Chapter Four
Rocky
“There’s a reason why we’re called confidence men, Rocky,” my father told me when I was ten. He stood at the bow of an eighty-foot yacht that he’d pretended to own that morning.
His guests had left only an hour before. Two oil tycoons. They each wired him a hundred thousand, an investment toward a company my father created to enhance drilling.
His creation only lived in idea, not reality. But the marks didn’t know that.
Wind tousled my hair, and I pulled my blazer tighter. My father stared at me with an earnest expression, wanting me to learn. To live up to him. Back then, I only wanted to make him proud.
Now, not so much.
He clamped a hand on my shoulder. “Because confidence is the most powerful tool in this world. Having confidence and gaining confidence from others is our job. It’s all you need to build a life. Never forget that.” He glanced at his Patek Philippe watch and then looked back down at me. “Ready?”
“For what?”
“The next job.”
His words ring in my head, and the memory sits heavier knowing I’m in a car on my way to fucking Connecticut and not on my bike heading toward Seattle.
This whole thing is such a colossally bad idea. My parents have been prepping for the Seattle gig for months and bailing on them isn’t as easy as Phoebe and Hailey are making it seem.
It’s unusual—the fact that my sister had zero plans in place to handle the fallout of ditching a job. To the point where I realize she had a plan.
Me.
She told Carter she’d be missing Seattle on purpose. She knew he’d tell me. She knew I’d show up to check on her... and Phoebe.
And she knew I’d be the best one to smooth things over with our parents, and I can’t deny, I am.
I’m probably the only one who could get our parents off their tracks. But not forever. If I could do that, I would’ve cut ties from my mom and dad a long time ago.
I hate road trips.
Memories flare in the quiet and as the landscapes change shape out the window.
The night of my eighteenth birthday, my father took me into his wine cellar and gave me an expensive bottle of Bordeaux.
“You know how much this is worth?” he asked.
I nodded. The six of us had been brought up to know the price tags of brands, cars, wines, liquors. Not just so we knew which to take, but which to flaunt.
“Say it,” he told me.
“Twenty-one grand.”
“And that worth is still lower than your family,” he reminded me. “No monetary value will ever be higher than your brother and your sister. You’re the oldest, and you’re eighteen now, which means you need to always protect them.”
Why was he telling me this? What was the motive? The questions churned in my head back then as much as they do now.
Really, he could’ve just been afraid of the consequences of what we do, and he needed me to be the protector in case shit blew up on him.
The risks of pulling the rope on a mark—they were always there. Always blinking in the background like highway reflectors in the night.
Phoebe’s dad was proof enough of the risks.
My father’s gaze cemented on me like a cinder block. “You need to promise me, Rocky.”
My stomach coiled. The older I got, the more I tried to speak less to my parents. It’d become more difficult not to spit acid and hide my curt, short tone.
“Rocky?” he implored.
I returned the wine bottle to my father.
The truth: I loved my brother and my sister. Hailey had always been smarter than me. Only a year younger. And Trevor—he could fabricate almost anything and make it look real. A month prior, he’d made a counterfeit gold coin and sold it for ten grand.
He was twelve.
“They’re smarter than I am,” I shot back.
“They have the brains, but you have the silver tongue.” He handed the bottle back to me. “Promise me.”
I stared at the bottle. Not at him. “I promise.”
At eighteen, I promised him that I’d keep my sister out of harm’s way. But I promised myself I’d protect her a long time before that, and I didn’t need him to drill it into my head.
And now I’m here, chaperoning this experiment under clear protest. At least, I hope it’s fucking clear I think “no more conning” is a bad idea.
I glare out the window as we slow down in a town that I don’t recognize. Didn’t do research before coming here. Don’t know who this landlord Jake guy is, but it won’t be the first time I’ve jumped into a job on the spot. Not advised or recommended, but sometimes shit happens.
You have to adapt.
Hailey rolls the Honda to a stop at a red light, and I pull up Google Maps on my phone.
Victoria, Connecticut.
Never heard of it, but we also haven’t spent a long time in Connecticut before. I can’t ever remember pulling a con in this state. I click into a Wiki page on the town, and I learn some quick facts.
Sixty thousand residents.
One of the wealthiest towns in the state.
Home to Caufield University.
It feels like a place that my parents would pick for a job, but my sister wouldn’t lie to me. She’d omit facts, sure, but she wouldn’t fabricate some elaborate story and trick me. Maybe they’re just subconsciously leaning into what’s familiar. A rich-as-fuck town with a mixture of townies and visitors.
“And we’re parked,” my sister says, shutting off the ignition. “Best parking spot. Great weather. Looks good, right?”
She found a parking spot on the street near an overflowing trash can. The weather is cloudy. Since it’s August on the East Coast, I’m predicting a swell of heat when we exit the car, and it’s likely humid, being this close to the Atlantic Ocean.
She’s trying too hard to make this bad idea seem perfect at the start.
My sister is a try-hard dressed like Wednesday Addams. But I can’t tell if she’s doing her best to convince me, Phoebe, or herself.
“Looks good to me,” Phoebe says while tying her deep blue hair in a high, messy pony.
Whenever she does that, I have to look the fuck away. I don’t have some ponytail kink, and I could lie (I am great at it) and say it does nothing for me seeing Phoebe lift her hands to her head—her shirt rising and her bare skin peeking—but I’ll never lie to myself.
I check the view out of the window.
We’re parked in front of a small bookstore called Baubles & Bookends. A coffee shop next door has the quintessential chalkboard easel outside the entrance.
“I thought you gave up collecting paperbacks last year,” I tell Hailey. She’s a speed-reader and reads more digital books now. We’re on the move so often that lugging around physical copies isn’t really practical.
“The apartment is above the bookstore, genius.” That sharp, brittle voice does not belong to my sister.
I rotate in my seat so I can stare into Phoebe’s brown eyes. “Convenient. Maybe you can finally learn to read.”
Her nose flares, but it’s her lips forming an annoyed pucker that draws my gaze.
Phoebe Graves has been my best friend, my sister, my girlfriend, my lover, my wife. For all that we’ve pretended to be, and all the roles we’ve taken, I’m one hundred percent sure that I have zero idea what she really is to me. No fucking clue.
I’m not sure a word exists for it.
But I know what we aren’t.
We’re not together, and it’s good. I need that in indelible ink as a reminder of what can’t happen, and two years ago, we figuratively signed the agreement.
I was twenty-three.
She was twenty-two.
Most cons are well thought through. Planned in advance. Some take weeks. Some months. All are agreed upon by our parents.
One led us to the worst night of our lives.
Phoebe calls it the Job That Shall Never Be Named. I won’t ever name it, but I do have two words for it. Fucked up.
Things have been explosive between us since.
Still in the car, she flips me off.
My brows rise. “That’s it?” I expected a verbal retort.
She flips me off with her other hand.
I roll my eyes and unsnap my buckle.
“Wait,” Phoebe says hurriedly. “You’re not coming inside like that.”
I frown, glancing down at my navy blue slacks and white button-down. Suit jacket is on the middle console. There is an art to flaunting wealth, but nothing about my wardrobe is too showy to where it’d be tacky.
“What’s wrong with this?” I ask, hearing the grit in my voice. It comes out more with Phebs, and it’s probably because she’s annoying as fuck.
Trust me (everyone eventually does), she’d say the same about me.
Phoebe unclips her seat buckle. “You look rich, and we’re supposed to be middle class.”
I try my best to keep my jaw set and not on the floor. “Middle class?”
We rarely pretend to be middle class. Usually, it’s only for social proof. Like, when someone in the family needs a shill to vouch for their con. At times, that shill can be less wealthy and desperate, a role that typically doesn’t last long.
The principals (what we call the main runners of the con) most always need to appear wealthy in order to gain trust.
Phoebe tilts her head. “Looks like you’re the one who’d benefit from reading more.”
A rough groan dies in my throat. “I know what middle class is. I just don’t see how it’s a good idea for both of you to pretend to be something you have very little experience pretending to be.”
Hailey is rechecking info on her phone while she tells me, “We’re not pretending. That’s the point, Rocky.”
They’re not pretending?
As shitty as it is, I prefer deceiving people. Being openly myself is not only a risk but it’s too fucking personal. I’ve spent more years lying to strangers than I have being truthful, and Victoria, Connecticut, isn’t changing that.
“You be whoever you want to be, Hails,” I tell her. “But I’m not a middle-class bitch.” I leave the car to Phoebe’s loud retort.
“Be a rich bitch, then! Asshole.”
My lip twitches into a partial smile, then I shake my head a few times and rewire my mouth. When Phoebe exits the backseat in a huff, I ask her, “Am I a bitch or an asshole? Make up your mind.”
“You’re a bitchy asshole and an assholey bitch. Happy?”
“To be two things at once in your eyes, I’m over the fucking moon.” I check a buzzing text message on my phone. Nova. Phoebe’s “oldest” brother. He’s asking how far away I am from Seattle. Not responding, I slip my cellphone in my pocket.
Phoebe eyes my phone with slight skepticism, then gives me a strange once-over, and she’s stalling on my gold watch. Worth more than ten grand. She knows that I have more power if I appear rich. And without power, I can’t really help her or Hailey when all of this goes south.
I slide past Phoebe, staring her down while she tries to stare up at me. I ignore the flex of my muscles and the heat in my blood. Quietly, I manage to whisper, “Move out of this rich bitch’s way.”
Her shoulders thrust backward, but she doesn’t say a thing in response. Just watches me walk past to the trunk. Hailey pops it from the key fob, and I grab my sister’s duffel.
Phoebe sidles next to me.
I take a short glance at her. “Can’t stay away from me?”
She’s glaring ahead, and she reaches for her luggage. “I’ve got mine.”
“I wasn’t going to touch yours,” I tell her casually. “I know how you are.”
“Independent, capable, wonderful.” She hikes the strap of her bag over her shoulder. Eyes set on me in defiance.
“Stubborn, snide, quite the opposite of wonderful.”
“Sounds like you.”
We are similar. I can’t even deny that. It’s partly why I was fucking confused she didn’t pump the brakes on Hailey’s plan. To want to live a moral cookie-cutter life—that’s not Phoebe.
That’s not me.
We stare one another down. Neither of us even blinks as we refuse to break our petty contest.
Hailey taps the hood of the car. “Hey, we’re already five minutes late.” She skirts around us, the chains on her belt loops rattling while she walks briskly onto the path. “There’s no time for you two to argue right now.”
Phoebe mutters under her breath, “We can make time.”
I don’t know if she intended for me to hear, but I just act like I don’t. Hailey texts while Phoebe and I trail slowly behind her.
A deep blue apartment door is next to the entrance of the bookshop, but there isn’t a buzzer or keypad. We let Hailey outpace us, and we fall further back. This is something we do.
Phoebe and me.
We consciously put ourselves side by side during jobs. And outside of jobs.
A piece of her blue hair has escaped her pony. It splays against her white strawberry-printed tee. She liked Strawberry Shortcake the way that kids like unicorns and ponies and wholesome shit when they’re younger.
She’s grown out of the cartoon, but if she ever sees anything with a strawberry, she’ll be tempted to buy it. Usually only things she can pack. Baseball hats, T-shirts, the occasional key chain and magnet. Sometimes I think about the soup-bowl strawberry mug she left on the bed’s end table in a Four Seasons.
I called once we were long gone, but housekeeping couldn’t find it.
I scrape a coarse hand through my hair the more this nostalgia barrels through me. Reminiscing about the good times is dangerous because the bad times are hot on its heels. Then I’ll find myself cradling a fistful of gnarled memories, trying to squeeze them to death. And never succeeding.
Strawberries.
Phoebe catches me staring at her. “What?”
“Nothing.” I focus ahead.
“You’re being weird,” she snaps back.
“I could say the same about you. Ever since the last job—”
“Leave it alone, Rocky,” she whisper-hisses. “Seriously.”
I shake my head a few times, grinding my teeth, and it’s fucking impossible to drop Carlsbad. How can I? What happened during that job? I have no clue, and yeah, it’s grating on me like I’m eating sandpaper. Because I know something bad went down, but neither Hailey nor Phoebe will explain it to me or to Nova. Not even when we picked them up from the bus stop that night.
They just say the same things:
We’re fine.
The job is over.
Just leave it alone.
And now all of a sudden they’ve decided to stop grifting? I catch her blistering gaze. “You both chose to stop doing what we do after the fallout of the last job. One plus one equals—”
“Two, yeah, great—you can do math. Bravo.” She’s prickly.
I’m rougher, and the heat of her glare isn’t smoothing my grating edges or the glare I send back. So she lets out a long-winded sigh and spins toward me while we’re on the sidewalk.
Hailey is busy phoning the landlord outside the apartment door.
As a jogger passes us, we both politely wave. He nods back, and then a thirtysomething woman pushes a baby in a stroller along the cobbled sidewalk.
I nod. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”
She smiles. “Afternoon. Ugly weather, huh? Looks like rain.”
I look at the graying clouds with interest, even though I couldn’t give a flying shit about a storm. “Hopefully it’ll pass. You stay dry out here.”
“You, too.” She slows just a little to ask, “Are you two new in town?”
“Yes,” we say in unison. It annoys both of us.
The woman doesn’t notice. “Well, welcome to Victoria.” Her smile brightens. “I hope you like it here.”
I already hate it. “I’m sure we will.” I wave her goodbye.
Phoebe forces a tight smile at her, and after the woman is farther away, she stakes her glare back on me. “If you’re going to be here with us, you can’t bring up Carlsbad every two seconds.” She takes a tense breath. “I’m serious. It’s over. In the past. Leave it there.”
“I don’t even know what I’m leaving behind.” That’s what scares me.
Her brown eyes look dead. Nothing is in them. No emotion. It tears and stabs at my insides, and my jaw aches I’m clenching it so hard. I hate that dissociative look. I’ve seen Phoebe check out too many times before, but rarely ever with me.
“You don’t have to know, Rocky.”
I want to know.
I force down the rebuttal. Seeing that I’m not getting what I want—and no way would I ever manipulate Phoebe—I just change the subject altogether. “How much do you know about your landlord?”
“Jake?” She studies my sister at the door. “I know enough.” Her defenses slowly lower while we continue to hang back. “Hailey handled most of the details.”
So my sister got the loft, and Phoebe is just along for the ride. I’m not that surprised. Phoebe’s role in the family isn’t to plan cons or gather intel. Hailey does more of the logistics.
I just wish Phoebe was behind the reins on whatever they’re doing. I lean closer to whisper, “Don’t you ever get exhausted of being my sister’s lackey?”
“See, this is why you need a best friend, Rocky. So you can understand that best friends aren’t puppets or pawns or lackeys.”
“You left out doormats.”
“Fuck you.” She gets in my face.
My blood heats the longer we lock eyes. I have a strange urge to grip the back of her hair—but not hatefully. “Fuck you, too—”
“He’s coming down to let us in,” Hailey tells us with eyes that say Stop fighting.
We cool off, but on the way to the door, Phoebe sticks her tongue out at me. I shake my head and holster a slanted smile. An emotion tosses inside me that I’m purposefully ignoring.
I stand behind both girls, my backpack hooked on one shoulder and the strap to my sister’s duffel on the other. Hailey keeps tapping the sole of her combat boot while we wait for Jake.
It’s a nervous tell that our parents would hound her for, and I make a conscious effort not to lecture my sister.
We’re not on a job.
I don’t know what this is. Not really. And that puts me on edge more than a three-month preplanned con.
The door opens.
Jake emerges with the towering confidence of a man who always gets what he wants. He’s well-dressed in a navy polo with the Hackett logo on the breast, Sperry shoes, and the latest model of an Apple Watch on his wrist. Light brown hair, crystal blue eyes, white skin tanned from the sun, and a strong jaw—he has the posture of a high school quarterback who still shows off his letterman jacket.
And he’s younger than I thought their landlord would be. Mid-to-late twenties. Maybe older than me.
Definitely not better looking.
He’s not ugly, though. That’s unfortunate.
Hailey and Phoebe exchange smiles, and I resist rolling my eyes again. Inwardly, the eye roll is fucking strong.
Jake leans on the doorframe like he’s modeling for a fashion ad. Jesus Christ.
His attention is on my sister first, taking in her goth makeup and the ripped fishnets and chains. “You must be Hailey?”
“Yeah, that’s me.” She’s too nervous to smile. “You must be Jake?”
He’s still assessing the fuck out of her. Who is this guy? “I am.” He nods, running his gaze over her spike-studded backpack. “Jake Waterford. Welcome to Victoria.” He extends a hand.
His intentions aren’t clear. Either he’s guarded or I’m losing my touch here and can’t read him that well.
Phoebe reaches back and curls a hand around my wrist, and I realize I’m about to take a step forward. She’s keeping me from pushing out in front of Hailey.
My sister shakes his hand. “Hailey Thornhall.” She lies with ease and motions over to Phoebe. “This is my best friend, Phoebe.”
She immediately detaches from me. Cold, biting air replaces the warmth of where her skin touched.
“That’s me,” Phoebe says, “the best friend.”
His gaze swings to her, and I recognize the look in his eyes. It’s one I’ve seen a thousand times. One I’ve given to Phoebe. It’s want, desire, curiosity. It’s everything I fucking hate. My body goes rigid. Don’t react.
Don’t react.
Do not fucking react.
It’s a mantra I’ve repeated over and over throughout the years and hammered into my skull. Just so I wouldn’t fuck up a job. But this isn’t a job, and it makes it so much harder not to cut forward and shove him back.
But I don’t own her.
I don’t want to.
I just hate the way men look at her. Like they can take her and use her and discard her when they’re done.
“I like the hair.” Jake gestures to her head, then sucks in a breath. “But you might have some trouble with that if you’re still planning on working for the country club. Servers have a strict dress code around here.”
My sister already told the landlord their job plans? Before even meeting him?
Phoebe looks just as surprised.
Jake glances back at Hailey’s face. “No nose piercings either. Or the thing in your eyebrow.”
Phoebe focuses on him and asks, “Nipple piercings are big, bad, and ugly, too?”
It draws Jake’s gaze down to her tits.
And like a reflex, Phoebe hooks her fingers on her shirt and begins to lift.
Without thinking, I catch her around her hips and press her to my side. “Coming through,” I tell Jake and “accidentally” shove my sister’s duffel into his gut on my way inside.
He grunts and shuffles farther backward while I bulldoze through the door. Phoebe stays tucked against me as we enter the stairwell together.
A lone bike rests against a rickety, steep staircase that I’m guessing leads to the loft. After almost flashing her landlord, Phoebe still hasn’t pulled away from me. She turns toward my chest, her eyes distant and her arms wrapped around my waist.
I drop my lips against her ear. “Phoebe?” I rest a hand on the back of her neck, my thumb stroking her skin.
She breathes slowly and winces at herself. “I’m fine.” Her thick brows bunch, and when she realizes she’s hugging me, she immediately lets go and steps away.
Yeah, I definitely already hate it here.
“She’s a free spirit,” Hailey tries to cover casually. “You know, free the nips.” She mimes lifting her shirt but doesn’t go as far as Phoebe almost did.
“Right,” Jake says with a slow nod. “Just another warning, nipple-freeing is also frowned upon here.”
“Shucks.” Hailey produces a half-hearted smile and points at the stairs. “Is that the apartment?”
“Yeah.” Jake is busy studying me, keys in his hand. “Who are you, exactly?”
I watch Hailey squeeze past Jake in the cramped stairwell, just to reach Phoebe. The two girls speak quietly while I stare down their landlord.
“I’m Rocky.”
“Rocky?” He sounds skeptical.
“Problem?” I ask too roughly.
“I’ve only ever heard of dogs and cats being named Rocky.”
“It’s a nickname,” I try to say amicably, but I’m dying to add, Numbnuts.
“What’s your real name?” He’s staring me down now. “Are you staying here?” He looks like he’s preparing to say, you can’t. “I was only told there’d be two tenants, and I don’t have your ID.”
You’re not getting it.
I have five in my wallet, and none of them are names he needs to see.
Jake seems like the type of person who remembers to cross their t’s and dot their i’s. His suspicion of me isn’t overt paranoia. Not when he’s about to invite three con artists into his home and his town.
There’s just nothing he can do to stop it from happening.
Before I can respond, he’s turning to Hailey. “It’s only a two-bedroom.”
“I’m not staying, man,” I say, like we’re friends. “I’m just passing through for a week or two. I’m Hailey’s brother.”
Hailey smiles, and I see it’s a genuine one. I could’ve easily lied and said we were just friends, but this is a sincere piece to her new life. I’m not actively trying to implode this for her. She’ll realize on her own that it won’t last.
Jake studies my features, then hers in a quick second. With her mountain of dark makeup and platinum-blonde hair, it’s hard to see we look anything alike.
I’m pegging him as uptight. A stick-in-the-mud. The kind of person who has a daily routine and can’t fathom breaking it. I am a wrench who appears like a fixer to all your problems, but I will purposefully break shit without you realizing.
For someone like him, I’m a nightmare.
Doubt still pinches his brows.
“I work in Manhattan, but I’m remote for a few weeks,” I explain further. “I wanted to spend some time with my little sister. Help her get settled in a new town. Make sure she’s not staying at a serial killer’s apartment.”
Hailey’s smile vanishes. “Rocky.”
Jake eases a fraction. “No, it’s okay. I get it.” His brows rise. “I’d do the same for my little sister.” He looks everywhere but at us—a tell that he’s either lying or he’s containing emotion.
“You have a little sister?” I ask. Common ground is good. I can work with that.
“She’s not around anymore.” Don’t say it. “She passed away last year.”
I’m the asshole.
Phoebe is trying to smother a smirk. Her eyes ping to me, and I swear they say, Assholey bitch. And honestly, I’m just glad they’re saying something other than nothing.
I relax my shoulders and motion to him. “Sorry about your sister. I can’t imagine...” I shake my head. “That’d kill me.”
“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” His eyes linger on my clothes. “Manhattan?”
“You’ve been?” I ask before he can question who I work for.
“Yeah, plenty. For family things.”
Family things? That’s too vague, but I don’t press because A) not here to make a fake fucking friend, and B) don’t need him pressing my backstory that I’m creating on the fly.
“I have a cousin who lives in Brooklyn, too,” Jake adds. “He’s kind of an asshole.”
“Most of us are.” I force a smile.
Jake forces one back, and it’s as though we both know we’re full of shit right now. That we don’t really appreciate or like one another. If he were a mark, it’d be an uphill climb to gain his trust. But I don’t need him to like me or even really to trust me.
I just need him not to fuck with Hailey or Phoebe.
“You’re not going to tell me your real name, are you?” Jake realizes.
“Not unless you end up in bed with me. And sorry, man, you’re not really my type. Too tall.”
He lets out a short laugh that sounds more like an irritated sigh. “Okay, fair enough. As long as you’re not living here—because if you are, I need your ID.”
“Fair enough.” I use his words.
He’s not easing, but he drops the issue. “Apartment is directly above the bookshop.” He points to the staircase. “Always lock the stairwell door on your way in and out. Homeless people will try to crash in here when it gets colder.” He puts a foot on the first stair, about to lead us to the other locked door. “One more thing.”
“Yeah?” Hailey frowns, wanting badly to just get inside the loft.
Jake swings around, but he’s not looking at her. His attention is back on me. “If Hailey is your sister, what’s Phoebe to you?”
Everything.
Nothing.
None of your fucking business.
I open my mouth to decree us as just friends.
“We’re divorced,” Phoebe suddenly announces.
What?
A record scratches in my brain, but I force my expression to remain blank. Not letting Mr. Uptight see anything on my face.
“Newly. It was mutual,” Phoebe adds like word vomit, her face flushing.
The lies keep coming, and I add nothing.
Phoebe is glaring at me to say something, but now I’m trying not to laugh.
“I hate him,” she concludes. “With a passion.”
“Oh-kaaay,” Hailey draws out with wide eyes and tries to extinguish this burning ship. “This way?” She moves ahead of Jake and guides him up the stairs away from us.
Like always, we linger behind.
“Divorced?” I whisper to Phoebe. “What happened to wanting to live honestly?”
“I honestly feel like you’re my ex-husband.”
“I’m honestly not your ex-anything,” I tell Phoebe under my breath, carefully watching Jake ascend the stairs with my sister. He’s not looking back at us. Not as I add, “I’ve always been dishonestly yours. And it looks like that’s not changing.”
“I guess not.” She takes a preparing breath.
I can’t tell if she’s pissed there is one glaring lie in the start of her truthful life, but maybe she realizes being fully honest is impossible anyway.
We can’t tell anyone about our pasts without incriminating ourselves and our families.
I can’t hate what I do. It’s who I am. And I am and I’ve been many fucking things in this world, but self-loathing is not even in the same universe as me.