3. RJ
Chapter 3
RJ
I hate working game nights. It’s all about rich people throwing around enough money for a year’s worth of rent on one night of fun, while people a few rungs down show up with the last of their savings and pray to make it big—only they never do. Boy do I know. Either way, it’s my job to figure out who is who.
The rich bastards, we’ll extend credit to them at absurd interest rates. The average Joe, though, if he runs out of money, he’s out. This keeps Trips from having to collect debt with a baseball bat, and I like to think it keeps some poor suckers from getting addicted to lady luck. I’m full of shit and I know it, though. The world is fucked up and unfair, and it’s not like it’s my job to fix it.
I glance up from the license Jansen slipped me a moment ago, my social media scraper doing its thing on my tablet. He said Clara came up, and I don’t know if I’m thrilled or terrified .
She’s been half alive for weeks, still smiling, still laughing, but never really existing here, in the moment, with us. I know she’s moved her runs to when I’m in class. And while I’m happy to give her space and time, I miss those runs, the quiet sharing of our lives, our interests and joys.
If I’m being honest with myself, I just miss her. I miss her honesty, her teasing, the way she has to stop and redo her ponytail if even one curl escapes.
So knowing she’s in this room and not being able to see her, yeah, I’m a little antsy about it.
I’m camped in what Trips calls the “second lounge.” Standing up to stretch, I scan the crowd for any familiar sable curls, but I’m out of luck. She’s probably at the bar with Walker.
My tablet jingles, so I scoop it up. An alert tells me that Harrison Grant, aka Aiden Johnson, is good for about $20,000 of credit, based on the cars his parents drive and the volume of candid shots of him in unbranded, but ungodly expensive, clothes. I shoot a text to Trips, then decide I need a drink. I mean, none of us get drunk while we’re working, but there’s Mountain Dew at the bar. A Mountain Dew with a Clara smile sounds right about now.
I’m halfway through the crowd when my phone buzzes. I pull it out, surprised to see a text from Walker. He’s basically hired help tonight, so there’s no reason he’d be messaging me.
SOS. NightAntiques @ front porch. OTW to intercept .
Wait, what? How? I thought I had our digital footprint squeaky clean. Walker’s fence should have no way to track us via messages. My phone buzzes again. It’s Trips this time.
Jansen to bar. Walker, fix it.
There’s Trips being helpful as always. I catch sight of Jansen heading my way, so I slip him the ID he lifted—he’ll get it back where it belongs.
We share a look. Walker’s fence could derail our whole plan. Three years of building a company, of honing our skills, and it all might be gone before tomorrow. I don’t want to run. None of us do. But that might be the only option.
I’m close enough to the door to see Walker navigating through the mess of people, Clara on his arm.
I’m glad he has backup.
They disappear downstairs together, leaving an ache in my chest. They’d better be okay. Clara finally came out of her isolation. What if this scares her back in? Or worse, what if we have to run? Would she run with us? Would we even ask?