The Thief

by Kate McCarthy

  Those searing eyes burn hotter.

  Holy Jesus.

  I turn off the tap and switch the kettle on, getting out my little coffee plunger. “There’s only two bedrooms in the house, but we have a bathroom each. My room is on that side,” I say, pointing to his right, “and Mason’s on the other side.”

  Kelly starts toward me like an animal on the hunt, which I believe makes me the vulnerable gazelle right now. My breath catches and I whirl for the fridge, grabbing out the coffee beans. When I shut the door and turn, he’s right there, his chest in line with my eyes. I grip tightly to the bag of beans and lift my eyes.

  “You were serious about the coffee,” he utters, his voice low.

  “Yes,” I croak and clear my throat. “You don’t want one?”

  Kelly cocks his head, studying me as if the question I asked was more complex than a mathematical equation. Eventually he seems to reach a decision, and a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “A coffee would be real nice, but right now there’s something I want more.”

  “What?” The word escapes on a harsh exhale because I’ve forgotten to take a breath.

  He ducks his head and a rough palm grabs my jaw, tilting my head up further. “A kiss.”

  “Just a kiss?”

  “Babe. When I kiss, it’s not just a kiss.”

  I grin and bite down on my bottom lip, stopping it from spreading too wide because he’s made me a bit giddy. I don’t want to let the crazy out too soon.

  “Bring it then, cowboy.”

  Kelly huffs but his eyes are light. “I’m no cowboy.”

  “You rode that bike like you were born doing it. Like it was just an extension of yourself. It was …” I can’t think of the right word.

  “It was what?” he prompts as the kettle flicks off, finishing its boil and returning stillness to the little kitchen.

  “Natural. Beautiful.”

  “You callin’ me beautiful, shorty?”

  “I’m not short!”

  “Shorter than me.” Kelly grins and smacks his lips to mine. A fast kiss. One filled with humour and pleasure, as if he’s enjoying me. Then he lets go of my jaw and backs up a step.

  “So that’s it?” I taunt, making my way back to the island bench. “That’s your big kiss?”

  Kelly leans sideways against the fridge where I left him and folds his arms. “That wasn’t a kiss.”

  I arch a brow as I count out scoops of ground coffee and dump them in the plunger. “What would you call it, then?”

  “A meeting of the lips and nothing more.”

  “Well okay, then.” Though my mouth is still tingling from where his lips met mine. The possibility of feeling more than that leaves me antsy. I make the coffee and set out two mugs, trying to focus on the task at hand or risk third-degree burns. “Sugar? Milk?”

  “Neither.”

  “Huh.” Same as me. Black coffee. Strong and unassuming. I gesture to the mugs. “Carry those?”

  I pick up the full plunger. Kelly follows behind as I lead him toward my bedroom. It’s late and too cold to be sitting outside. My room is private and cosy. I flick on the bedside lamp and set the coffee on my desk, pushing aside overflowing papers and books.

  Kelly looks around as he steps inside, and I try and see it from his eyes. It’s a busy room, but it’s oddly soothing. At least to me. Framed family photos are positioned on my desk and walls. Textbooks fill shelves and papers are piled high. Quickly scrawled Post-it notes litter my open laptop, reminders of assignments due and upcoming exams. Being only one of two bedrooms, it’s a large space. My bed is a king and smothered with cushions and plush quilts and blankets in colours of grey and pale lemon.

  He picks up a heavy textbook and reads the title. “Financial Institutions and Markets. Sounds … riveting.”

  Kelly makes it sound anything but. I roll my eyes and laugh. “Be quiet. It’s actually not too bad.”

  He looks at me, aghast. “Babe.”

  I shrug and sink to the edge of my bed. “At least finance and numbers make sense in world where nothing seems to make sense anymore. They make me feel …” I hesitate as he opens the text and flicks through the pages, wondering if I’ll sound silly, but then I forge on. What’s the worst that could happen if he thinks me odd? “… safe.”

  Kelly pauses his flicking and pins me with his eyes. “Is there a reason you need to feel safe?”

  My chest seizes, and I don’t know how to breathe around it. How has he read me so easily? There’s nothing safe about living life on the edge, even though it calls to me regardless. The anticipation of it. The recklessness. The wild. My heart races just thinking about it. But I’m tired of that same recklessness. And wild.

  “There’s a special kind of freedom in safety,” I answer. “With it you’re free to do what you want or be who you want to be. You can have a future.”

  “So you want to be an investment banker because it’s safe?”

  He sounds unconvinced and a chuckle escapes me. “Something like that.” I bend and unbuckle the straps of my heels, kicking them off with a groan.

  Kelly crouches in front of me, bringing us to eye level. His palms find my knees, his calloused hands scratchy against my skin. The feeling is deliciously welcome. “We all need somewhere where we feel safe.”

  “Where do you feel safe?”

  It’s a ridiculous question. Kelly is mammoth. The type no one would dare cross swords with. How would he ever feel unsafe?

  He leans in and rubs his nose against mine. “Now is not the time for me to answer that question.”

  My voice is a whisper. “It’s not?”

  “No. Some other time though, yeah?”

  “Why not now?”

  Kelly’s lips brush mine and my breath catches at the intimacy and the thrill of it. “Because you’re not ready to hear the answer.”

  We stare at each other for a moment, the only sound the soft breathing between us. Then he kisses me again. This time I agree with him; it’s so much more than just a kiss. Kelly’s tongue sweeps inside my mouth. I moan deep in my throat, responding, blood heating in my veins.

  The pins in my hair fall soundless to the bed when he grabs a fistful, tugging with a gentle force. It sends powerful waves of hunger crashing over me. My lips mash against his, needing more, deepening the kiss until everything goes dark inside my mind. There’s only this. Him. An endless pleasure that I never want to end.

  Kelly breaks the kiss and stands abruptly, backing up a step, then another, his eyes locked on mine. His chest rises and falls rapidly. “I don’t …”

  “You don’t what?” I prompt when he trails off. My wits are scattered to all four corners, and I take great satisfaction in seeing that his are too. I’m not the only one feeling whatever this is.

  6

  Kelly

  I don’t know what the hell this is, but it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I wouldn’t ordinarily stop at one kiss. I would have that dress ripped off moments later, my pawing hands all over that rich golden skin. But I can’t bring myself to keep kissing her. Arcadia is like fine silver, and my touch feels like a tarnish, dirtying everything that makes her shine so beautifully.

  My hands fist at my sides. I’m out of my depth and don’t know where to go to from this point. I don’t even know what to say. I’m usually confident. I can be a real sweet talker, making moves to get what I want, but this is a move I’ve never made before. It makes what felt so easy before feel frustrating. I should leave but my feet appear glued to the floorboards.

  Arcadia clears her throat and stands, reaching for the plunger. “How about that coffee?”

  “I’ll do it,” I mutter, thankful for the opportunity to get the fuck over myself.

  I pour the black liquid into two navy mugs. One has a small chip on the rim. I keep that one for myself and offer her the other. She takes it and resettles on the bed.

  I take a seat beside her, sinking into the plush bedding. The quilt puffs up around
me as if I seated myself on a cloud. It’s kinda … nice.

  “How long have you had your bike for?” she asks.

  “That particular one?” I scratch the back of my head, counting time. “I’ve had her for about eighteen months.”

  “She’s a real beauty.” Arcadia says it like she means it, and I like that. How she only speaks words that are truthful. “How long have you been riding for?”

  “A long time, babe. Years. Since I was a teenager. It’s almost spiritual, you know? Like you’re a bird riding the wind,” I say, trying to conjure the emotion so I can easily explain it. And I want her to understand. She was so open about herself when I asked that it makes sharing that much easier. “There’s only one thing in your head the entire time.”

  “What’s that?” she asks, reaching across to set her empty mug on the desk by the bed. Then she reclines back, snuggling into the pillows behind her.

  “Joy,” I say simply, staring down into my coffee. “I never really experienced that feeling ’til I rode my first bike.” I bring the mug to my lips, tipping it back and finishing the last mouthful. “I never looked back after that.”

  I plonk my mug next to hers and stand, my hands going to the buttons on my shirt.

  “What are you doing?”

  I pause and wink. “Gettin’ more comfortable, shorty. That okay?”

  Arcadia’s lips curve in a lazy smile. It’s compelling and sexy and my fingers return to the buttons, undoing them in rapid succession. I peel the dress shirt off, dumping it happily to the floor. It leaves me in an undershirt and pants. I leave those on but remove the belt. Feeling a little more like myself, I stretch out on the bed beside her.

  “Are you tired?” she asks as I settle on my back, resting my hands on my stomach.

  “A little.”

  “Me too.”

  Her hand comes to rest on my forearm. I suck in a silent breath as she trails her fingers along the skin. “You have so many tattoos. They’re unexpected. But they’re beautiful.” Arcadia reads aloud the words inked on the inside of my arm, near my elbow. “Forget what hurt you, but never forget what it taught you.” She turns on her side, looking directly at me. “What hurt you?”

  I don’t know how to answer her question. I don’t want to. To have her know what I came from and the person it made me. I saw the way Casey looked at me when he found out I was a Sentinel. His expression was one of bitter disappointment. He only knew me as his little brother, but the day we reunited after years, he looked at me as if nothing could fix the man I’d become. He wanted to save me from myself, but it’s too late for that. I’m not ashamed of being a biker brother, but I’m not stupid. We’re not considered an honourable lot. And I’ve done shitty things. I’m not a good person. But Arcadia is looking at me right now as if I’m everything she’s been looking for her entire life. I’ve never had that before and I’m not ready to give it up just yet.

  “The past,” I eventually answer. “It can be a real shitty place to visit in your head sometimes.”

  Her fingers stop moving on my forearm for a brief moment. Then they curl around it, warm and soothing. “What brings you joy?” I ask her, wanting to shift away from the dark and heavy path our conversation is heading down.

  “Cars.”

  I turn my head swiftly to look at her. “You fuckin’ serious?”

  Arcadia grins and deepens her voice to mimic mine. “I’m fuckin’ serious.”

  “What kind?”

  “Any kind, but I love originals. Classics. Cars with power and character. I grew up around them thanks to my grandfather’s obsession. He taught me how to drive, always saying that I should smoke tyres, not drugs.”

  “Yeah?” I chuckle quietly. “What else did he say?”

  “You want to know his prayer when it’s his turn to say grace before we eat Sunday dinner?”

  I nod, fascinated at the idea of family dinners. Growing up in my house, we weren’t allowed to start until our father sat down at the table. And there was no grace. There was only tension and fear, and that sick feeling of being hungry but not wanting to eat.

  Arcadia tells me around the smile on her face, showing an exasperated kind of affection for her grandfather. “As I lay rubber down the street, I pray for traction I can keep, but if I spin and begin to slide, please dear God protect my ride.”

  I laugh. “I like him. Did he drag?”

  “In his younger years. Not so much now. He travels a lot.”

  “And what’s your car?”

  She heaves a deep, dreamy sigh, as though picturing it in her head. “A 1967 Ford Mustang Fastback.”

  Taste. She has it in spades. And I can see why someone would choose that car, but I’m curious as to why she has. “Why? Why the ’67?”

  “Because she’s full-bodied and hot-blooded. Because vintage has more character. Sixty-seven was the first redesign of the original model,” she says, telling me what I already know, but she knows. I let her talk, hearing the passion in her voice and recognising it in myself. “And it’s got the big-block V8 engine. I have her in the garage at my parents’ house.”

  “Holy shit. Fully restored?”

  “Not even close. I was in Northern California on holiday when I stumbled across her during an eBay search. She looked just like another old junk car in the lot, dumped down in the back because no one wanted her. She’s rough. Maybe too rough to restore. The drivetrain is out and there’s a bunch of parts stuffed in the boot. She didn’t deal well with being shipped here to Australia either.” Arcadia’s voice turns wistful. “But she could be beautiful. One day.”

  I like that she can see the beauty in something broken and discarded. It gives me hope that maybe she could see it in me too.

  I make mention that it might be worthwhile tracking down the original owner, and we talk cars into the night, until I find I’m talking to myself. She’s drifted off. I should leave but instead I find myself drifting too.

  It’s early morning when I wake, disoriented for just a moment until I figure out my surroundings. The palest light drifts through the sheer curtains that cover the bedroom window. It lights the profile of Arcadia. She’s still deep in sleep, but she’s moved around during the night. Her hair is mussed and the front of her dress has shifted sideways and up, revealing naked thighs and the full swell of her right tit. A pale pink nipple puckers in the cool air.

  I’m only human and it’s begging for my tongue. I want the taste of her on my lips, and the feel of her in my mouth to carry me through the day. Instead of giving in, I tug the material across and cover her up.

  Arcadia releases a sleepy moan and shifts but doesn’t fully waken. I don’t have the option of touching her the way I want to. I have so much shit to get done today, so I draw back. Getting to my feet, I leave the bed and grab the blanket that sits folded at the end, pulling it up to keep her covered. I collect my rumpled shirt from the floor and scrawl my name and number on a piece of paper on her desk.

  I leave her room, pulling the door closed behind me and tugging my arms through the sleeves of my shirt.

  “Who are you?” demands a hard male voice.

  I stop short. There’s a man seated at the table in the dining nook. It’s her brother. They look alike, though his features are obviously more masculine and his skin a little more tanned. And where Arcadia’s eyes hold the stormy seas inside them, his right now are holding the burning fires of Hell.

  “You must be Mason.”

  “Yes, but who are you, and what are you doing coming out of my sister’s bedroom in the early hours of the morning?”

  I was hoping to avoid the wrath of an older brother. Seems it’s not gonna be my lucky day. He remains seated as I walk toward him, my shirt unbuttoned. “Kelly Daniels,” I say, holding out a hand. He glares at it like it’s an insect that crawled into his morning eggs. I drop it to my side.

  “You’re a Sentinel,” he says, spitting the word as if it’s a foul and bitter taste on his tongue.

  I nod.
Mason has been outside and inspected my bike. He’s seen the badge of my biker brethren painted on the side. The opposite side to where Arcadia stood beside it last night, missing the details.

  “Leave,” Mason’s voice is steel. He rolls back from the table, and it’s only then that I realise he’s in a wheelchair. He starts toward me, biceps bulging as he rolls the wheels in hard, jerky movements. His eyes are rigid and determined, leaving me in no doubt he’s fully capable of throwing me out. “You’re not welcome here.”

  “Ace would beg to differ,” I retort unwisely, but Arcadia’s brother appears to be an asshole, and I’m entitled to defend myself.

  “Ace doesn’t get a say.”

  “She can speak for herself. It’s not up to you to—”

  He moves further toward me, his eyes narrowing. “I’m her big brother. It’s my job to speak for her if I know what I’m speaking is in her best interests.”

  Mason’s words send me spiralling inside a childhood memory.

  * * *

  I’d just walked inside the back door of our house after school. It was better to sneak in that way in case Dad was home and on a rampage. Casey and I usually walked home together, but he had a free period and got to leave early. He was rushing toward me. At fourteen he was all long limbs and big feet that almost tripped him up. Blood trickled down the side of his face.

  Bile rose in my throat, the same way it always did when Dad got violent. Bile and fear. It was a combination that made me dread coming home each day, not knowing if it was going to be a bad day or a day where we could sneak under our father’s radar.

  “Go!”

  Casey pushed at me, propelling me through the door. When we were outside he grabbed my arm and we ran. The yard backed on to an old creek bed. We leaped the low-wire fence and navigated through water and rocks until he deemed us a safe distance away to stop.