The Thief

  I studied Fox. His hair was blond and a little long and wild. I was sure it had never seen a brush. His eyes were dark brown and appeared lit with mirth, as though he saw the entire world and its contents as a joke. He was wearing jeans and a muscle tee, displaying burgeoning biceps and the tattoo of a fox. The image was vivid and colourful, its eyes mirroring Fox’s, as though his spirit was inside the animal. It was incredible work.

  I nodded at the tattoo. “Who did that?”

  “Samuels at Ink My Life,” he replied. “Good, huh?”

  “It’s more than good.”

  “I got it for my sixteenth birthday when we were living in Melbourne. I’m going to get two entire sleeves when I can afford it.”

  “I want the face of a bear, here,” I said, rubbing the outside of my right shoulder.

  “Why do you want a bear?”

  Bears were the most solitary animals in the world. I read that once in school, and it stuck in my head ever since because I could relate. It didn’t mean they were lonely, or melancholy. They were self-reliant. Most animals enjoyed being in groups, herds, or in pairs, but the bear preferred solitude. He walked alone. “Because bears are cool.”

  “Let’s go now.”

  My brows pulled together in a furrow of confusion. “Go where?”

  Fox appeared pumped. “To see Samuels. Get you your bear.”

  “Didn’t you say he was in Melbourne?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Dude. That’s a nine hour drive!”

  “Yeah, so?” he said again, grinning. “It’d totally be worth it.”

  I thought about it for a moment. Nine hours on the bike. Freedom. Solitude. The open road. An incredible piece of artwork on my arm that I had a hankering for. An answering grin started to pull at the corners of my mouth.

  Fox saw it and nodded. “Hell yeah, Shade.”

  The name had been given due to my solitary status and the fact that it was known in our brethren that I killed my own father. Bingo said it was where I lived now. In the shade. My life in partial darkness from the smears of black on my soul. I didn’t like the name and grimaced when Fox used it. “Call me Daniels,” I told him, like Hammer does.

  He gave me a nod. “Daniels.”

  I looked around. Those at the bar weren’t doing much of anything except drinking and talking shit. What was the point in hanging around anyway? “Let’s go then.”

  It was the right decision. My bear tattoo was, in Samuels’s words, his best work yet. And our journey forged a tentative bond of friendship that I would eventually value for the rest of my life. Fox had my back in all things, and I in his, so I let him in. I had no choice. He was a pesky fly. No matter what I did, he buzzed about, getting in my face, irritating and yet somehow not unwelcome. Fox reminded me to smile sometimes and see the lighter side of life. His was a friendship that helped me find a better version of myself, and if I ever told him that, he’d probably piss himself laughing.

  * * *

  My phone dings loudly, pulling me from the past and into the present. A smile breaks across my face when I see Ace’s name on the screen.

  It drops when I read the message.

  Arcadia: I can’t see you. I’m sorry.

  What the fuck? Tonight? Or ever? I have a sudden urge to hurl my phone at the wall. “Goddammit.”

  Fox is walking passed and hears my muttered curse. He stops in the doorway and leans against the frame with a grin. “What’s up, Cinderella? Got nothing to wear to the ball tonight?”

  “Tonight’s off,” I growl, tossing my phone on the bed and reaching for a shirt. I tug it on. “I’m going to the clubhouse.” The faded black cotton settles around my midsection. After switching out my shorts for jeans, I grab my Sentinels cut from the post of my bed, shrugging it on as I stalk from my room, brushing past Fox. “You comin’?”

  My wallet is on the breakfast table. I shove it in my back pocket. Fox trails out, my phone in his hand. “Why is it off?”

  I shrug. “Who knows? Chicks and their games.”

  He flicks open my messages and reads them.

  I glare, those messages are private. “You mind?”

  “Well somethin’ happened between then and now to change her mind.”

  I pick up my keys, doing my best to sound uninterested as I tromp to the door. “Yeah? Like what? Never mind,” I mutter, realising it was probably Mason that happened.

  “I don’t know. Like somethin’ upset her. Or someone. Maybe somethin’ came up. Or someone got hurt. It could be anything. Just ask if she’s okay, yeah?”

  “You sound like a girl.” I stalk back and snatch my phone from his hands. “She doesn’t want to see me. It’s no big deal.”

  Yet why does it feel like one? Why is there an ache of disappointment in my chest? Once outside, the filtered winter sun provides little warmth as I walk toward my bike. I swing a leg over and settle on the heavy piece of machinery, Fox’s words niggling at me. I stare at nothing for a long moment, trying to work out what I’m doing. Arcadia is just some random bitch who got stuck in my head. So why can’t I get her out?

  Because you don’t want to.

  My heart pounds heavy in my chest. I swipe a hand down my face as if to wipe the realisation away, yet it remains. Last night I felt so comfortable with her. Myself. I felt … confident and yet unsure, a warring jumble of emotion that won’t go away, even now as I sit staring at nothing.

  Fuck it.

  I pull the phone from my pocket, open my messages, and tap out a reply.

  Me: Everything ok?

  Send.

  10

  Arcadia

  I stare at the burnt-out husk of my Mustang, having left Racer and Echo in the kitchen drinking hot tea and whiskey. The stench of scorched metal is harsh and unpleasant, and flutters of ash swirl in the air as the breeze picks up. It settles in my hair and on my clothes.

  It’s a reality check that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I’ve always done a hassle-free trade with Tony in the past. He would demand and I would supply. On good terms. Simple economics. I’ve never been on his bad side, until now. And being here is no picnic.

  I got too cocky, thinking I had it handled. My grandfather could have lost his house. Or his life. I should be relieved it was just the garage along with my car. Instead, hot tears well in my eyes. Selfish tears. I wrap my arms around my middle. This is my karma. Like a rubber band, I’ve stretched it too far and now it’s come back to smack me in the face.

  You got what was coming, taunts the scornful voice in my head.

  And it’s true. I’ve lived a shady life. Some of my choices may have been warranted—like Miles Howard or the BMW owned by an investment banker who defrauded millions from pensioners—but some not. I’ve been reckless, deceitful, and my nine lives are up, just like Mason.

  A solitary tear spills over and rolls down my cheek. I wipe it away, using the back of my hand in a rough, jerky moment. It’s the last one I’ll allow. I have an unfinished list of cars to deal with, and time is running out.

  With stabby, determined fingers, I send a message to Kelly.

  Me: I can’t see you. I’m sorry.

  The text is delivered with smooth efficiency, and regret rises like a storm surge, making me ache as if I’ve lost something essential. Suddenly it feels as though I hold the weight of the world on my shoulders, which is ridiculous, because it’s just a burnt-out car. But I was just starting to get my life on track, and now it’s all gone to shit.

  I tuck my phone away in my pocket, telling myself that at least I can focus now, but deep down I know it’s a lie because Kelly won’t be leaving my head any time soon.

  The front door slaps open and Racer pokes his head out. “Come inside, lass. Staring at it won’t turn back time and your tea is getting cold.”

  “In a minute,” I call back and turn for one last look at my car. “Bye, little Mustang. I’m sorry our journey ended before it even began.” My voice is wistful. “You could have been beautiful
.”

  Once inside, I take a seat next to Echo at my grandfather’s weathered breakfast table and sip my tea. He’s pottering around in the sink, rinsing plates and wiping the counter. When he’s done, he turns his attention on me with a lift of his chin. It’s his I won’t accept any arguments expression, and I brace accordingly. “You should have come to me first, Ace,” he says for the millionth time that morning. He leans against the counter behind him and folds his arms. “Now that I have the full story, I’m going to get the Firebird for you.”

  My lips pinch. “No.”

  And he doesn’t have the full story. At all. I don’t want him involved, but considering he knew Tony was behind the fire, I have to give him something. He believes I reneged on the one car last night, not knowing I have a full list of them. Racer would go full Hulk if he knew there was blackmail involved, and I don’t want him hurt. He may think himself invincible, and sharper than the blade of a knife, but the reality is that he’s old and can’t do what he used to.

  “I wasn’t asking you, I was telling you,” he points out.

  My jaw tightens. “I don’t need you all up in my business.”

  “Newsflash, young miss, that fire was in my garage. Mine,” he reiterates in a growly fashion. “And you are my granddaughter. What part of all that makes it none of my business?”

  There’s a moment of tense silence where we glare at each other, Echo glancing warily between us. My phone dings, breaking the standoff.

  Kelly: Everything ok?

  Oh Jesus. I’ve gone and confused him with my complete one-eighty. My ache of regret intensifies, like heartburn after spicy food.

  Echo sees the message. “What the hell, Ace?” she mutters.

  “I told him it was all off,” I mutter back.

  “What are you two muttering about?” Racer interjects.

  I stand, slotting my phone neatly in my bag. Echo follows suit, getting my silent hint that we need to leave. “Nothing. Have you rung your insurance company, Grandad?”

  He scowls. The only time I ever call him Grandad is to remind him that he’s old. “Little upstart,” he retorts, like he always does. There’s something in the normality of it that chases a little of the chill away. My lips twitch. “Yes, I’ve called. Someone should be here soon.”

  Echo rattles her keys. “Thanks for the tea, Mr. Racer.” She gives him a kiss on the cheek. He appears oddly flustered. I suspect he’s always had a thing for pink hair.

  “Shoo, now,” he tells us.

  I kiss his cheek too. “Let me know what the insurance excess is, okay? I’ll drop the money over.”

  He nods. “I’ll let you know as soon as I look it up.” It’s a bald-faced lie, and he says it with a straight face.

  I huff.

  “Go on, now.” Racer gets behind us, herding us toward the door in what seems to be a sudden rush. “I’ve got things to do.”

  My eyes narrow and I pause on the threshold. “What things?”

  “Look at the state of me, lass.” My grandad raises his brows with an incredulity that looks suspiciously fake. “I need a shower and clean clothes before the inspector comes out. Then I have an article due to my editor.”

  Seems legit. He occasionally writes for Wheels—an Australian motoring magazine filled with critical car analysis and blazing testosterone. His journalistic opinions are well-respected. I have a subscription, saving his articles in a little scrapbook of familial pride.

  But I’m not fooled. Racer can’t hide the spark in his eyes. He’s itching to get started on a plan for the Firebird, which is why I’m hurrying out the door. We need to beat him to it.

  On the drive to Echo’s place, I stare at Kelly’s message, musing on what I can say without being too cryptic or giving away my current situation. The fact is I shouldn’t reply at all. Ghosting, they call it. When you just disappear on someone as though you never existed. I grimace. It’s shitty. I refuse to be that person.

  Me: Everything’s fine. Just bad timing. Sorry.

  I chew on the bottom of my lip, hitting send.

  Kelly: All good, babe. See ya round

  The brush off. The don’t bother me again message. You had your chance at all of this and you cocked it up. My eyes burn. What else did I expect? I’ve just rejected him. Dammit. I start a reply. I can’t seem to help myself.

  Me: It’s just—

  I pause. Then decide it’s best I let it go and not say anything more. I’m about to hit delete when Echo bumps me with her elbow as she shifts gears. My finger taps the send button by mistake and my unfinished message pings its delivery.

  “Echo!” I yell. “You just made me send half a message!”

  She shrugs, her eyes darting between the road and the fuel gauge. “So send the rest.”

  Kelly: Just what?

  I have this wild urge to tell him everything. An idiotic urge. Echo mutters curse words at her gas guzzler, and we pull in at the nearest garage. She gets out to fill up the tank while I sit calmly in the passenger seat, tapping away on my phone.

  Me: My mustang was destroyed last night in a fire.

  My sanity has left me for greener pastures. It’s the only clear explanation for my lack of self-control when it comes to this guy.

  Kelly: Shit, babe. U ok?

  That his first concern is for me makes me warm. I wind down the window and a cool breeze blusters over my skin, doing its best to chase the foolishness out of me. It doesn’t work.

  Me: Not really but I will be. It’s just a car, right?

  That’s a lie. It’s never just a car. Not to me. Her rebuild was a journey and a dream. And now it’s dead.

  Kelly: I call bullshit. How did the fire start?

  Crappity crap crap crap.

  Me: No idea.

  Oh the lies!

  Me: My parents moved her to my grandad’s place a couple of weeks ago, and his entire garage burned down.

  Kelly: Sorry, babe. Want me to look at it? See if there’s anything to salvage?

  Me: That’s really nice of you, Kelly.

  Kelly: Don’t call me nice

  A small smile plays on my lips.

  Me: Why? Am I ruining your badass image?

  Kelly: Nice guys finish last

  Me: And finishing first is better?

  Kelly: Babe

  I laugh.

  Kelly: U will always come first

  My face catches fire, and a steady throb begins to pulse between my legs. I’m thankful that Echo is not in the car right now, witnessing my dopey expression.

  Me: You’re a gentleman.

  I wait for his response but it doesn’t come. Just as well, because Echo opens the door and slams into her seat with force. “I just spent my life savings.”

  “It’s worth it,” I say, tucking my phone away in my bag.

  “It’s not.” She buckles her seat belt and turns the key in the ignition, glowering at the steering wheel as the engine roars to life. “You hear me, car? You’re not worth it!”

  I gasp and give the dashboard a loving pat. “Don’t listen to her, girl. You’re worth the sun and the moon and all the stars.”

  “Don’t be dramatic.” Echo rolls her eyes as we tear out of the garage on a full tank, my hair whipping up wildly. We fishtail out on to the road, almost cutting off a little old lady in a lime green Hyundai Getz. She gives us the finger. I offer a wave of apology before we accelerate with gusto, leaving her well behind us.

  The scenery blurs and I tug hair from my mouth. “You would chew through less fuel if you didn’t drive like a maniac.”

  “It’s not me, it’s the car. She doesn’t like low gear.”

  “You don’t like low gear.”

  “Shut up, Aceface.”

  I snort. “Really? That’s the best you’ve got?”

  We bicker the entire drive back to my house, where we load up with snacks and spend a good portion of the afternoon, and into the evening, forming our attack for the Firebird. Time is of the essence, which means our pla
n is hasty and slapdash, but it has to do.

  11

  Kelly

  “You gonna drink that or just stare at it all night long?”

  I glance up from the glass of neat whiskey resting unassumingly in front of me. It’s later tonight, after my textathon with Ace. I’ve found myself at the clubhouse, making an attempt to tie one on and failing pathetically.

  Leander, or Lee, sometimes Big Fox—Luke’s older brother—is beside me, taking a seat at the outdoor table on the clubhouse deck. His dark blond hair is newly shorn yet still remains mussed, as though he runs his hands through it a thousand times a day.

  “Yeah, I’m gonna drink it.”

  He nods, setting a beer down and kicking back with a heavy sigh.

  “Big shift?” I ask. Lee is a paramedic like his brother, though where Luke does the job because he gets a rush from its intensity, Lee seems to have a harder purpose driving him. There’s a grimness to the job, as if the act of saving lives is absolving him of past sins.

  A grimace forms on his mouth. It’s followed with a grunt and a hardening of his dark brown eyes. “Bad one.”

  “Yeah?” It’s a question without barely forming one, because flat out asking him if he wants to talk about it is the equivalent of growing a vagina.

  “Yeah,” he replies and adds nothing more.

  We sit quietly, Lee contemplating whatever’s going through his head and me contemplating the shit going through mine, which is mainly Ace.

  You’re a gentleman, she tells me. Nice, even. Ace wouldn’t be thinking those thoughts, nor texting them, if she knew I was a Sentinel. Why didn’t her brother tell her? He spat the word like I was gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe, as if I’m beneath her, so very far beneath her I’m living lower than the deep crusty layers of the earth. Perhaps I am. Perhaps I should stay away. But it seems impossible.