3. Nova
Chapter three
Nova
T he trick? Stay off Bourbon Street. Most people tend to be a bit more mindful of their belongings on the busy street, other than the drunk twentysomethings, but lifting from college-aged partiers isn’t exactly going to net much profit. They’re probably close to broke to begin with, and finding that out when you attempt to get cash back on a purchase draws too much uncomfortable attention from the tired cashiers. It’s a real fucking letdown when you spend the night pickpocketing only to find out all the wallets you lifted are full of nothing but a few singles and useless plastic—not to mention there’re cameras everywhere nowadays. It’s not hard to track credit card purchases and get the police to make a call and look at the footage to find the thief. Most people will simply cancel their cards and dispute the charges with their bank, but it’s still risky on my part.
That’s why I hit up the places off Bourbon where the nicer restaurants are; it’s a bit more low-key. The places that still get the tourists, but they’re a bit older, carry cash, and on a good night, I can pick up several hundred dollars. Especially if I spot the single guys who look like they’re here for a night out between meetings and whatnot. There are plenty of those.
The sweet Southern belle act has worked wonders the last few months. I’m either damn good at pretending to be an innocent woman who’s had a bad run with assholes, or these men are as stupid as can be. Maybe a combination of both. Worked like a charm tonight, at least.
I’d already performed my song and dance three times before walking into the little jazz bar. Fortunately, my best friend Harper is off from her bartending job tonight, so she’s been able to send me texts or call me to give me an excuse so I can make my exit. She’s not the biggest fan of how I make my money, but working a regular nine-to-five or at the million restaurants and bars in the French Quarter isn’t going to get me out of this town. Dreams cost money and mine is to someday live carefree on a beach with a little oceanside bar and a place to call my own. Something no one can ever take from me.
Walking into Geraldine’s, the busy bar where Harper works, I hurriedly make my way to the bathroom at the back of the building. Her ex, Damon, is working tonight, but I make sure to blend into the crowd of women who look to be part of a bachelorette party so he doesn’t spot me. At a glance, I look like any other run-of-the-mill blonde in a light summer dress and wedges, all dolled up for a night out. But Damon actually knows me, so he might recognize me, and I’d rather not see the judgmental stare he generally casts my way.
I head to the door marked employees only and unlock it with the key I copied from Harper. This is a great place to stop when I’m on this side of town, to change out of my getup and into my normal clothes. I’ve never been caught out on the street by a target or the cops, but if anyone were to suspect me, they'd be looking for a sweet-looking blonde in a cute summer dress. Not my usual fare.
First thing I do is take the wig off and let my long black hair fall to the middle of my back before brushing the strands into a manageable mess. The sweltering heat of New Orleans is stifling tonight, and the humidity is doing a number on my natural waves. There’s a small set of lockers where employees can put their personal belongings. It’s not uncommon for the girls to have a change of clothes or extra makeup stashed in here. I open the locker that Harper uses and pull out my clothes and makeup. The summer dress slides off my body and is quickly shoved into the bag. I pull on my favorite pair of distressed black jeans and the old band tank top I got from a guy I dated a couple of years ago. The relationship didn’t last for more than a few weeks, but this top is pretty damn comfortable and makes my tits look fantastic. Pro tip, never date the drummer of an indie rock band. The intensity is great in the beginning, but it burns out just as fast.
After I swipe on a line of black liner and swap the pale-pink lipstick for the bright red I usually wear, I’m ready to leave “Charity” behind me for the night. Maybe I’ll grab a drink at one of the local bars where there’s no chance of running into any of my marks from tonight. Though Geraldine's is a favorite, I’m not much for sticking around unless Harper’s working. Damon likes to blame me for the demise of their relationship a couple months ago, but it was his sanctimonious attitude that ultimately had Harper walking away. I’m not saying anyone should lose their morals or anything, but he never missed an opportunity to talk bad about me and what I did to earn a living. He wasn’t one to rat—this is New Orleans, after all, and no one is a hundred percent aboveboard—but he was always going on and on about how someday shit would catch up to me and he didn’t want Harper caught in the crossfire. He’d tell her she was too good of a friend and that I took advantage.. What he seemed to forget is Harper and I are as close as sisters, and there isn’t a damn thing he could say to make her turn her back on me. As for him? Yeah, not so much.
Since Damon hasn’t come pounding on the door yet, I pull out the wallets I lifted from the crocheted boho bag I matched with my sundress. The first three have around two hundred dollars each inside. Not bad. When I open Cillian’s wallet, it doesn’t escape my attention that his driver’s license was issued in Massachusetts—not Michigan. I also notice he doesn’t have a single business card in his wallet. Shouldn’t he carry around a couple cards at least? He also doesn’t have a single business credit card. I have a strong suspicion the man does not deal in textiles. I’d expect at least one business credit card, especially if that’s what he’s in town for. I pull out the cash and count seven hundred dollars. Very nice. Serves the asshole right. He’s probably got kids and a wife at home in Massachusetts or some shit, and he’s down here for whatever business and was hoping to hook up with a stranger in a bar. I don’t know, and I don’t really care.
I put the crocheted bag in the locker with the rest of my “work” uniform and stuff the wallets in my black leather bag before zipping it closed with the plan to dump them a couple blocks from here.
I open the door right as Damon is about to use his key to enter.
“I’ve told you a million times, Nova, you can’t use the employee bathroom just because your roommate works here. How did you get in anyways?”
“It was unlocked,” I reply innocently.
“The hell it was.”
I simply shrug and move past him to the bar that’s thinned out since my entrance.
And that’s when I spot him.
Cillian is sitting at the bar with a glass of brown liquor in front of him. His eyes meet mine from across the room, and I swear I see recognition in his gaze. That’s impossible, though. The girl he met had blonde hair with bangs and looked completely different than I do now. I quickly look away in an attempt to make the moment seem as though I’m simply looking for someone while simultaneously trying to keep my heart rate under control. Acting as though I don’t see the person I’m not actually looking for, I make my way to the entrance of the bar after pulling my hair to the side and looking down at the blank screen of my phone in an attempt to hide my face from a side view as I pass Cillian. I’m almost to the door when a pair of black leather shoes comes into view. I stop and look up. Directly into the piercing bluish-gray gaze of the man I was trying to avoid.
“Hello, Charity ,” he drawls with an amused tilt to his lips.
“Charity?” I ask with confusion lacing my voice. “I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong person.” My regular voice lacks the sweet Southern twang I use when I’m talking up a mark, but from the look on Cillian’s face, I’m not fooling him. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to try, though. “Excuse me.” I try to step around him, but he moves to stand in front of me again.
“I suggest, if you don’t want to cause a scene, you have a seat with me at the bar.”
“I don’t know who you’re looking for, but it ain’t me.”
His grin widens, but his eyes hold some sort of dark intent and the two don’t quite match but are a compelling combination nonetheless.
“Oh, I think it is,” he says, pulling his phone from his pocket. “But have it your way.”
“Who are you calling?”
“Who do you think I’m calling?”
Probably the fucking cops, if I had to guess.
“If I sit down, will you put your phone away?” I ask, holding his gaze.
The last thing I want is the cops showing up here and finding the wallets in my bag. It would be bad for me, seeing as I haven’t spent a day in jail and hopefully never will, but it would majorly screw over Harper. I doubt her boss would be too keen on the fact that her best friend and roommate was arrested in his establishment. I look toward the door, thinking maybe I’ll have a shot if I push past him and run. The quirk of his brow and slow shake of his head tells me not to even try.
Cillian is staring with his phone in his hand, waiting for my next move. I nod and turn toward the bar. This isn’t a situation I’ve found myself in before, but probably should have prepared better for. The fact that Cillian recognized me has me wanting to know what the hell I did wrong or—and maybe more importantly—who the hell this guy is. Most people, men in particular, aren’t that astute. I took him as any other guy off the street who saw a pretty face. Guess I fucked myself on that one.
I have a seat next to him as Damon returns from the back. “You staying, Nova?” he asks, looking between me and Cillian. I see the question in his eyes. I may not be his favorite person, but he’s not going to allow anyone to harass a woman when he’s behind the bar. Needless to say, there have been plenty of times he’s had to step in, considering this is New Orleans, and drunken, unwanted advances from tourists happen pretty regularly everywhere.
“What would you like to drink, Nova ?” the man sitting next to me asks.
I shoot Cillian a side-eye glare and curse Damon in my head for using my real name.
“Whiskey seven. Thanks.”
When Damon turns and walks down the bar a bit, I face Cillian, whose eyebrows are raised in surprise.
“What?”
“You like whiskey? That’s a far cry from a strawberry daiquiri.”
My lip curls in disgust. “I actually hate daiquiris.”
“Why’d you order one earlier, then?”
Since I’m already busted, I figure, in for a penny, in for a pound. “Helps with the Southern belle act. Not many genteel ladies shoot whiskey. What do you want?”
“Well, my wallet would be a nice start,” he replies, leaning back in his stool.
“I don't have it.” That will be true—as soon as I leave.
“I don’t believe you. You didn’t ditch anything before you came in here.”
“How would you know? And how did you find me, anyway?” There’s no bite to my tone, more like curiosity.
Damon walks back over and sets the drink in front of me. When I take a sip, I’m feeling more like myself and less like the Southern belle I was playing when Cillian and I first met. It’s so much better than that nasty strawberry concoction from earlier.
“Took me less than a minute to realize my wallet was gone. Then, less than a second to realize you’re a pickpocket.” He sips his whiskey with a self-satisfied smirk playing on his full lips.
“Most people wouldn’t automatically jump to that conclusion. Especially some guy from Michigan here on business for Daddy’s textile company.” My head tilts to the side as a grin similar to his stretches across my face. Textiles my ass.
Cillian is staring at me with those piercing blue-gray eyes I found so intriguing the first time he locked onto me. They remind me of dark storm clouds before a natural disaster, which is fitting right about now. This entire conversation could turn into a major disaster at any moment, especially if he decides to call the cops.
“I’m not most people,” he replies with a quirk of his brow. “When I walked out of the bar, I saw you about a block ahead of me. I followed you and watched you walk into this fine establishment.” Cillian takes a distasteful look around at the neon beer signs lighting up the brick walls. It’s old and a little run-down, but regulars don’t come here for some sleek craft cocktail experience. It’s a place for people to get away from all that Bourbon Street bullshit.
“At least they have a decent whiskey selection,” he says, nodding toward the back bar, where hundreds of liquor bottles line the shelves, backed by a mirror running the length of the wall.
“Fun fact. Do you know why there’s a mirror behind a bar?”
Cillian’s lips quirk in a smile. “Enlighten me.”
“So the bartender can keep an eye on everyone when his back is turned. Back in the Wild West days, bars were dangerous; they put a mirror up so bartenders wouldn’t get caught unaware during a robbery or some shit.”
The expression on Cillian’s face is a cross between confusion and curiosity when I finish my explanation.
“What?” I ask.
“This little confrontation isn’t going like I expected. Most thieves would be scared I’m going to call the cops. Many would have tried to run out of here.”
“Well, I’m not most thieves,” I say, parroting his words from earlier as I flutter my eyelashes in his direction. “And I have a feeling if you wanted me in trouble with the police, you would have called them before walking into this bar.”
He hums his agreement before taking a sip of his whiskey.
“Why didn’t you call the cops?”
“Where I come from, we don’t use the police to handle these types of situations.”
“They don’t have police in Massachusetts?”
“I see you looked inside my wallet.”
“I thought it was interesting that a guy from Michigan who works for his family’s textile company would have a license for an address in Boston and not a single business credit card or business card for that matter.”
“It could have been true.” He sips his drink with a small shrug.
A huff of laughter falls from my lips. “In another life, maybe.”
He smiles and looks down at the glass he’s holding, swirling the ice cubes inside. “Yeah. In another life.”
“Tell me about this one,” I say, curious as to why he lied in the first place. There’s a story to Cillian Doyle, and I’m finding myself very interested in hearing it.
I’m not sure how this conversation went from me being afraid he was going to have me arrested to wanting to get to know him, but here we are. And I’m having more fun tossing questions back and forth—which neither of us are really answering—than I’ve had in quite some time with any other man. There’s something about the way Cillian carries himself. He’s not particularly worried about the fact he was stolen from, though for some reason, I get the distinct impression that’s not something that happens to him often. Call it a criminal’s intuition or some shit, but I’ve always believed like recognizes like, and there’s a certain unexplainable camaraderie I’m feeling right now. It’s fucking weird if I’m being honest with myself.
“I live in Boston.”
“I gathered that.” I sip my whiskey 7 and let the vanilla and butterscotch notes dance over my tongue before swallowing. “You aren’t really from there, though?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Most people would say I’m from Boston, not I live in Boston.”
Cillian nods. “I’m from a little town in Minnesota, but we moved when I was a kid.”
“Who’s we?”
“My mom and my stepdad.”
“You didn’t have a good relationship with him?”
“Jesus, are you psychic or some shit?” Cillian’s shoulders shake a bit with a laugh.
“Do you really believe in all that woo-woo shit?”
“Don’t you?”
“Listen, I know I live in New Orleans but that doesn’t mean I think the spirits talk to me or whatever.”
“You said live not from .”
“You’re a quick study.”
We stare at each other for a few moments, both of us wearing matching smiles before Damon comes over.
“You okay over here?” he asks, but neither of us glances his way, perfectly happy in this little bubble as we study each other.
“Are you okay?” Cillian asks me.
“Are you?”
His smile widens at my nonanswer. He’s having just as much fun playing this game as I am.
“Okay…” Damon drawls out before walking away, and we both laugh.
I rest my arm on the bar and turn fully toward Cillian. “How did you guess I stole your wallet?” Like I’d told him, that’s not something most people would have caught on to so quickly—if at all. Who would have expected that from a sweet Southern girl after all?
“It was a gut feeling. You aren’t the first thief I’ve met in my life, but you’re definitely the prettiest.”
“Why, Cillian,” I say in the accent I’d used with him earlier. “Are you flirtin’ with me?” My hand presses against my chest as my eyelids flutter rapidly.
“Maybe I am, Miss Charity.”
I throw my head backward in laughter, and when I look back at him, he’s wearing a wide smile.
“You hang out with many thieves in your real line of work?”
“On occasion,” he replies.
“Now I’m really intrigued. Let me guess. You used to be a juvenile parole officer, disillusioned by the system. So you quit your job and became a teacher in the inner city, hoping you could influence disenfranchised youth and steer them away from a perilous life of crime.”
“I think I’ve seen that movie.”
“It was a pretty good one,” I reply.
“I don’t know about the perilous life of crime bit, though. I’ve done pretty well for myself, even if some would consider me a criminal.”
“Who’s some?”
“The cops, FBI, DEA. Pretty much any law-abiding citizen.” He shrugs in that casual way that says he isn’t the least bit concerned about what anyone thinks of him or what he does—not even the law.
“I had a feeling you weren’t a straight arrow.” If he thought that little tidbit would scare me off or shock me in some way, he’s wrong. Besides, it's not like I have much room to talk. “So what’s the real story? Jewel thief? Computer hacker? Mob boss?”
“Not the boss.”
My eyes widen and his smile remains. “You’re in the mob?” I ask, leaning toward him a bit.
Man, I really know how to pick ’em.
“My family runs Boston. The Monaghans.”
“Never heard of them.” I wave my hand and lean back in my seat, having too much fun poking at someone who is certainly a dangerous man. There is something fundamentally wrong with me, but at this moment, with this man, I don’t care.
Cillian’s smile doesn’t fall as he shakes his head. “You know, if most people found out they stole from the lieutenant of the Monaghan family, they’d be falling over themselves with apologies and promises of recompense.”
“You’re the lieutenant in the mob?” I ask, widening my eyes with my mouth slightly agape.
“Does that change things a little?”
I flatten my expression. “No,” I reply before taking another sip of my drink.
Cillian shakes his head—he seems to do that quite a bit in my presence. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“How does one become the right hand to the boss of the…what’s the name of the family again?”
“The Monaghans.”
“Ah, right. The Monaghans.”
“You looking for a career change?”
“Oh, do you think I have what it takes?” I sit straighter in my chair and try my best at a very stern expression, mimicking the one Cillian wore when he saw me trying to escape Geraldine’s.
He outright laughs in my face, and I shoot him a withering look.
“I think you’d make a good secret weapon in negotiations,” he says.
“Because I’m so intimidating, right?”
“Because you possess the fine skill of talking circles around people, and you’re charming as hell. They wouldn’t know what hit them.”
I tilt my head to the side and sip my cocktail. “I think you are flirting with me.”
“You should consider practicing law. Here I was, walking into a bar, ready to put the fear of God in you, and instead you have me buying you a drink and having what has strangely turned into one of the most entertaining evenings I’ve had in a long while.”
I arch my brow. “You haven’t bought me anything yet.”
“Yes, well there is still the matter of you having my wallet.”
“Drinks are on me then,” I reply, smiling as I clink my glass to his. “But really, how did you find yourself in that line of work?”
“I pickpocketed the wrong guy. Or the right one, depending on how you look at it.”
“I knew you were a kindred spirit,” I say, smacking him in the arm. Cillian looks at where I grazed him with my hand then back to me, raising one eyebrow. I shrug like I smack lieutenants for some crime family in Boston every day of the week before leaning in close to his ear and whispering, “You think you still got it?”
When he turns his head slightly toward me, the scent of whiskey and something else distinctly Cillian—bergamot and cedar, perhaps—fills my nose.
“What do you have in mind?” he asks, his breath floating over my lips.
“We could have a little fun, make a little cash,” I shrug and lean back, finding the closeness to be sensory overload.
Our gazes hold as he clearly considers my proposal. I’ve known this guy all of ten minutes, and I can almost see the wheels turning behind his stormy eyes. Without knowing much about him, I get the distinct impression that he doesn't let loose and have fun very often. It’s a good thing he met me tonight, then.
Cillian grabs his drink and finishes it in three long gulps. I don’t watch the way his Adam's apple bobs with each swallow or the way his tattoos wrap around his forearm as he holds the glass to his lips. Nope. Not at all.
He sets the glass on the wooden bar with a thump and turns to me. “Show me what you have in mind.”