One Day Fiance

For most people, these would be bad signs. This is a pawn shop that’s not doing a ton of business. But that’s a good thing for us. The guy who owns this place isn’t a ‘pawn star’, so he’s not going to be moving merch frequently. Hopefully, that means there’s a good chance the laptop is still here.

On the bad side, though, I can tell the pawn shop is closed for the day even from here. Still, I get out and go to the door, knocking so hard it rattles. Poppy follows me, peering through the window.

“They’re closed. Nobody’s here.” Poppy states the obvious, but I don’t give up that easily.

“They might be in the back, counting up the day’s take.”

It’s a low chance option, but Poppy takes my encouragement to heart, slapping the window hard. She bangs even louder than I was, going so far as yanking on the handle like it’s the only thing standing between her and life. I guess it might be if her laptop is still inside because it has her life on it, the manuscript.

But no one comes from the back, and she wears herself out, turning around and sagging against the door in defeat. “Fuck!”

“We’ll come back tomorrow,” I promise. “We can get it then, and in the meantime—”

I stop as Poppy looks left and right, up and down the street. There are a few cars, a dozen or so people walking, and not much else. But when Poppy looks back at me, there’s an evil glint in her eye that worries me. It’s a surefire indicator that she’s about to do something crazy.

She whispers, though no one is close enough to hear her, “Let’s break in, smash and grab style.”

For once, my knowledge of crime may actually be useful in preventing a crime. Go figure.

“Sure,” I deadpan. “We’ll have to be fast, though. A place like this has an alarm for sure. Probably calls the police automatically.” I squint as though calculating, “ETA of police, based on the closest precinct, is around six, six and half minutes tops. Doesn’t leave us much time to search, bust open the display case and make sure it’s yours, possibly break into the safe so we can fuck up the video camera footage, and get out clean. Just so you’re prepared, it’s not as simple as busting down the door or breaking the window.”

Poppy rolls her eyes. “You could’ve just said no.”

“You would’ve argued,” I point out with a smirk. “This way, you know I’m right.”

“You’re probably right.” She sighs, not yet willing to give up on her wish of getting her computer back today. “We’re coming back tomorrow first thing.”

It doesn’t sound like a question, but I answer it as one. “Promise.”

I stop, blinking as I turn away from Poppy before she sees the concern on my face. I’m doing a lot of promising lately. It’s a bad habit to get into. I’m not a man who makes promises because I’m not a man who keeps them.

I can’t.

But something has changed. Without thinking about it, I open the door of my truck and offer her a hand to climb in. Smartly, she doesn’t call attention to it, but she doesn’t have to. I already know that I’m walking a dangerous tightrope, but I can’t seem to hop off. I’ve known for a long time that I’m an adrenaline junkie, but I never considered that a person could surprise me at every turn in a way that makes excitement surge in my bloodstream the way a job does.

I drive back to our neighborhood, pulling into my driveway. The rain’s stopped by the time we get there, although the steel gray sky says we may not be done with the downpours yet.

“Want to come in?” Poppy asks when we park. “I mean . . . come on over.”

I shouldn’t. I should just walk up my little patch of sidewalk and into my house. I told her that she couldn’t break into that pawn shop, but I could do it easily. I’ve already been thinking about how I might be able to go back tonight, and the few hours between now and then would be the perfect time to prepare.

But there’s something in her face, in the way her hair is still half plastered to her head since the overhang at the restaurant didn’t stop all the rain, that has me nodding. “Yeah.”

She smiles a little but quickly turns so I can’t see it, and we walk next door to her place, where she unlocks the door and opens it up for me. My immediate impression is that Poppy’s idea of putting things away seems to consist of piling her crap up, sticking a hand grenade into the middle of the pile, and pulling the pin.

It’s not really that bad, just . . . cluttered. Her dining area’s clearly her work office, with a full-sized whiteboard covered in scribbled notes and magnets with scraps of paper tucked under them. Next to it is a corkboard that looks like a full-on conspiracy theorist’s dream, with pictures of celebrities and random model stock photos connected with bits of colored string.