Steal Me

by Lauren Layne

  There were only a handful of other people on her car, so she got not only a seat, but an entire row to herself. Having a spot to set her enormous handbag, and another to set the box of day-old lemon meringue pie that her manager had kindly bestowed on her, was a small luxury she wasn’t going to take for granted.

  Not after yet another day when she’d managed to spill all over Anthony Moretti. No, wait…

  “Captain Moretti,” she muttered out loud to herself. “It’s Captain Moretti.”

  Maggie fell silent, because the city didn’t need any more weirdos talking to themselves on public transportation, but it didn’t stop her from thinking about him.

  For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out how two people as warm and friendly as Tony and Maria Moretti had produced someone as uptight and conceited as the captain.

  Their oldest son was a rotten seed in a family full of charmers.

  Maggie adored the rest of the Morettis. She had ever since they’d been ridiculously kind to her on her first day, despite the fact that she’d dropped iced tea on the guest of honor. Yes. Him.

  She and Elena had clicked almost immediately. Probably because Elena always seemed slightly desperate for female company in the midst of all her brothers, and Maggie very desperate to make a friend.

  But the brothers were sweet too, Anthony excluded, of course.

  Maggie thought she could almost have a crush on Luc if it weren’t for the fact that he was dating the gorgeous, super-smart Ava. Still, a girl could look. And admire. It was impossible not to. Luc Moretti looked like a freaking movie star, with his perfectly styled dark hair, laughing blue eyes, and the way he filled out his uniform just right.

  And yet, despite the fact that the man was every woman’s fantasy, Luc was also refreshingly down to earth, even after his whole brush-with-media fame a few months back.

  Vincent wasn’t nearly as friendly as Luc. In fact, he wasn’t friendly at all. But there was a blunt honesty about the detective that Maggie found comforting.

  One always knew where they stood with Vincent Moretti. And luckily, he seemed to like her.

  There was another brother…Matt or Marc or something, whom she’d never met since he lived in California.

  But of the East Coast Morettis, Maggie could say without hesitation that they were lovely.

  They were the kind of family that she used to think only existed in after-school TV specials. Lord knew she hadn’t seen a whole lot of that growing up in her hometown of Torrence, New Jersey.

  She certainly hadn’t seen much in the way of family togetherness in her own home.

  Still, even with all their perfection, the Morettis had a blight. A big pockmark on an otherwise flawless visage:

  The oldest sibling had such a stick up the butt.

  What made Anthony Moretti’s personality disorder even more of a bummer was the fact that the man was really, truly gorgeous.

  At least to her.

  All of the Moretti men were good looking, from Tony with his sage, silver fox appeal down to Luc with all of that blue-eyed charm.

  But it was Anthony who appealed to Maggie the most. He was pure fantasy material.

  All of the Moretti men were tall, but Anthony was tall. Like, six-four, at least. And then there were the ridiculously broad shoulders that tapered into a narrow waist, giving his upper body that beguiling inverted triangle look that all but begged a woman to cuddle up close and be held.

  His dark hair was shorter than his brothers’, not quite a crew cut, but it was definitely a no-nonsense style that perfectly framed his harsh jawline, serious brown eyes, and olive skin.

  And if she were to really get into it, it would have to be said that Anthony’s features were too broad to be classically handsome, and yet too symmetrical to be completely rugged. The resulting in-between was almost unbearably him.

  Not that she’d been studying him.

  Well, okay, maybe just a little. And only out of the corner of her eye. And only when he wasn’t paying attention. Which was pretty much always since the man never paid attention to her.

  The only time he even seemed to know she existed was when she dropped a buttered biscuit on his sleeve or scalding hot coffee on his crotch…

  Maggie’s eyes went wide. Oh God.

  What if he thought she was doing it on purpose to get his attention? Women had done crazier things to get a man to look at them. And a man that looked like him had probably had all sorts of crazy admirers.

  Or worse…what if subconsciously, she really was doing it to get his attention?

  She discarded that last thought almost immediately. Maggie Walker had never been the type to want to get noticed. Blending into the background was easier. Safer. Plus, flying under the radar had the added benefit of turning her into a top-notch observer over the years. A handy skill for an aspiring author.

  Maggie winced as she realized she was almost to her subway stop and instead of spending the commute thinking about the upcoming scene she was writing tonight, she’d spent the whole time thinking about him.

  She’d read somewhere that J.K. Rowling had come up with the main premise of Harry Potter while sitting on a train. Most days she tried to duplicate this, and some days she was semi-successful.

  But Sundays were harder. Sundays were Moretti days.

  Maggie sighed at the wasted time daydreaming when she should have been plotting her story, and gathered her bags, waiting for the train to pull up to the Seventh Avenue station in Park Slope, Brooklyn, where she lived in a cozy (translation: tiny) studio.

  Maggie knew that for most women moving to “the city,” it was all about Manhattan, but although she loved Manhattan in all its high-rise glamour, she’d been drawn almost immediately to Brooklyn.

  Not only for the (slightly) more affordable rental rates, but also for the neighborhood feel that was harder to come by in Manhattan.

  Maggie mentally cataloged through the contents of her fridge and pantry and decided that between eggs, dried pasta, and a probably-still-good loaf of bread, she could get by without a stop at the store. Plus there was the pie. Surely having pie for dinner once a week (or twice, maybe twice) wasn’t the worst thing in the world. There were worse vices, right?

  One of these days, Maggie thought, she’d be one of those super together women who threw together a healthy dinner for one with all the food groups. But for now, she was pretty dang content with eating whatever the heck she felt like.

  Sometimes that was a nice salad with chicken breast and veggies, and other days it was, well…lemon meringue pie. Either way, it was the freedom that was wonderful.

  There was nobody to sneer that she’d overcooked the meat. Nobody to wrinkle their nose at the pasta sauce because they “didn’t feel like it.” Nobody to remind her “again” that they didn’t like spinach in any form.

  For a woman who’d spent her teens and early twenties hearing those comments from her father and brother, and her late twenties hearing them from her husband, the ability to have whatever the heck she wanted for dinner was the ultimate luxury.

  Sure, she was a thirty-two-year-old divorcée living in an itty-bitty studio and contemplating scrambled eggs and pie for dinner again, but it was her apartment. Her eggs. Her pie.

  Her choice.

  It wasn’t until she’d finally gotten the courage to divorce Eddie that she’d realized the sheer power in making a decision and acting on it. Any decision.

  Maggie rummaged around in her purse until her fingers found the Tiffany key chain her best friend had gotten her for Christmas a couple years earlier.

  It was easily the nicest thing she owned. And it made missing Gabby a little easier, although not much. Her best friend had moved to Denver, and though they still talked on the phone occasionally, it wasn’t the same as when they’d been twelve and Maggie could be at Gabby’s house in two minutes for the homemade chocolate chip cookies that she’d never get at home.

  Nor were their long phone chats the same as when they�
��d gotten married within six months of each other at twenty-four and had set up their respective newlywed homes just minutes away from the other.

  Still, much as she missed Gabby, leaving Torrence had been the best thing. For both of them.

  Sure, only one of their marriages was still intact, but at least both women had managed to escape their childhood town, with all its toxic gossip and small-town thinking.

  Maggie only wished her best friend hadn’t had to move quite so far. Gabby’s husband was a middle-school principal who’d gotten a job offer at a prestigious Denver prep school, and they’d moved two years earlier, along with their adorable twins.

  Now Gabby had her own interior design company, the twins had finally gotten the dog they’d always wanted, and though Maggie hadn’t been able to afford a visit out there, their Christmas cards showed the perfect suburban home that Gabby had always longed for.

  Maggie’s own retreat from their New Jersey hometown had been a lot less glorious.

  When she’d filed for divorce, she hadn’t expected the process to be pretty, but she definitely hadn’t counted on the fight to keep the house (she lost) or the fact that all of her “friends” would listen to Eddie’s lies that she’d been unfaithful.

  Still, silver lining? She’d gotten out.

  Her Park Slope studio might be tiny, but there was no Eddie.

  There was, however, Duchess.

  “Hello, baby,” Maggie said, shoving the front door open with her hip and immediately collapsing to the ground to greet her dog.

  It said a lot about Duchess’s loyalty to her owner that the poodle-mystery mix showed more interest in Maggie than she did the lemon meringue pie. Maggie happily accepted every last messy dog kiss on her chin before landing a kiss of her own on top of Duchess’s scratchy brown head.

  On paper, it was Maggie who’d rescued Duchess a few months earlier from the animal shelter. But she and Duchess knew the truth: they’d rescued each other.

  “Does Her Grace need to go out to the ladies’ room?” Maggie asked, giving the dog one last smooch before climbing to her feet and grabbing the dog leash off the hook by the door.

  Duchess did three fast three-sixty spins before planting her little butt on the ground and all but vibrating in excitement while she waited for Maggie to clip on the leash.

  “Okay, remember, ladies don’t poop in the middle of the sidewalk,” Maggie said as they stepped outside. Duchess wagged her tail rapidly to indicate she understood.

  A long walk around a nearby grassy patch later, it was clear that Duchess had not understood, because she held her “business” until they got back to the sidewalk. Maggie smiled an apology at the grumpy-looking elderly couple as she tried to open one of the stupid pink doggie bags she’d bought online because they were cheaper than the ones in the pet store.

  Three defective bags later, she found a bag without a hole in it and picked up Duchess’s mess.

  Maggie frowned at the dog. “Why do I bother walking you to the park when you insist on poo-ing on the pavement, hmm?”

  Duchess barked twice at a leaf.

  “Good talk, baby. Okay, let’s go get some pie.”

  Back at home, Maggie pulled a bag of carrots out of the fridge and munched on a handful while she changed out of her orange diner uniform into a pair of pj’s.

  It was just barely getting dark, but since she worked the breakfast shift again tomorrow, her four a.m. wake-up call came around fast. Her frequent early mornings were just one of the many things Eddie had found to complain about, although back then it had been Denny’s in Torrence.

  And her paltry waitress income had been supporting two people.

  Eddie hadn’t “liked” to work.

  Maggie bit a carrot with more force than necessary and gave the other half to Duchess, who nipped it out of her fingers and leaped onto the bed.

  “I better not find that under my pillow later,” Maggie said with a warning finger.

  Duchess wagged her tail. Maggie was so going to find the carrot under her pillow later.

  Then Maggie cut herself a big ole slice of pie and settled down with her secondhand laptop at the tiny table that doubled as desk, kitchen table, and ironing board when needed.

  Maggie opened her manuscript and settled her fingers on the keyboard. Then changed her mind and took a bite of pie instead.

  It was a tricky scene she was working on. The almost first kiss between the teen hero and heroine. Mood and tension were everything. She had to make the readers want it as much as the characters wanted it.

  Tricky indeed.

  But scenes like this were part of the reason Maggie wrote books for teens, or “YA” as it was known in the publishing world. Because nobody knew how to long like a teenager. Sure, adults felt longing too, but it was different, because on some level, adults knew that the reality was never as great as the buildup. Which in turn made the buildup less somehow.

  But fifteen-year-olds…man, their yearning was the real deal. They weren’t jaded by knowledge that sex was inevitably a letdown, or that Prince Charming didn’t exist, or that when people said I love you what they really meant was I need you to do something for me.

  The characters in teen fiction didn’t know any of that stuff. At least not in Maggie’s story. Her book-world was kinder, softer, sweeter. And so with one last fortifying bite of pie, Maggie put her fingers to the keyboard and started writing.

  It used to be harder. Early on when she’d first tried to turn the images in her head into words on a page, it had been harder to block out the rest of the world and lose herself inside the story.

  But she’d been writing nearly every day for eight months now, ever since she moved into her little Brooklyn apartment, and now that it was routine, it was easier to ignore her upstairs neighbor’s thumping bass.

  Easier to ignore the bottoms of her feet, which hurt from standing all day.

  Easier, even, to ignore the fact that Duchess was burying and then reburying the carrot amid Maggie’s white pillows.

  Maggie heard and saw none of that.

  There were only the characters. Only the story.

  Only the want.

  Colin shifted closer to Jenny, his hand lifting and then hesitating, as though afraid she’d move away. But she didn’t move away, and his fingers touched her cheek. Questioningly at first, and then surer, his palm cradling her face as he moved closer still. Jenny wanted both to close her eyes and feel, but also to keep them locked on his, to watch the way they darkened when her fingers touched his waist…

  It took Maggie several moments to come out of the zone and realize what she was hearing: the steady vibrations of her cell phone.

  She nibbled her lip and tried to block it out the way she blocked out everything else, but…

  Maggie reluctantly tore herself away from Jenny and Colin’s almost-kiss and dug her phone out of her purse.

  If she felt a small stab of dread at the name on the screen, she ignored it as she swiped her thumb to accept the phone call.

  Family was family, after all.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Buggie.”

  She winced. It was a terrible nickname. Left over from Maggie’s childhood fondness for bringing bugs into the house. Back when her dad had still been sober enough to marvel at her latest six-legged find. And when her mom had been, well, present enough to screech and demand that the “nasty creatures” get out of her house.

  “How’s it going?” Maggie asked her father, looking wistfully at the open document on her laptop and immediately feeling guilty. She turned her back on the computer.

  Her dad was silent for a few moments. “Not so great, Bugs.”

  No surprise there. Her dad only ever bothered to call when things were “not so great.”

  “What’s going on?”

  She asked the question because it was expected, not because it was necessary. She already knew exactly what was going on. He needed something.

  “I’m ready to get better
, Maggie.”

  She closed her eyes. Didn’t have to ask what he meant by “better.” The words should have filled her with joy. And they had, the first, second, and fifth time that she’d heard them.

  “How’s AA going?” she asked, opening the fridge and staring blindly into it.

  Her dad made a derisive sound. “They don’t know shit, Bugs. A bunch of self-righteous assholes yammering on about God and steps. I need real help, Buggie. I found a place…”

  Maggie closed the fridge door without taking anything out. Even another slice of pie didn’t appeal. Her appetite was gone.

  Her dad was still rambling on. “…it’s up in Vermont. Gets great reviews. Doc said he can probably get me a referral, but…”

  Maggie already knew what the but was. It would be expensive. The fancy rehab centers always were.

  There were, of course, cheaper paths toward sobriety. Cheaper options that her father had tried (at her insistence) and failed at.

  She turned, leaning back against her tiny kitchen counter, and looked up at the ceiling.

  “Is there any sort of financial aid?” Maggie asked.

  “Sure, sure, of course I’m going to try, but Bugs…this place is the best. I’ll send you the info; they’ve got some great success rates.”

  Maggie opened her mouth to argue that all the other places had been “the best.” They all had great success rates. It was just her father who continued to count among their few failures.

  But she couldn’t bring herself to say it. Everything she’d read said that an addict taking initiative was a big step. That she should be supportive and enthusiastic of his desire to get help.

  The thing that the books hadn’t told her was what to do when the enthusiasm led to treatment that led to temporary improvement that led to crushing relapses.

  Again, and again, and again.

  “That’s great, Dad,” she said, meaning it. Nobody wanted Charlie Walker to get clean more than his only daughter.

  It was just…

  “So whadya say, Bugs? You think you could spare some money for your old dad? Just enough to put a deposit down.”

  Maggie swallowed, thinking of the tiny, slowly growing fund she’d been saving up for school, or for a break between jobs so she could work on her book…