Chapter 3 – Magnolia
CHAPTER
THREE
MAGNOLIA
By the time I get off the train, I’ve already decided—both logically and objectively—that this is a bad idea.
Financially, though?
It’s a fantastic idea.
When an unknown number accidentally texts you a place, a date, a time, and what is very clearly a suggested entry point for something wildly illegal that could involve a boat-load of money, you have two options.
You can ignore it like a normal, well-adjusted adult and assume it’s spam, or you can recognize an opportunity when it practically lands in your lap fully formed and suspiciously convenient.
I am, at this point in my life, not well-adjusted.
I am also not financially stable. I am, however, petty as fuck and not above a classic revenge plot, which is how I end up standing across the street from Preston Blake’s building at 11:52 p.m., staring up at the familiar glass facade like it personally wronged me.
To be fair, it kind of did.
Six years of my life are tied up there. Six years of early mornings, late nights, knowing exactly which security guard takes extended smoke breaks, and which ones actually pay attention to their monitors.
Six years of memorizing access codes that Preston never bothered to change because he liked routine.
And now?
Now I’m unemployed, broke as fuck, and holding onto a piece of information that very clearly was not meant for me.
Midnight.
East side entrance.
I glance down at my phone again like it might somehow clarify the situation, but the message is still as unhelpful and potentially incriminating as it was the first time I read it. And yet, I can’t deny it practically feels like an invitation…
“This is insane,” I murmur under my breath as I push off the dingy brick wall across the street and hustle toward the building, my grip on the duffle strap tightening. Because, apparently, acknowledging that fact does absolutely nothing to stop me from acting on it, anyway.
The East side entrance looks exactly as I remember it.
Secluded, poorly lit, and just outside the main line of sight of the primary security cameras—especially if you know where to stand.
Unfortunately for my current moral standing, I do.
Slowing just before the blind spot, my pulse picks up speed like it’s try to file a formal complaint.
My stomach flops nervously, my palms suddenly clammy and itchy.
The street is almost too quiet, too, and abnormally empty, like the city is holding its breath.
No car horns.
No distant alarms.
No obvious signs that I’m about to make a life-altering mistake.
“You’re a bit early, don’t you think?”
The voice comes from behind me, low, even, and smokey in a sultry, feminine way.
It’s close enough that my entire body goes rigid before my brain even catches up.
Slowly—because sudden movements feel like a terrible idea—I turn toward the sound.
Not sure what I was expecting, but I know it wasn’t her.
Leaning against the wall like she’s been there the entire time, she looks like she belongs in the very shadows keeping her mostly obscured. Her posture is so relaxed, too, almost too relaxed, it’s like she’s not even remotely concerned about being caught.
Which means that text was definitely meant for her.
She doesn’t move. Hell, she doesn’t even blink. She just watches me, her gaze unwavering as if she were mentally picking me apart piece by piece and deciding whether I’m worth her time or not.
“I assume you received something not intended for you,” she continues.
“That’s one way to phrase it,” I snort. “Another would be your associate needs to double-check his contacts.”
“Noted.” The single word comes out flat and unbothered, like the mistake was already filed away and dealt with before she arrived. “Why are you here?” she questions.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I toss back.
“You could,” she agrees, “but it wouldn’t change the answer.”
“And what answer is that?”
“That I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be and you’re not.”
Something about the way she says it, all calm, certain, and completely without doubt, makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t appreciate.
“I used to work here,” I divulge. “I was fired a few months ago. Unjustly, I should add.”
Something flickers across her expression, then. Interest, maybe, but it’s gone almost immediately. “That explains it, I guess.”
“I know the security schedule, the layout, the access codes. You know, things that are probably useful to someone who’s planning whatever it is you’re planning.”
Her stare sharpens slightly. “And yet you’re still out here.”
I open my mouth, only to promptly close it because—rude.
“I was on my way in before you got here,” I mutter.
“Sure you were.” Rolling her eyes, she pushes off the wall and pulls a set of black leather gloves from her back pocket, slipping them on effortlessly. “You should leave.”
It’s not a threat, not exactly, but it’s definitely not a suggestion, either.
Silence falls between us, the air shifting in a way that suddenly feels a little more charged.
I try my damnedest not to notice her, but now that she’s stepped into the light, it’s hard not to.
Dressed in mostly black, the deep forest green shirt hugging her slim figure really brings out the beautiful tawny tone of her skin.
Which, in turn, brings out the wavy raven tresses of her hair.
And a slashed brow.
Sultry dark eyes.
A silver septum piercing.
And a Monroe beauty mark.
“I could,” I deadpan, stepping forward into the edge of the blind spot to avoid gawking some more. “But I think it’d be better for both of us if I stayed.”
We’re nearly toe to toe now, and just about the same height, allowing those pretty brown eyes to really sear into me. “Explain.”
“You have a plan, a good one I’m assuming based on the fact that you’re not currently being tackled by security.
And, like I said, I used to work here, so I have necessary information that you may or may not already be privy to.
” The fact that she doesn’t interrupt me feels like permission to keep going.
“And…I also have a very immediate need for money.”
A beat passes, then another as she studies me yet again. “You’re suggesting involvement?”
“I’m suggesting we don’t get in each other’s way,” I correct her.
“You do whatever it is you came here to do—which, again, very cool, very mysterious, very intimidating—and I take a small, completely insignificant portion of something Preston Blake absolutely won’t miss. I also won’t ask questions.”
Her expression doesn’t change, like at all, but her head ticks to one side. “You do realize you’re proposing to insert yourself into an active operation, right?”
Active operation?
“When you say it like that, it sounds bad.”
“It is,” she affirms.
“Okay, but consider this. I’m already here, I know the building, and I’m highly motivated to not get caught. That feels like an asset, not a liability.”
“If you were an asset, you would have entered already.”
Wow. Again—rude.
“I was waiting,” I rush out, which is not entirely a lie.
“For what?”
“Just give me five minutes inside,” I press, completely bypassing her question. “I need this. I gave Preston six years of my life, only to be fired over coffee.”
Her expression changes for a split-second with what looks like a semblence of understanding, and then we’re right back to the stoicism. “You follow my lead,” she explains, her voice hitting those low, sultry notes anew.
“Wait, seriously?”
“You do not deviate. You do not improvise. You do not hesitate.” That last one feels pointed, but I don’t interject. “If you become a liability, I will remove you from the situation.”
“Define remove.”
She doesn’t answer me, which somehow seems to answer everything. “Cool, cool, cool. Great. Love that for me. Super duper clear,” I utter quickly, because survival instincts are finally making a brief appearance. “So, um, is this the part where we introduce ourselves?”
She holds my stare for nothing more than a second longer and sighs, profoundly, extending a gloved hand my way. “Leni.”
I glance down at her outstretched palm and take it, trying to ignore the immediate current that zips up my arm like a live wire. “Mags.”
Does she feel that, too?
The simple nod that follows tells me that’s likely a no, especially when she turns on her heel and steps fully into the blind spot like it’s second nature. Like she’s done this a hundred times before and will do it another hundred times after the fact.
“Stay close,” she whispers.
I stand there for half a second, staring after her as she reaches for the door, my brain struggling to catch up with the fact that I just agreed to commit a crime with a stranger who may or may not have threatened to remove me. And then because, apparently, I’ve committed to the bit…
I follow her inside.