The Thief

by Kate McCarthy

  When we did, Casey tugged off his shirt and crouched, wetting it in the trickling water.

  “What did he do?” I asked.

  “I left my shoes in the front hallway. He tripped over them and shoved me headfirst into the wall.” Squeezing out the shirt, he rose and touched it to the side of his face, hissing at the contact. “Is it bad?” he asked me.

  I swallowed and took a look. It was a split brow and nasty. Tears stung my eyes, causing my nose to fizz and burn. I blinked and turned away. “It’s nothing.” But it wasn’t nothing. It needed a stitch. Or glue. “But maybe—” I bit down on my bottom lip when it began to quiver. “Maybe we should go get it checked out.”

  Casey’s refusal was unyielding. “No.”

  “But—”

  “You want them to split us up? Because that’s what’ll happen if we go flaunting this kind of shit around town.” He pressed the shirt harder to his brow, his voice an angry hiss. “I’m your big brother, Kelly. It’s my job to know what’s best for both us.”

  * * *

  “And you are not in her best interests,” Mason continues, snapping me out of the memory. He’s looking at me like I’m no better than shit on the bottom of his shoe. “So like I said before, leave.”

  My jaw ticks as I breathe in and out. I can’t fault him for playing the over-protective brother card. The same card Casey used to play for me. But the difference in this scenario is that Mason never left.

  I turn and walk out, grabbing my jacket where it still hangs over the back of the couch. When I step out onto the porch, I see a ramp on the right-hand side that I didn’t notice in the dark of last night. For Mason.

  I jog the set of steps to my bike and shove the jacket in my saddlebag. When I leave, I roll my bike out of the drive before starting it. When I turn the key, the engine rumbles to life, vibrating through every cell in my body. It’s a hum that soothes the beast raging inside of me.

  7

  Arcadia

  Phone in hand, I shut my bathroom door behind me with a giddiness that has me doing a booty shake. Oh yeah, oh yeah. I pump my arms. Kelly likes me. Kelly likes me. I bounce sideways and twerk my butt. Oh yeah, I got it going on. Why else would he gift me with his number? But what time did he leave? I fell asleep, but I’m sure I felt the heat of his body during the night. When I woke this morning, the sun was high in the sky and the house was empty. Mason was likely still at his morning swim session, but Kelly was gone. Disappointment had hit me like a brick to the face, until I found the scrap of paper on my desk. Ignoring all the messages and missed calls piled up on my screen, I quickly added him to my contacts just in case the piece of paper spontaneously combusted or something of the like.

  Finishing up my dance moves, I turn to the bathroom mirror and shriek.

  “No,” I breathe with horror. Then I reach up, touching my reflection because I need to be sure it’s real. My eye makeup is smeared down my face, and there’s a giant puffy ball of hair sticking out the right side of my head, resembling a bird’s nest. I’m a freak show. Did Kelly see me like this? It feels imperative that I know.

  I open messages on my phone and create a new one. I call up his name from the newly added contact. Then I move to the text section and hover with uncertainty. The cursor blinks at me, on and off, persistent and mocking, pressuring me to come up with some exceptional opener that Kelly will find both amusing and cute, thus compelling him to respond. But what do I say?

  “Hell,” I mutter as potential approaches flit through my mind. I discard each one as garbage. This isn’t supposed to be hard. Maybe I should just keep it simple. Yes. I’m trying too hard. Kelly is a cool dude. He’ll respond to coolness. Like attracts like, doesn’t it? Or does it?

  Go figure. I can steal a car, but when it comes to messaging a guy, I lose my marbles. I set my phone down and cross to the bath. After I flick on the taps, I add my special frankincense bath oils and matching bubbles. The scent is supposed to ease stress and anxiety, and I obviously need all the help I can get right now. Then I open the wide window that sits above the tub. It provides a pretty backdrop of the colourful garden and emits fresh air and a little warmth from the sun.

  Right. I can do this. I pick up my phone as hot water gushes outward, creating mounds of bubbles and filling the room with steam. Simple text message, come at me. I start tapping.

  Me: Hey you!

  Oh my god. That sounds so perky, like I’m figuratively slapping him in the face with a hello. Delete, delete, delete.

  Me: How’s your Sunday?

  So. Much. Worse. It reeks of boredom and someone fishing for more information, which I am, but not in a way that I want to be obvious. Delete, delete, delete.

  Me: You left your number behind, so I thought I’d use it.

  Ugh. I can’t even with that one. Delete, delete, delete.

  Dammit, Acehole! (That’s the name Mason gives me when I’m being a tool, which feels entirely appropriate in this situation). Just be yourself.

  There’s nothing more myself than something car related, so I attach an image I have on my phone of my sweet Mustang in all her irreparable glory, with a message.

  Me: Sending you a sexy pic to start your day off right ;)

  Send.

  Done.

  I sigh, feeling utterly exhausted.

  After turning off the taps, I set the phone beside the tub in case he replies. Then I peel off last night’s dress and panties and climb in. Heat and frankincense surround me on every level. I surrender to it, tipping my head back against the edge of the bath and closing my eyes.

  Then three things happen all at once, as if magically orchestrated by an evil mastermind bent on ruining my day and perhaps my life.

  “Oi,” Echo barks at me from the open window, startling me into sloshing water over the bathroom floor. Bubbles fly in every direction. My best friend is no doubt here to instigate a new plan for the Firebird, along with bitching me out for last night. Her glare is fiery, at odds with the pink halo of hair surrounding her head. She mostly dyes the pretty crop white, but lately she’s been trialling the cotton candy trend. It competes with her dark brown eyes and dark slash of eyebrows, giving her an edgy, sexy look.

  Before I can wipe the bubbles from my face, the bathroom door opens with an ominous bang. “We need to talk,” Mason growls.

  I blink through a soapy haze. My brother is glaring too. “What the hell? I’m in the bath. Get out!” I can understand Echo’s pissy attitude, but I wasn’t expecting an attack from the other front.

  Then my phone begins to ring, and my pulse rate kicks up to high gear. My gaze darts to the screen, but it’s not Kelly. My hopeful heart deflates. It’s Tony Marchetti.

  His call sends reality crashing down like a skyscraper under demolition.

  What am I doing?

  I was supposed to deliver the Firebird last night. It was prearranged and they were setup to take delivery. Instead, I delivered nothing. And now I’m here, luxuriating in a bath and getting giddy over a guy, when I also have a paper due on Monday.

  I’m ashamed of myself and my behaviour. I checked out last night; Kelly made me forget who I am, and what I have going on, and with what I have going on, I can’t afford to check out. This time it’s not just about money or the rush of stealing a car, it’s about keeping my family alive.

  I swipe at the bubbles on my face. Echo has disappeared from the window, no doubt making her way inside, but Mason remains, and his eyes are on my phone. His jaw is ticking, and when he speaks, his voice is glacial. “Are you going to answer that?”

  “No, I’m not going to answer that,” I mutter, knowing I’m treading on very thin ice right now.

  “Why is he calling you?”

  Each word he speaks is measured and controlled, making me wince. I’m not fooled. My brother’s measured tone means he’s reached the point beyond fury.

  Mason is the biggest advocate of my retirement. The beamer was supposed to be my last boost, and he knows it. My ties wi
th Tony Marchetti should be severed. So of course I never mentioned the list to my brother. He would be furious to know that I’m not out. Furious.

  Mason used to be the best in the business before his disability. Never arrested, no convictions. He could get any car he wanted and always remained one step ahead of everyone, including me. They called him The Ghost.

  My brother pushed every limit, and every boundary, but we all know that you can only push so far before your number gets called.

  His got called up early last year. We boosted a car together. A 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle. She was a beast, with her sleek black body and white stripes. The guy who owned her, they call him Grinder, was absolute scum. He raped Julianna, Mason’s best friend’s girlfriend, late one night when she was walking home from the train station after work. Julianna was strong enough to face her attacker and lay charges, but the police couldn’t get them to stick and they let him go. It happened three years ago, but Mason has a long memory, a lot of patience, and a powerful thirst for revenge.

  We stole that car but it all went horribly wrong. It haunts me every night when I sleep, and every time I look at my brother, especially now.

  * * *

  “What is it?” I asked Mason when he kept glancing in his rear-view mirror. It was late at night, and we were speeding along the M1 Motorway in the stolen Chevelle, heading east. The boost was a breeze, and the car was handling every corner beautifully, making me itch to take the wheel. Sitting on my hands when my brother drove a car like this one made me antsy. But this wasn’t a joy ride. This was retribution.

  “Nothing,” he muttered, shooting me an angry glare.

  I’m not supposed to be here, but I wanted the same satisfaction my brother was getting from fucking Grinder over. Julianna was a beautiful person and a friend, but she cut ties with her past. We lost her the day of the attack, and we never got her back.

  Five minutes later, Mason sped up. It was not unusual. We were on a mostly deserted dual carriageway. Opening up a ride as beautiful as this one was customary. Except this was Grinder’s car, and this was a boost. One of the most important rules on a boost was to drive a fraction beneath the speed limit. Going too fast only attracted attention from unsavoury hoons and the police.

  “Slow down,” I cautioned.

  “I would, but—” He glanced in the rear-view mirror again.

  “But what?”

  “But we have a tail.”

  My heart began to thump and a cold sweat broke out across my brow. I glanced behind us, seeing two sets of headlights in the distance. “You said it was nothing!”

  “Because I didn’t want to say anything when I wasn’t sure. But I’m sure now.”

  “How did we pick up a tail?”

  The questioned begged asking because we didn’t have one before. We were free and clear. “I don’t know!”

  “Dammit, Mason.” I glanced behind us again. The headlights were getting closer. “Speed up!”

  He planted his foot, but not hard enough for my liking. “Harder!”

  “Shut your mouth, Acehole, and let me focus on driving. I don’t want the police involved.”

  “I’d rather the police than Grinder and his friends catching up with us.” I was reminded of the stories I’d heard about what they did to those who cross them. It made my claustrophobic fear rear its ugly head. “Oh god, Mason, they’ll bury us alive in a big dirt hole in the middle of some godforsaken forest. We’ll slowly suffocate to death and die.”

  “They’re not going to catch us.”

  But his voice was grim and didn’t reassure me in the least. He planted his foot as we reached the nearest off-ramp. It was more dangerous to navigate the suburban streets, but it was easier to lose a tail.

  “Let me take the wheel.”

  We peeled through the red light of a deserted intersection. “No.”

  “I’m a better driver than you.” It was true. I spent time in the Sydney Rally Car Club while Mason spent his time playing boring sports like cricket and rugby. He might be The Ghost, but I was the Ace. Mason thought the sport was for lunatics, and I admit that most rally drivers were crazy, but it was the ultimate sport. Standard race cars were built for durability and withstanding stress, intense breaking and cornering. Motocross bikes were designed to take a beating, riding over dirt courses without losing speed. NASCAR stockers were over-built. They pushed through the air at crazy speeds, yet needed to be ready to hit the wall or other cars. Rally cars could do all of that at once.

  The most crucial skill I learned? You didn’t always know what was around the next bend, so you had to adjust on the fly.

  “This is not a rally car, Ace.”

  “No shit!”

  We took a sharp turn, and I held on, white-knuckling the dash. The back end slid out and we almost hit the wall. “Mason!”

  He oversteered, adjusting, grappling, accelerating. “I got it.” The Chevelle growled. “Sorry, baby,” he muttered to her.

  After two minutes of intense driving, we backed into an alley, switched off the engine, and killed the lights. It plunged us into darkness. A scant second later, motorcycles roared past the main road. They kept going. Then we heard them stop, and my heart attempted to beat its way out of my chest. “Did they see us?”

  “No way.” Mason shook his head but his tone was unsure. “They couldn’t have.”

  But that ominous roar was coming back toward us, and the flare of headlights got brighter. I held my breath and body still, almost as though they wouldn’t see us if I didn’t move.

  They came to a halt at the alley way entrance. “Mason, fuck!”

  Jaw tight, he restarted the engine, and the Chevelle bellowed like a lion woken from sleep. My brother jammed the gear into reverse and slammed his foot on the accelerator. “Sonofabitch.” He gripped the steering wheel in one hand, forearm muscles bulging and veins popping, and twisted his head, using his other hand to seize the back of my headrest, speeding backward with his eyes focused out the back window. “They must have a goddamn tracker on the car!”

  My stomach churned with fear and frustration and a whole lot of disbelief. “You didn’t check it?”

  “I did,” Mason protested. “I did. I—” He broke off for a moment, his expression horrified. “Fuck. I didn’t check.”

  “Oh no. Oh lordy. Mason. Your nine lives.”

  His voice was grim. “They’re up.”

  One error. That’s all it took. When you were off your game, it was only a downward spiral from there.

  We reached the back of the alley. Mason slowed down in anticipation of oncoming traffic. He eased out as fast as he could, spinning the steering wheel in a giant arc as he aligned us in the right direction of the road. But before he could punch the accelerator, bikes pulled up in front of us, blocking our path.

  “Fuck.” He threw the Chevelle in reverse, cursing again when he checked his rear-view mirror.

  I looked behind us. We were blocked there too. A big truck had come to rest sideways on our tail. Mason had made a rookie mistake, allowing them to ambush us with a proficiency we never expected. There was no escape.

  I expected my life to flash before my eyes—parts of it that made me who I am today. Like the time when I was five and my parents took me and my brother to my first theme park. I cried for an hour when I found out I was too short to ride the rollercoaster. I ended up on the dodgem cars instead. For hours. Mason had to drag me out of the little car, kicking and screaming. Then there was the time my grandad, Racer Jones, began teaching me how to drive a real car not long after I turned seven. I remember it clearly, him laughing his ass off when I punched his car into a wall. I’d sustained no injuries on account of the fact that all I’d done was lift the handbrake. The car had rolled forward two metres and nudged the garage door. Then there was my first kiss with Jamie Hall, a.k.a Dragon, behind the school sports shed where the equipment was kept. He was nicknamed thus because he accidentally set his school desk on fire when he was eleven and Ben Benedic
t swore the flames came from his mouth. Mason punched Dragon in the school parking lot after final bell and got suspended for three days. It wasn’t until two years later that another boy attempted to kiss me, and only because he was the new kid in town and didn’t know any better.

  I expected all that and more to flash before my eyes, but Mason grabbed my hand instead. His eyes were wide on mine, urgent and panicked. “No matter what happens, I need you to run okay? Don’t look back. Just run.”

  His command sent shivers of dread skittering down my spine. They were really going to kill us. I was going to die today. This was no nightmare. This was real. Terror bubbled to the surface. I kept swallowing it down but it was rising so fast I felt myself choking on it.

  Mason shoved open his car door, jerking me out with him. I scrambled across the seats, the gear stick jamming into my thigh. A whimper of pain escaped me but I didn’t stop.

  He yanked me free and shoved me in front of him. “Run!”

  I stumbled, lurching over as I lost my balance. Mason pushed me again, hard, propelling me forward before I hit the pavement headfirst. Heart in my throat, I righted myself and I ran. I heard him right behind me as my legs pumped hard and my lungs gasped for air, his footfalls heavy and breathing harsh. I didn’t know what I was running toward, but I knew what I was running away from. There was yelling, then I heard the distinct sound of gunfire.

  Oh god. They were shooting at us!

  “Mason!” I cried, feeling the slide of burning heat across my arm.

  “You’re fine! You’re fine! Just don’t stop.”

  I glanced behind us. Those that had trapped us weren’t chasing, they were lingering by their bikes, but Grinder wasn’t. He was not far behind us, his expression containing so much rage his face was red with it. He stopped and raised his gun again, aiming.