girls wouldn’t volunteer for shit. They’re either members, or actual employees.
“So where’s the…” I don’t know what to call it, so I just spit it out: “…special kids ranch?”
The woman—her name-tag says Juliet, which sounds too fragile for her—laughs at this. “Therapy and outreach ranch,” she corrects, “or special-needs ranch. Whichever. But you were pretty close.” We crest a small hill, and another stable comes into view. It’s smaller, with a modest cabin attached and squat buildings scattered about. The corral seems pretty basic, just an octagon of blistered white wood and dirt.
“Where are all the kids?” I ask.
“They’ll be here soon. The morning camp starts at eight, afternoon camp starts right after lunch. We’ve got another half-hour or so, if you want the tour now.”
This makes me smile, if only because my life is so laughably pathetic: what choice do I really have? So for the next thirty minutes, Juliet shows me the glamourous life of Fox Ridge Ranch employees. Two soda machines in the lounge, a ladies’ room that never runs out of paper towels thanks to also serving as a supply closet, and, best of all, the “rewards of working with campers.” Whoo-hoo.
When the first shuttle arrives, I try to take my cue from Juliet. She doesn’t bat an eye at these kids, and some are kind of shocking, at first. One little girl is missing an eye—there’s not an empty socket, though. No socket at all, just a slight dent in the skin where a socket should be. I try to keep my stares subtle, but Juliet picks up fast.
“It takes some getting used to,” she whispers, while the kids hurry to the stables to gear up. “Me, I guess I’m just used to it by now. Give it a couple weeks, you’ll see.”
I nod cheerfully, right when a kid as tall as me starts crying because he’s peed his pants. My first official act of community service: fetching a pair of Emergency Shorts from the supply bathroom. I take a minute to mop my sweaty boobs and neck with paper towels, then fix my hair the best I can. It still looks like crap.
I check my watch: one hour down, and only ninety-nine more to go.
As promised, Juliet cuts me loose at twelve-thirty, after my disappointing lunch of PB&J and a mostly-green banana. Mom insisted on packing it. My name is written in her shaky scrawl on the front of the bag, surrounded with ink-stain hearts. I crumple it up before anyone notices.
I find a sturdy shovel in one of the tool sheds and drag it towards the stables. As a “community-employed staff member,” as Juliet called me, I’m clearly bottom-rung here. My main jobs seem to have one thing in common: waste, and lots of it.
“You’ll be in charge of emptying the trashcans around the property,” Juliet had explained. It was right before lunch, and she didn’t notice I was quickly losing my appetite.
“The whole property?”
She nodded. “You’ll get a golf cart for that, don’t worry. And it’s just a few outdoor cans, near the trails. You’ll take the bags out, replace them, and then haul them to the dumpster behind our lounge.” She checked her clipboard. “Looks like Silas already did them today, so you lucked out.”
“Oh.” I waited a minute, then shrugged when she didn’t continue. “So…what should I do today?”
“You’re also in charge of the women’s bathroom, if it's dirty, but that’s not till the end of the day.” Juliet flipped a couple pages, searching. “Hmm…guess that’s it. Well, and stable
clean-up. That'll take most of your hours, honestly.”
“Stable clean-up,” I repeated. “Like…scooping poop?”
“Yep. And replacing any damp or moldy hay on the floors.” She checked her watch. “I’ve got to get out to the corral and help out—the afternoon kids are a bigger group, a little rowdy—but I can send someone to show you.”
“I can handle it.” Scooping shit and laying hay: seemed simple enough.
Now, though, I know better. My palms are already blistered, and no matter how long I’m in here, my nose can’t adjust. Every first plunge of my shovel into a fresh pile of dear-God-no makes me want to hurl.
There’s one horse left in the stables today, a small gray thing with its ribs showing and a diseased-looking coat. With just an hour left in my workday, I’m tempted to skip his pen altogether, but I can tell from here it’s got to be cleaned. I open his gate slowly.
“Hey…fella,” I say. I wonder if he can hear how terrified I am. I’m not an animal person—they don’t bother me, but I just don’t get them. Those people who walk right up to wild deer or strange dogs, palms outstretched and ready for friendship? Yeah, that’s not me.
The horse is completely indifferent. When I start shoveling up his floor, he doesn’t even move; I see a huge spot of moldy hay under his feet, but can’t get to it.
“Come on, boy,” I coax. “Step forward a little.”
Nothing.
I check my watch. If just hurry up and get this over with, I might have time to sneak to the employee lodge and take a sink bath before the shuttle comes.
“Fine,” I tell the horse, “have it your way.” But when I slide the shovel underneath him, between his feet, he gets spooked. His hooves stomp and he starts turning in the pen, making these loud, bleating brays.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I try to calm him down, but he doesn’t seem to hear me; next thing I know, his ass slams into my shoulder and down I go. My other arm lands on the shovel.
“Shit,” I whisper, when my shock wears off. My arm’s got a decent laceration, and I can see blood on the tip of the shovel. My first thought is my dire need for disinfectant.
My second thought is, I’m not alone anymore.
Chapter Two
Somebody’s at the other end of the pen, whispering sweetly to the horse. The big guy stops freaking out, calmed just as quickly as he was spooked. I hurry to my feet and out of the pen, dragging the shovel.
“You all right?”
“Yeah,” I answer reflexively. Then, when I see the blood trailing down to my wrist, I add, “Well. Kind of.”
The guy turns from the horse, facing me. All of the sudden I feel like no more blood is going to my arm; it must all be in my face, for how much I’m blushing.
He’s ripped—that’s the first thing I notice. His shirt might as well be painted on. There’s a flannel over-shirt tied to his belt loop, jeans slung low on his hipbones. The spot of sweat in the very center of his undershirt makes me all too aware of my own sweat stains, none of which are attractive.
“Wow,” he whispers, moving closer. He takes my arm in both hands and inspects the wound. I can feel my heartbeat in my throat, watching him watch me. He has hazel eyes, dark lashes, square jaw. My perfect type. I want to push his soft, charcoal-colored bangs out of his eyes, but it’s a lot like dealing with the horse: I’m afraid of scaring him, or getting trampled.
“Let’s wash that out,” he says, and leads me out of the stable to a spigot behind the lounge. I wince and curse when the icy water sputters through my wound, flushing out blood and dirt and horse crap. Whenever I take it out of the water, fresh blood starts pooling.
“Deeper than I thought.” He pushes it back under the water. “Don’t take it away till I say so.” Untying the flannel from his belt loop, he says, “One…two…three.” I pull my arm out of the stream, and immediately, he presses his shirt hard over the wound.
I clench my jaw. If I was by myself, I’d probably cry a little. Blood makes me kind of panicky. But I can summon bravery, for a few minutes, with this guy taking charge. While he ties the shirt to my arm, I take a look at his ring hand: empty. And every bit as ruggedly tan as the rest of him.
“Come on.” He helps me to my feet and leads me into the lounge. I’m grateful for the emptiness, though soon the place will be bustling, everyone eager to get home. I decide it’s time for another demonstration of bravery.
“I’m Erin,” I tell him. My plan to stay stoic goes up in smoke when he pours peroxide from the First Aid kit straight into the wound. I jerk my arm away and utter a quiet, but still very pitiful, “Oww.”
“Sorry, gotta do it.” His sideways smile, teeth square and white and perfect, makes me forget the pain.
I try and compose myself. “It’s okay.”
“I’m Silas, by the way.” He takes my hand and shakes it gently. “Nice to meet you. But not such a great way to meet you.”
“Tell me about it.”
He gets to work, closing the wound with butterfly enclosures. I watch him fix me in thankful silence.
“So,” he says, unrolling gauze around my arm, “you want to tell me why you were in that pen with old Bennigan?”
“I was shoveling the stables.” No matter how casual I try and sound, the job reeks of shame. Literally.
He shakes his head. “No, I mean, why were you in there with him? Why didn’t you take him out first?”
“I tried! He wouldn’t move!”
Silas laughs again. “Guess nobody told you, then. Benny’s deaf. Spooks easy, too. He won’t move unless you lead him with a carrot.”
My stomach’s in knots. It’s nice hearing Silas laugh—it’s a manly, hardy kind of sound that echoes from his chest—but not when it’s at my expense.
“Not your fault,” he adds, more sympathetic now. “Somebody should’ve told you. Who’s training you?”
“Uh…I don’t know. I guess Juliet. But she was busy.”
“That’s weird.”
I watch him tape the gauze. “Why?”
“Well,” he explains, cutting the tape and patting it down, checking for loose spots, “it’s just that Juliet doesn’t train people. I mean, occasionally, she handles community serv—” He stops, my hand still in his. “Oh.”
My face is on fire again. I take my hand away.
“Thanks,” I stammer, and hurry to my feet. “It feels a lot better.”
“Whoa, slow down,” he says, and grabs my good arm. “I’m sorry—it’s none of my business.”
“I better go,” I say. “I’ve got to catch that shuttle.”
“So do I.”
Shit.
“Let me get you a soda while we wait,” he offers, in a voice that really means he’s insisting. I let him get me a dented can of Diet Coke from the machine, then we head outside. No one is at the shuttle stop yet, and again, I’m grateful.
“Are you mad at me?” he asks, nudging my boot with his. I feel my defenses falling the second he flashes that smile again.
“How could I be? I barely know you.”
“Look, I’ll just come right out with it.” He takes a deep breath, which strikes me as odd, since he doesn’t look the least bit nervous. “I don’t care if you’re here for community. I think you’re beautiful, and I’ve…well, I’ve kind of been watching you all day, trying to come up with some way to ask you out.”
Beautiful—right. I’m covered in sweat and manure, one arm practically mummified, in a shirt so bright it wouldn't flatter anyone.
But still. Hearing him say it makes my stomach flutter.
“So,” he says, sighing in a here-goes-nothing way, “what do you say? Tomorrow night, seven?”
I take stock of myself again. My wound and all the crap caked to my shoes are enough to confirm that this summer will go exactly how I thought it would.
Then I look at Silas again, his flannel stained with my blood and how he doesn’t even care, the way his hair lifts off his face with the breeze. Less than one hour
with him, and suddenly my whole summer changes.
He helps me onto the shuttle, just when the preppy girls from this morning bump their way on board. They’ve got cute sunburns across their noses, arms loaded up with lifeguard manuals. I should have known—members don’t ride the shuttle, instead getting valet service directly from the lodge. Still, they look pretty well-off. This job is probably just allowance to them.
“Look who it is,” I hear them whisper. They start giggling.
Then, they notice Silas. It’s impossible not to, when he stands to help Irv into his seat, muscles and philanthropy all too obvious.
“Holy Jesus,” one of the girls sighs.
I can’t help but smirk. Take a number, sweetheart, I think. He’s a little old for you—and he did ask me first.
“You know what?” I finally answer, as he sits in the seat beside mine. I shoot a glance at the girls, one eyebrow raised, and smile. I turn back to him. “Tomorrow at seven is perfect.”
Chapter Three
“You clean up nice, St. James.”
I smooth the fabric of my black dress and act humble as I slide into Silas’s car, but I know I look good. I took my time after community service today, soaking in a bath so hot it almost singed me, until I was convinced the smell of stables was miles away. While my hair was in curlers, I spent at least an hour trying on dresses before finally choosing this one, a tight black thing that’s short but classy, with a deep neckline.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I tease. He has his hair pushed back and a sweet-smelling cologne. When he shifts gears to back out of the driveway, I catch a big flash: a silver and cobalt Rolex.
“Whoa, check that out.” I point to it. “How’d you afford that on a stable boy salary?”
“Counselor,” he stresses. “I’m a counselor.”
“And? Do counselors pull big bucks or something?”
He smiles, then dims it, glancing at his wrist. “This was my dad’s, actually.”
THIEF: Part 1 Page 1
