Lawbreaker (Unbreakable Book 3)

by Kat Bastion

  We were the same in ways I didn’t fully understand: I felt it to my bones.

  And it pissed me off.

  I blew out a head-clearing breath, then checked my internal clock. About four minutes had passed, plenty of time for my way to be clear.

  Flushing myself out from my hiding spot, I casually strolled over the grassy landscape to the meandering sidewalk, owning the territory like I belonged there. Dim blue glows from solar lights lit my way. Any nosy neighbor would think the Outback driver had returned; we had the same dark shoulder-length hair (no accident). Plus, a manicured hedge obscured most of the driveway.

  The front door was shrouded in darkness: Last week I’d unscrewed the porchlight just past the point of going dark. By feel and instinct, I knelt in front of the lock, inserted my two favorite metal pins, and picked the mechanism with cool efficiency.

  Piece o’ cake.

  Hadn’t always been. The first months had been grueling trial and error. But what had been the premise of Outliers? (Yes, I read. From the Underrated Library of Nightstand Finds.) If a person performs a task more than ten thousand times, they master it. Eight years of nightly lockpicking, plus multiple times a day for jobs and practice…and challenge to cut through the boredom? I’d more than earned my mastery.

  Besides, there were other challenges to consider.

  As I opened the door, a natural security system bounded into the marble-tiled entry. But instead of baring teeth, a tail wagged. Clipped nails clicked repeatedly on the floor.

  “Bruno!” I dropped my backpack on the entry table, squatted down, and wrapped my arms around his big brown-and-white furry neck. “Who’s a good boy?” Not for his watchdog stealth, for sure. But definitely for watching over me.

  For the last six consecutive nights, the loveable St. Bernard had kept me company. Starting this coming Wednesday, Phyllis Dover’s green-eyed Abyssinian, Chesterfield, would stalk a nocturnal feline watch, guarding his usual territory plus me. When I needed a serious chill, and scheduling permitted, I chose the saltwater reef occupants in the modern estate on Third Street.

  No, I didn’t pet-sit or house-sit. Not on any official basis.

  I “borrowed” spaces: watched over others’ little ones on a voluntary basis. My fee? A hot shower, soft towels, warm bed, and two square meals a day. No, I didn’t barbecue up steak or raid the caviar. Whole eggs have a complete protein profile. Salad greens wouldn’t have lasted the week anyway. And any self-respecting official house sitter should watch over all aspects of the house. I call dibs on the refrigerator. With a smile, I collected a few additional ingredients in quantities too small to miss or raise an owner’s eyebrow.

  Mouthwatering aromas soon filled the kitchen as I sautéed shallots with chopped garlic before pouring in two scrambled eggs as I whipped up an omelet: a handful of Thai basil leaves snipped from a windowsill herb, three paper-thin slices of fragrant Parmigiano Reggiano, a quick flip of one half with a fork. Then I slid my dinner masterpiece onto a flat bone-china dinner plate.

  “C’mon, Bruno.” I switched off the overhead stove light, dousing the dimly lit kitchen into complete darkness, then padded barefoot across cold tile to looped carpet. The hundred-fifty-pound dog happily followed, knowing he’d get a choice bite of our dinner.

  My laptop already glowed its floating screensaver from the center of the master’s king-sized bed. The screen’s Night Shift cast an amber hue onto the pristine white duvet. With practiced care, I settled in front it, making certain not to leave even one droplet of olive oil as evidence anyone had been there.

  Bruno rested his chin on my thigh. He directed a raised eyebrow my way after every slow bite. He waited, knowing that I savored them. And he’d been well fed only an hour ago by his paid patron. That’s what I loved about Bruno. He was patient, loyal, and protective, making sure I got fed too.

  That’s what I loved about all of my animal friends in their hijacked lodgings. They knew I wasn’t supposed to be in their domain. But they accepted me as if I belonged, just the same. Quietly. And with loving appreciation.

  I rubbed behind Bruno’s velvety ear as I scrolled through the pet-watcher’s schedule—hacked into years ago by Outlier-me (thanks for the skills, Rafe).

  Phyllis Dover had confirmed for Chesterfield, giving me a place to lay my head and a trusted companion for the next handful of days. How I rolled: in the moment, one step at a time.

  Hope-filled bubbles didn’t get burst that way. Hard to be disappointed when you didn’t count on much.

  Pinching off the last corner of the cheesy-egg dinner, I moved off the bed. Bruno obediently followed, watchful gaze on his prize hovering over the plate. He sat in front of the kitchen sink until I held it out in front of him. The lovable beast gently snarfed the bite-sized treat, moistening my hand with his soft muzzle.

  “Good boy, Bruno.” My heart warmed as I gave him a full head rub.

  Sometimes the best love is the simplest. Minimal expectation. Maximum gratitude.

  After washing, drying, and stowing the dish by my dependable stove light, I switched the light off again. Then I did a routine visual and audible sweep to verify that all remained dark and uneventful, including neighboring houses visible through the windows.

  Satisfied I was safe and alone, I headed to go shower before bed.

  By the time I toweled my hair dry, my thoughts spiraled again to the newest additions to my tightly controlled world.

  Ben and what he’d added into my backpack.

  Bruno had taken up his sentry post at the threshold of the bedroom, already peacefully hunkered down for the night.

  From my larger duffel that I’d hidden under the bed on my first night, I tugged out a clean black T-shirt and pair of boy-short underwear and got dressed. Then I stowed my laptop away in the bag and shoved it all back under the bed, out of sight.

  I sat on the bed and tucked my legs under the sheet and blanket.

  My small backpack sat innocently on the nightstand.

  As if it felt the weight of my stare, an electronic sound bleedled out from inside.

  I ignored the sound, remained motionless.

  Ben thought he’d been sneaky. He’d been wrong.

  Some “guy” directive programed into his DNA made him think he could exert control.

  Wrong there too.

  I decided what governed me. If I wanted some damn phone, I’d have gotten one.

  The other items in my backpack were special to me. Sacred. They’d come from my past. They’d become talismans as I’d wandered on my journey, protecting me.

  The newer item bulged out a portion of the bottom left corner, anchoring the bag with its weight. When I reached for the bag, I continued to ignore it.

  Instead, one at a time, I identified each of my most prized possessions. When my fingertips glided over silky fabric, I pulled out a white satin elbow-length glove, then arranged it along the front edge of the nightstand, smoothing out its wrinkles. With a metallic click, the antique silver coin, weathered with a dark patina, took its station near the open palm of the glove. My turn with an ancient tin of lip gloss came next: eyes closed, lid opened, deep inhale...strawberries and cream.

  Another bleedle sounded from the bag.

  But I’d already wrapped my fingers around the fourth and last item, the most important, the one that had come exactly one year after the others. Then, it’d been both a first anniversary and a twelfth birthday present, from and to myself. Stolen from the same place. Earned as my reward for all the hardship I’d endured. Coveted, then taken. Revenge and payment.

  And protection.

  With a flick of my thumb on its centered stud, I opened the well-balanced AL MAR, a superior tactical knife that had been made in Japan in a thousand-year-old sword-making factory. The blade made a satisfying click and gleamed under the lamplight. Its black stamped-rubber grip balanced on my palm. The solid weight felt right in my hand.

  Supposedly, the folding blade had been made in the early 1990’s; my
entitled family member had been vague. He’d forbidden me to touch it, hidden it away when all I’d wanted to do was to look at it. “It was his,” he’d said.

  Oh, yeah?

  Mine now.

  Only thing I’d ever stolen out of vengeance. Only thing I ever would.

  Not that I planned to use the weapon. Plenty of other ways to incapacitate a person without the mess of blood. The human body had vital airways to obstruct, sensitive nerve centers to exploit.

  Grow up on the streets? Learn fast how to defend yourself.

  Rafe had taught me well. Bear had seen to it.

  My backpack bleedled a third time; the newcomer fought to be recognized.

  Fine.

  Taking care with the knife, I depressed its release latch and secured its razor edge, breathing nice and steady. By nightly ritual, I positioned the knife between me and the silken glove, the antique coin, and the gloss tin, lining it up with the near edge of the table, folded blade tucked away, but at the ready.

  I didn’t plan to use it. But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t.

  Anyone dumb enough to square off with Bruno would have me to answer to.

  A fourth bleedle sounded as I reached inside.

  “Really?” And Ben had seemed shocked that I wanted nothing to do with a phone.

  My fingers wrapped around a rectangular object. Its surface felt...studded?

  When I pulled it out, I blinked. Heavily.

  Then I scowled.

  The thing was sparkly. And pink. Bright pink.

  Its illuminated screen went dark.

  When I clicked the center button, it flashed on again, a screen of icons appearing.

  I switched off the bedside lamp and settled under the covers, examining the device. I’d seen people using them before, just hadn’t ever held one myself. Never saw the point in becoming a slave to technology.

  A green box with a white convo bubble had a red 4 in its upper corner.

  I touched the Messages icon with my fingertip.

  A stream of gray message bubbles appeared. I read them top to bottom, oldest to newest.

  So...

  Welcome to your phone.

  Not my phone.

  Yes.

  No.

  Yes. (I can hear you saying no while you read this.)

  “Can you see me too?” I hefted the weight of the phone in my hand, gauging how far I could make it fly.

  The phone vibrated as I held it. Guess it only bleedled when being ignored. Another bubble flashed up.

  Wait! Before you throw it at the wall...

  I waited—doing my damnedest not to be amused.

  I promise not to bug you.

  Another gray bubble appeared with three scrolling dots, then came through.

  *Too* much.

  I started to smile.

  You’re grinning now, aren’t you?

  My lips firmed. How do you suddenly know me so well?

  So, anyway. Consider it an employee perk.

  Like the clothes I was to pick up at the pro shop. A way for him to give me stuff.

  “Doesn’t mean I have to accept it,” I grumbled.

  And thought you’d like the pink, Blink.

  A sudden rage fired up from my belly at the nickname, one I hadn’t realized he’d picked up on from Bear in the alley—that Ben had no right to use.

  My fist tightened around Ben’s pink, sparkly attempt at a leash.

  Then I launched the damn thing across the room. It deflected off the doorjamb and ricocheted into the bathroom. A satisfying clatter echoed. Ceramic tile floor? Meet Ben’s phone.

  From the doorway threshold, Bruno lifted his head, alerting.

  With a relieved sigh, I settled into the clean bedding, under the covers.

  And as I nestled down into my comforting darkness, so did Bruno on his patch of the floor from where he guarded the room. With the all-quiet, things had once again become right in his world.

  As I closed my eyes, sleep tugging me down, my last thoughts drifted over my talismans that guarded me: the silken glove, the patinaed coin, the scented tin, my sharpened knife.

  A last bleedle carried to my ears, barely heard, its effect on me weakened from whatever abuse it’d suffered and from the vast distance it had to cover from where it’d been outcast.

  Banished.

  I smiled as I drifted into dreamland, images floating through my mind of me tucked in, safe and sound. And Ben relegated to where he belonged: locked out.

  Everything’s exactly as it should be in my world too.

  Ben…

  “Really?” Low and soft, a familiar voice purred from behind me. “Those hideous shorts? Again?”

  Shay.

  Relief flashed through me that she’d showed—after nothing but deafening silence since she’d walked away a day and a half ago.

  I fought a grin. Hell yes, again. All the easier to rile you with.

  Then I glanced at my watch, for the third time in ten minutes, and fronted my best scowl. “You’re late.”

  When I turned, I caught her half-shrug. But damn, she looked incredible.

  Her dark hair had been scraped back into a thick ponytail except for layered bangs that framed her face. For the first time, I realized her hair wasn’t simply dark-brown; the morning sun glinted a deep mahogany off the top strands. And her eyes weren’t always stormy emerald. In the light of day, they sparkled like pale sea glass.

  Dark lashes slow-blinked over those startling green eyes. “Sorry. Had to catch a ride.”

  “A ride? With who?” Since Miss Independent seemed to get around fine on her own, it never occurred to me that she’d need a lift. “You should’ve let me know.” You should’ve called.

  “The GreaterPhiladelphiaTransportationDepartment,” she blurted out in one long word.

  I gave her a blank look while I decoded what she’d said.

  “The bus,” she translated. “And I ‘should-not-’ve’ anything. Better get on board with that right now.”

  No rules. No restrictions. Loud and clear.

  Electronic leash? She’d practically said Not a fat chance in hell.

  And yet, I’d already taken that thousand-degree chance anyway. “You get the phone?”

  “It’s pink.” Her voice flattened in judgment.

  “Don’t like pink?”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  “You know, it’s customary to reply to texts.” The last one I’d fired off to her Monday night? Had said Sweet dreams, Shay.

  “I’m not customary.”

  No kidding. “Yeah, I got that.”

  “You got a problem with that?”

  “Not even a little bit.” Yeah, I’d tossed her words back at her. But mine held more punch. Meant more to me than rebelling at color. Sounded a lot like I’d taken a stance on a vital issue.

  Her hard stare held mine.

  My next words? Softer tone, even heavier impact. “It’s what I like best about you.”

  Her next breath sucked in quicker. Then her gaze flicked up to my same blinding-white hat. Her eyes squinted as she held out an open palm.

  I bit back a laugh, then handed her my sunglasses. “Good choice on outfits.”

  She’d chosen the darkest of the three the pro-shop guy had recommended. The slim collar of a gray sleeveless top hugged the back of her neck and partway around the sides, but plunged at her throat, revealing flawless tanned skin that disappeared under the shadow of its deep V. Short black skirt-shorts—embroidered with a silver dandelion whose tiny umbrella seeds floated above the hem as it ruffled in the breeze—highlighted toned legs. Gray-edged socks peeked out from the tops of black-and-gray saddle shoes.

  With a slight chin lift, she stabbed my sunglasses onto her face. “Good thing I don’t have a sense of humor.”

  She meant the fourth outfit.

  The one I’d tossed into the mix: a bright white hat, light-green shirt, black-and-green Bermuda shorts.

  What I’d worn Monday. What
I wore now.

  “You’re funnier than you think. The best kind. Dry humor. With plenty of smartass.”

  She arched her slender brows, pinched a corner of my sunglasses, then lowered the frames down her nose to reveal those beautiful eyes. “What would the country-club set have thought if I’d taken you up on it?”

  Doesn’t matter. I would’ve loved it.

  The hilarity alone would’ve been worth it. “Work uniform?”

  She shot me an exacerbated look over the tortoiseshell rims, then shoved them back, hiding her eyes. “More like clubbie twinsies of the most hideous kind.” She plucked the corner of her narrow shirt collar. “This is more my speed.”

  Yeah, it was. Nothing flashy. Understated, yet edgy. Just like her.

  Not one thing pink about it. Which reminded me... “Where is your phone?” Didn’t see her small backpack. And if that tiny skirt she wore had pockets, no phone could’ve possibly been hidden in there.

  “I don’t have a phone.”

  “Fine. My phone that I left with you.”

  “Away.”

  Not in her backpack, or she would’ve said so. Not in some apartment I hoped to God she lived in rather than slumming on the streets. An image flashed of her tossing the “electronic leash” into a garbage can on some random street corner.

  I stared hard at her, words unable to form. The woman frustrated me. And the more I tried to figure her out, the less I understood.

  Her brows raised a fraction. “A locker, okay? Apparently, you wander into this club and you become royalty. A personal concierge offered me cucumber water, custom-sized shower shoes, and a fluffy lavender-scented robe. And a locker. With a security code. To stash valuables in.”

  She shot me a duh expression as her eyebrows arched ever higher. “Hope you don’t expect me to carry that thing with me everywhere.”

  “Nope. Don’t expect a thing.” Just glad she hadn’t destroyed it.

  “Good.” She gave a short nod. “That’s usually best with me.”