Ever since, Mom has been on a mission to prove to Audrey that I’m not some bad seed asshole. Problem is . . . I am the bad seed, despite what my mother thinks. It’s why I stay away, it’s why I ignore her, it’s why I interact with my family as little as possible.
But Caylee will never forgive me if I don’t come to her wedding. Especially if I can’t explain that it’s to keep her safe from my world. And while I can hurt my family, there’s still that speck of humanity inside me that doesn’t want to break my little sister’s heart like this.
But right now, I’ve got to focus. “Look, Mom, I’m heading into a meeting. I’ll call you back later.” I know she thinks it’s with the sketchy dude in the parking lot, and I intentionally don’t clarify that for her.
“But Connor—”
I never hear the rest of what she has to say as I hang up, frustrated yet still putting my phone on ‘airplane mode’. This isn’t what I need right now. I know I’m gonna have a decision to make soon, and it won’t be fucking easy. If I do the right thing and ghost my sister's wedding, that’s going to be a bridge torched beyond repair. I might as well be dead to Caylee.
Honestly, severing that relationship might be for her own good, but she’s been left too often, mostly by Dad, and I won’t be another man to do that to her. Neither will Evan if he knows what’s good for him. And I haven’t met him yet, measured him in my eyes and determined if I need to shake his hand, break his wrist, or bury him in a shallow grave.
I have to go to the wedding to check him out, but I don’t know if I have it in me to sit there and play the part of a good little boy. Not even for Caylee’s sake.
My phone beeps as my timer reminds me that I need to fucking move, and I drive, pulling up five minutes later at an abandoned warehouse in the industrial part of town. It’s actually not as bad as it could be. Most of the surrounding buildings are in use. It’s just this one that’s only used for . . . temporary situations.
Outside, I see my contact, a tall, black-haired man with this kind of European vibe going. Maybe it’s the artisanal cigarette he’s smoking, one I know is going to smell like shit, not that he cares. Maybe it’s the way his jet-black hair is slicked back, or maybe it’s that his suit is just a little too tailored and form fitting so he looks out of place, not only in Maplewood but in the States.
But regardless of whether he looks like a gigolo or not, Juan Pablo is a man you don’t want to fuck with. “JP,” I greet him as I pull up and get out. “How’s it going?”
Juan Pablo takes a deep drag from his cigarette and exhales, a dragon’s breath of stinky whitish gray flowing from his mouth and reminding me to keep discreetly upwind of him. “Goddamn, you Americans and your pick-up trucks.”
I shrug. “Call it a character defect,” I reply, leaning against my truck’s side panel. “What’s happening?”
JP unbuttons his suit pocket and takes out an old-school manilla envelope, handing it to me. I open it up, taking a look at the laminated card inside, credentials for the job, obviously, along with five or six sheets of paper, clearly intelligence on the job itself.
“There’s a dinner coming up,” JP says as I look at the papers. It’s not an insult—he knows I can read just fine—just his way. “Some big shot book writer’s giving a talk.”
I flip through the pages, nodding. “Tell me about the art.”
“See, she’s going to have the target on display,” JP says, pointing to a picture in the back of the pages. “The credentials will get you in. You’re one of the private security guards. You do your thing and bring the piece back to me.”
I nod, looking through the pages more, and something sticks out to me. “Replacement?” I ask, and JP nods.
Damn. I’ve worked hard on my reputation. I’m no basic smash and grab guy, and the people who hire me are looking for discretion. I’m not the kind who leaves behind evidence of any crime taking place . . . except for the missing items. But replacement’s a whole different ballgame. Stealing’s like pulling off a magic trick without people noticing that the rabbit you pulled out of the hat wasn’t actually under the table the whole time.
Replacement’s more like getting people to believe a kitten is a rabbit just because they’re both white and fluffy.
But JP shrugs as if lifting a piece in the middle of a dinner speech filled with nosy patrons is going to be easy. “You can do it?”