Chapter Four
Sadie
I ’m so bored I’m thinking of stealing something, just to keep my sanity.
Not even the hilarious light pop band pretending at jazz can rid me of the boredom. And the view from the eightieth floor of the modern and over priced sky mansion wore off after about thirty seconds.
It’s been three days since I saw Kingston. There hasn’t been more than an hour pass without memory of those kisses turning my stomach into a sudden rollercoaster of thrills.
Of all the stupid things I’ve done in a lifetime of stupid, that one might top them all. Because curiosity and giving into certain urges come with hefty price tags.
I’m not ever doing it again. Even if the thought of doing so burns a path of erotic need inside.
Christ, I think the band is jazzing up some old school Madonna. I wouldn’t mind, but they truly suck. A rich person’s idea of cutting edge.
These soirees are always boring, but this crowd of self-entitled mega rich get under my skin. I’m betting not one person here has held a real job, known what it’s like to decide between food and rent—who am I kidding? Make that Balenciaga and opera tickets.
I’m here doing a job the run of the mill security services out there could have done. They live among the clouds with a bird’s eye view of the park and Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, and the rest from the other windows in this tower with a doorman who trained at Fort Knox protection detail. So slap some state-of-the-art security on the triplex, hone their insurance, and call it a day.
Instead, they want a gossip piece, they want the Raven. They want me. They want the glamor of notoriety. Of picking over whether I’m the real deal, work for the real deal, or just someone who slapped a similar name on a shingle and dropped a few pointed hints and things anyone who followed it all would know.
It doesn’t matter to them. The risqué gleam of the idea does.
I fucking hate my life.
Still, it makes me more money when I did steal and in places like this, someone with skill would be robbing them blind of the best pieces and they wouldn’t know.
I make small talk but mostly keep to myself.
Kingston’s watch flitters across my mind. It’s real, of course it is. And it’s stunning. Worth a few million, not one of the top of the line Breguets, but I like it more than some of the ones with the double digit million dollar tags.
“Sally.” Jemima Mao comes up and holds two coupe champagne glasses filled with the odious bubbles, and she presses one in my hand. I take it. “What are your thoughts?”
“On the party? Security or the view?”
“Oh.” The petite dark-haired beauty waves a hand. “Security.”
“I have some thoughts.”
Her eyes go round and I point out things anyone can, like a new system that upgrades easily some different excellent private response teams in the area. And how insurance is of the utmost importance.
I feel like a vacuum salesperson.
“Did you—”
“I work for Black Raven, that’s all.” I smile as I say this.
The words flow easily. Lies and untruths have always come naturally. I suppose having the blood of a con artist in my veins gave me something. And this tale is one I’ve stuck to, kept bare bones so no one can ever compare notes and come up with anything like the wrong kind of inconsistency.
I’m good enough not to be verbatim every time, because that smacks of rehearsal and lies, but I keep it the same in sentiment and meaning and close enough in words.
Not that these people would care. They’d love it and my income would rise exponentially, but I do all right and greed is a downfall waiting to happen. It’s why I got out when I did.
I let them weave their rumors, and build on them. I let them gossip and wonder. It all works to my advantage. I’m also exceptionally good at what I do and what I did.
Her face falls a little and she says, “So there’s nothing special to do?”
“No one’s about to scale the outside of the building.” But I give her what she wants. That sense of special. “But with you, yes, there’s a lot to do. You have unique taste and I can think of a number of ways someone can come in and take things tonight. I can see how people could get in here even with the best of the best. But I see you see that.”
“Oh,” she says, sipping deep from her coupe glass, “I do.”
It makes one of us, but this is part of my job, so I weave the spell. Walk the fine line between thrilling her and pleasing her. They’re so close, those things. Too much one way and she won’t spend big. Too much the other and she’ll turn paranoid.
Truth is nothing is foolproof. And most of the time it’s fine. She wants to feel special, part of the elite in taste and money.
“I’ll finish up observing, testing for weak pockets, and we’ll set up a time in the next few days to really go over everything.”
“Not tonight?”
This party will continue long after I make my way out. But I just say, “We’ll touch base.”
“These glasses, did you know the coupe was modeled on Marie Antoinette’s breasts?”
I just smile. It’s one of those enduring tales that aren’t true, but I keep it to myself. “These glasses are mid-Nineteenth Century, French, aren’t they?”
Her hand flutters and her eyes go big. “Yes!” She sidles closer. “Do…you know him or her?”
I always get asked that and I do what I always do, give that knowing smile. “I’ll never tell.”
It’s enough to get them recommending me to others. And an embellished story to lunch over as the star for the next month.
Yeah, I hate my life.
I get out of the conversation and move about the great room that’s combined with a formal living room. It’s vast, half the apartment and then I wander off, taking my time, so I can explore the rest.
Everything is white and chrome and boring art. The kitchen is pristine and overlooks a giant breakfast nook and the most formal looking, Fine Living magazine ready, informal family dining table I’ve seen.
Every appliance is state-of-the art in the kitchen, and I doubt it’s been touched except for photo shoots. I keep going, past the giant formal dining table that is a stand out piece of wood and chrome, marred by the overuse of crystal vases and art pieces; down the hall and into the second kitchen.
This is full of activity and action. The waitstaff from the high-end caterers are buzzing and loading trays and I move past, through another set of doors to explore the place properly.
It’s a perk of my job. I don’t need to do this at all, I can see what they need from stepping off the lift and to the front door. But I like to explore, learn the layout.
Old habits, it seems, really do die hard.
I explore the entire triplex, full of the kind of art only a fool would steal. It’s expensive, but it isn’t worth anything more than ticket price. And the jewelry is pretty and expensive but nothing stands out. Those pieces which she’ll have will be in a safe. I don’t bother looking for those.
I finally finish, having killed an hour if not the champagne. I make my way back into the great room where the band is playing jazzed up Celine Dion.
Settling in against the wall I observe the rich overindulging and being gauche.
My mind returns to Kingston. I’m going to have to return the watch. And I’m going to need to stop fucking with him and say I’ll take the case.
I’m already working it. I have feelers out. I’m researching. I just… I just don’t want to see him again.
Or maybe it’s that I do. Too much.
I don’t like him, but he calls to me. It’s physical. A throbbing, thrumming ache and right then, I could almost swear he’s there, I’ve been thinking about him so much.
That darkly spiced, slightly sweet, expensive scent pervades. And my breath catches in my throat as I start to tingle with heightened awareness.
And just as I turn around and meet his gaze, he speaks.
“I want my watch back.”