Scream, Snowdrop (The Royal Ballet Presents #2)
1. Maeve
CHAPTER 1
MAEVE
My life is a series of performances. The blinding lights don’t come from the overhead spotlight. My moves are rehearsed, but if I step in the wrong direction, I miss much more than just my entrance. The house of cards I call life shakes beneath the weight of my lies, and it’s just Tuesday.
The bag sits on the luxury leather of the passenger seat, taunting me and telling me that I’ll be late to rehearsal yet again.
The vintage Porsche I boosted desperately needs a tune-up and is nowhere near as fast as I need it to be. The evidence? Headlights nearly touch my bumper as I peel out down the street. A max speed of a hundred and twenty isn’t going to cut it, and I’m frantically trying to make it back to the garage where this bad boy will be stripped of its VIN number and then sold—once I lose them.
My sunglasses slip down my nose, my wig itches, and the brim of my hat fucks with my field of vision, but this city has too many cameras to look like myself while stealing cars. This thing is worth about a million bucks because the right person designed this special edition, but all that matters are my instructions.
That text from Kane came through only fifteen minutes ago, and less than thirty seconds with my ass in the driver’s seat, his men are already on my tail. I tilt the rearview mirror to get a better look at who is following me. My luck isn’t usually this bad.
Am I being set up?
Cygnus is the big bad in town. No one really knows who he is, but he has a bloody reputation. Yet I’m doing business in his domain. That’s why Kane keeps sending me so much work. No one is brave enough to piss Cygnus off.
Or dumb enough .
But until now, they have always been too late. It’s never been this close of a race. A sliver of worry snakes through me, and I top out the transmission in sixth gear. I’m expecting a hungry snarl, but the engine complains, briefly losing power before lurching forward as I push it for speed it just doesn’t have. Fucking rich collectors who don’t actually take care of their cars.
“Fuck,” I curse at my pursuer as I get a better look at the car. There’s just no way I can elude them with speed. This situation is far worse than I thought, and I wish for simpler problems like a police chase. If the police get me, I go to jail, but if I ever end up face-to-face with Cygnus, I’m as good as dead.
I zag to the left because a tactical maneuver is the only way to avoid them. Hopefully, I know this neighborhood better than they do. The one benefit I know I have is that the Porsche is small. The move didn’t buy a second. The men following me are as tight on me as they were a moment before. I have another chance coming, but they ram me, lurching the car forward and jarring my teeth.
The buildings break in the nick of time, revealing the small crack of the exact alley I’m looking for. I hit my brake and clutch, causing my back end to slide out, and narrowly avoid a kiss from their front end. They’re moving so quick they’re twenty feet past the opening before they stop.
Switching gears, I hit the gas and pull down the alley that’s nearly too tight for the car to pass. It’s definitely too tight for theirs. The garage is my next stop. My grip on the stick shift tightens as I switch gears again. Trash cans hit the bumper and fly over the top of the vehicle, which will cost me. A stab of guilt strikes my heart as I rip a line of clothes strung between the buildings clean off and send the articles flying, but thankfully, no one stands in my way.
I pull out onto the opposing street. A quick check tells me I’m clear, but I can’t see far down the street. The glare from the midafternoon sun forces my eyes to the dash— shit, definitely late. I haven’t even ditched the car yet, and rehearsal starts soon. One turn, then another, I officially switch from trying to lose them to heading back. I turn left once more, and the same shiny black car sits parked across the road, blocking my path.
Yeah. I’m fucked because this car is not making it back to the garage anytime soon.
One foot hits the brake and the other hits the clutch, pulling the car to a hard and fast stop. The guys inside climb out with their guns in hand. I don’t personally recognize them, but I can guess who sent them. Three of them stand on the pavement, and the fourth exits as I switch gears, rip the car around, and hit the gas. They’re facing my bumper but unwilling to let me go that easily.
Gunshots fire off behind me, and I swerve, not because I know where they’re shooting but to make myself a harder target to hit. Running through the list of people I’ve pissed off, I must admit there’s no shortage. It could be the poker ring that took issue with my big win last week, or maybe the rival gang that resents that I hit all the most interesting cars before them, get them stripped clean and sold off before the owners file the police report.
None of that feels right, though. None of them have ever been a real threat. I only truly worry about one person in this city. I’ve given up on my payday, which may have worse consequences, but I don’t have a choice right now. I drive as hard and fast as I can toward the theater, but when I’m a few blocks away, I pull the car into a much wider alley between restaurants with a dumpster and some homeless people sleeping around it.
I jump out with my bag in hand and find I have an audience. I toss the keys, not caring who grabs them.
“If you guys want to have some fun, I already had mine.”
There are a few noises of disbelief and then an excited laugh as I rip off the wig, hat, and sunglasses and stuff them into my bag. My hoodie goes on instead, and I pull it around my face tight to keep my features off the cameras in case someone follows me here and asks questions.
The people behind me argue about who’s driving and if they can actually fit a person in the back as I take off in a run. I can’t help but look over my shoulder repeatedly as my feet eat up the blocks, but as far as it seems, no one is following me. No one knows the real me, and that’s the only reason I’m still alive.