Chapter 2
Bridger
Nothing got the heart racing like a good old home invasion.
It was a classic crime. Slip in, get what you could and what you deserved, and slip right back out.
But in the middle of all of that was where the mess came.
The screaming, the crying, the “please, please, please don’t kill me” as they stared at you and pleaded and begged for their lives.
They always feared a bullet to their heads, and to be fair, I had done that a few times—but they didn’t need to know that.
I only ever killed when it was necessary.
Most of the time, when I entered the homes of the spoiled and the wealthy, I had one goal: steal shit and not get caught.
Spilling blood just made things messier than they needed to be, so I never entered a home with the intention of killing.
I entered a home with the intention of stealing what belonged to me.
I was good at what I did. We were good at what we did.
The guys standing right by me were just as talented when it came to getting inside a mansion without a single alarm going off, and I trusted them with my life.
Bennett Ford and Chase Webber had never done me wrong, and the three of us were just minutes away from the fun part: loading up all the expensive, luxurious shit that belonged to whatever rich assholes we were about to rob.
Rolexes, gold rings and necklaces, designer handbags.
That stuff sold real well if you had the right connections, and right connections we definitely had.
“Front door is good to go,” Bennett said from behind me.
“Alarm is off. It’ll be off for half an hour.
That’s all the time we need, because I want us out in fifteen minutes.
These people are loaded. Next level loaded.
More loaded than our usual targets. It’s some couple.
A husband and wife. Gordon Cavendish and Jul—”
“Fuckin’ rich boy name, huh?” Chase cut him off with a laugh.
“Rich people aren’t creative,” Bennett continued. “You guys ready? We can get a good haul in fifteen minutes, just like I said.”
“Fifteen minutes.” I looked over at Nolan in the cargo van, his brown eyes on mine. That was all I could see of him with the mask covering him up. Giving me a subtle nod, I knew he was ready too. We had the best getaway driver in the damn city. Fast, quiet, subtle.
I nodded in return before giving one to each of the guys, taking in their balaclava covered faces, and then that was it. There was no more time to fuck around as I pushed open the front door of the big, looming, three story home, and just as Bennett promised, no alarms went off.
A mansion in Montclair meant it was housing my favorite people to rob: old money. The kind that had been born into the world of the prim and proper, primed for a life of luxurious vacations and designer clothes and more sports cars than they could handle.
I held the heavy door open—solid oak, probably—for Bennett and Chase before quickly shutting it. They moved quietly, boots soft on the white, pure floors below us. Flashlight in hand, I let it land on the long, spiraling staircase. Grand indeed. It’d take us to the stash we came for.
“Let’s do it,” I said.
Slow and steady, we all moved up the stairs.
Bennett had hunted down the floor plan for the house, and the ins and outs of the mansion were imprinted in my brain.
I knew where the five bathrooms were. Where the seven closets were.
Where each and every one of the many bedrooms were, including our target: the master bedroom. In there was our gold.
There wasn’t a creak in the house as we moved—all thanks to the expensive floors below us.
Slow steps. Slow and easy. The plan was the same as usual.
I’d take the husband, Bennett would take the wife, and when they were tied up nice and proper, we’d hit them where it hurt.
Jewelry. Clothes. Whatever was in the safe.
We knew how to move fast. How to pounce without leaving behind a single scrap of evidence.
We made it to the master bedroom, standing outside the closed door, and I was just about to push it open when I saw a face I’d recognize anywhere, even in the middle of the dark. Even in the middle of a fucking job when usually it had every last bit of my attention.
My gloved fingers held the flashlight tighter, snapping it over to the framed photo to my left.
Silky brown locks, all long and flowing down past her shoulders.
Big hazel eyes. The poutiest lips I had ever seen—and felt—in my life.
Wedding dress. Ring on her finger. A man next to her that wasn’t me.
His face was a blur. A swirly mess. I zeroed in on her and her alone, drawn to her fast and hard, unable to pull my focus away from her just like every other time we had been in the same room together.
I nearly choked.
“You okay?” I heard from behind me. Bennett. A hand grasped my shoulder tight, giving me a little shake. “Hey.”
But my throat was dry. There. She. Fucking. Was. My girl. My ex-girl. Juliette Ashford would never leave me alone. Not when I was forced to say goodbye to her when we were eighteen. Not when I went to sleep, those big eyes always flashing in my head. Not when I was breaking into her goddamn house.
“Hey,” Chase spoke up, voice steady and quiet. He was in front of me, one hand slapping at my cheek. “You fucking awake? You sleepwalking or what? What are you doing?”
The smart decision would have been to turn around and leave. And maybe smash that fucking photo with a heavy fist, just to let her know that I was around, but I had never been a smart man when it came to her.
“Are you second guessing this?” Bennett whispered. “We’re losing time here.”
“No,” I said sharply, letting my eyes close.
Deep breath in, deep breath out. It felt like her soft, warm fingers were in my hair again.
On the sides of my face. Plush, perfect lips up against mine.
Her soft voice, all sweet and airy, saying my name, telling me she loved me.
God, it had been a long fucking time since she told me she loved me.
Was she really behind that door? The girl I had been forced to walk away from?
The girl I had wanted with just about everything in me?
“No?” Bennett asked. “What are you—”
“I get the girl,” I said, the words coming out lower than I was expecting.
Chase’s hand was on my chest, brown eyes narrowed. “What do you mean get her? You can’t touch her. We don’t do that shit.”
We never hurt the women. Not like that. When things got messy, usually pulling out a gun was enough to shut everyone up—like when the husbands thought they had it in them to take on three criminals.
There were times when they wouldn’t stay put and follow instructions, and that often meant that what should have been a simple night of robbery turned into one of murder.
But the women? We didn’t mess with them. I knew my words had probably shocked both Bennett and Chase, but they didn’t know what was going through my head. Who I had just bumped into after five fucking years.
“I’m not fucking going to,” I hissed. “You know I won’t. I’m good—but I get the fucking girl.”
“What do you mean you get her?” asked Chase.
“I get her,” I said, teeth grinding together. “No one touches her but me. No one lays a finger on her.”
“Fine. Fuck.” Chase rolled his eyes. “I’ll take the husband then. Can we just do this already?”
Pushing him out of the way, I let my hand fall back on the doorknob, eagerness and curiosity pumping through my body.
A light clicking sound hit my ears as I pushed the door open some more, moving forward with quiet steps.
It was a big room, just like all the rooms we broke into.
It was always a goddamn journey from the doorway to the bed, and moving around in pitch black darkness didn’t exactly help.
Nothing was going to stop me, though. Not a thing.
I kept moving, my steps silent before I came to a halt at the end of the bed.
The flashlight flickered up from the floor to the bed, and I could just make out two sleeping figures under the pile of blankets.
Was one of them Juliette or was I fucking dreaming?
Was I about to see her again, in the flesh, up close, right there in front of me?
My heart was thumping in my chest as I got closer to the bed. The flashlight wasn’t showing me much. I could just barely see two heads. A man was on one side, tufts of gray, thin hair there for me to see.
My eyes stayed focused on who was on the left, though.
On those long, dark strands. Was that really her?
It couldn’t be. It didn’t feel real. She didn’t feel real.
I hadn’t seen her in five years. Five long years without her, after the only thing I got from her while being stuck in that cold prison cell was a letter from her telling me that she hated me and never wanted to see me again and never loved me at all. My breath hitched at the memory.
Chase shook me right from my thoughts, his hands yanking the man right off the bed.
I heard a guttural gasp as Chase got him on the floor.
Deep grunts, confused groans. Hopefully Chase was being more aggressive than necessary, because if that really was Juliette under the covers and that man was really her husband, I wanted Chase to leave some scars behind.
My eyes were back on the other figure in the bed, my flashlight unable to focus on any other spot. I was frozen, stuck on her.
It was obvious that all the noise had woken her up—whoever her was, because even though I had seen that photo in the hallway, I still couldn’t quite fucking believe it.
Slowly, the woman sat up in bed, and Jesus fucking Christ, it was her.