Stepbrother Thief(8)

I lock gazes with Gill, hook my caramel brown eyes on his feral blue ones. Once, when I was little, my grandmother's Siamese cat had a litter of kittens with a feral tom. One of them was jet black with the sharpest blue eyes I'd ever seen, a sleek predator draped in contrast. Gill's always reminded me of that cat with his eyes, his hair. I have no idea what nationalities are in Gilleon's background because Cliff can't—or maybe just won't—talk about his past, not about Gill's mother, or his own parents.

My stepbrother's skin is as naturally pale as my own, but right now he's got this breath of color on his face, the gentlest caramel kiss on his skin that keeps him from being my same shade of alabaster. It takes the dark ink of his tattoos, all of those blacks and grays, and blends them, turning the hard, sculpted muscles of his right arm into an artist's canvas. Gill's already good-looking enough on his own, but add in the tattoos and he's just gone from handsome to tragic, like a broken god with those calloused hands and that rugged wildness. It seeps from his pores, giving him all the marks of a beautiful but deadly beast, one with claws and teeth and the most disarming of smiles.

His hooded eyes look me over and I know he knows I'm analyzing him, studying him; he's doing the same to me. I feel suddenly naked and my breath leaves me in a rush, stolen away in a split second memory of his hands on me, his teeth grazing my skin, his body sliding between my thighs.

I blink it all away in an instant.

“You might not believe me,” Gill says, sliding his whisky glass towards the center of the table, “but it's good to see you, Regina.” He slides out of the booth, turns to me and smiles. The expression on his face makes the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand up straight. Not sure if that's a good or a bad thing. “I had a rare moment of downtime, so I came here to check on you. I couldn't imagine a more worthy cause.”

And then he winks at me, turns, and walks away.

I'm left behind with a whole host of memories and nobody to reminisce with.





I'm lying in bed the night before the heist, sweat pouring down my forehead and dripping onto the pillows beneath me. I've been over this a million times with Gill, know the plan like the back of my hand, but I can't stop running through every possible scenario.

Just like him.

I know that's what he's doing right now, holed up in some hotel or safe house or hell, maybe he's down in the catacombs beneath the city. I might not know where Gill is, but I know what he's doing. He's a professional, a perfectionist, and there's nothing in his life he's ever loved half as much as a good challenge.

Not even me.

I sit up in bed and swipe a hand across my forehead, drawing moist fingers away to curl in the pale cream, peach and pink of my comforter. Knowing this is the last night I'll ever sleep in this bed, in my apartment with the blue and white tile and the rustic beams, the pain is sudden and intense, taking over me and curling my body into a tight ball. It's an effort to force myself to breathe.

I made this choice, made it by telling myself that I was stuck in a rut, that I needed to move on and let the ghosts of the past be just that, but deep down, I know it's all a lie.

I made my choice for a love lost, for Gill.

The look on his face when he sat down with Cliff and me, started to tell us why he was suddenly there in our kitchen, like a zombie risen from the dead, it told me all I needed to know.

Gill is in trouble.

He'll never admit it, never tell Cliff or especially me why, but I can see it, sense it, feel it.

This heist, it's more than just a job, more than about the money.

And he was going to do it with or without me, that much I know. So I had to help him, even if he betrayed me, left me, walked away without telling me why.

I know doing this job won't heal my wounds, won't bring him back to me (even if I'd want him back, which I don't), but I'm going to do it anyway.

“You're such an idiot, Regina,” I moan, leaning back again, nesting my head in the feather pillows and listening to the soft buzz of the TV I left on in the living room.

After awhile, the mindless sound lulls me to sleep.

When I wake, it's to the sound of a gun being cocked.

I open my eyes slowly, carefully, knowing what I'm going to see but scared nonetheless, my heart pounding and my body quivering as I let my gaze rest on Gill and the impassive blankness of his facial expression.

“Get up,” he says, his voice a monotone, his simple words laced with threat. For this whole scenario to work out the way he wants, the way that'll make my life easiest, we have to play our parts from start to finish.

“Gill,” I whisper, hating how my voice shakes and my throat goes dry. The barrel of the gun is inches from my skull, a gleaming stretch of deadly black that could end my life with a single twitch of his finger. Even though this is all pretend, just an act, I don't doubt that his gun is loaded. “What are you doing here? Why do you have a gun?”