“That could have meant—”
I cut him off. “Then Sticky asked him what he meant by that, and Neal calmly said it meant a bullet in your head before dumping your body in the river.”
The memory is as clear as if it happened two minutes ago rather than three years ago. We’d been pulling off a car heist—a 55 Jaguar D-type—and Saint and I had been assigned to the inside work. That meant we were responsible for getting in the garage undetected, hot wiring the vehicle, and driving it a short distance to a tractor-trailer transport. This had been more complicated than it seemed as the owners stored it in their personal garage with an elaborate security system and they never—and I mean never—went anywhere. They were always there, so we had to concoct a devious scheme to get them out of the house.
At any rate, the majority of the work was on mine and Saint’s shoulders. Sticky and Neal had been responsible for transporting the car to the docks, so it could be loaded in a shipping container and sent to its new owner in Dubai.
During that job, I had the weight of overhearing Neal plotting to murder Saint hanging over me. But I had fallen hard for the sexy thief, and there’d been no way I’d have let anything bad happen to him.
But I also hadn’t been able to risk the job, either.
Not unless I’d wanted to get on Neal’s bad side and end up in the river with Saint.
So I did the only thing I could on such short notice.
As soon as we entered, I’d tripped the silent alarm on the security panel, secretly alerting the police. After, I got down to my key role, which had been to hot-wire the vehicle. We’d been pulling out of the garage, me driving and Saint in the passenger seat, when we first heard the wail of sirens coming.
Blue lights flashing in the distance down the road, I’d pulled out my gun and pointed it right at Saint.
“Get out,” I’d told him.
He’d never once thought I was joking. Instantaneously, his expression morphed to ice-cold hatred as he realized I’d betrayed him.
He hadn’t known the real reason why. I’m sure he thought it was for the twelve million dollar payout for the Jag. No clue it had been about his life.
I explain this, the dread in my stomach quickening as his expression remains icy and affronted.
“I thought a couple of years in jail was better than being dead,” I say. Even to my own criminalized ears, that sounds lame.
Saint grimaces. “You could have told me what Neal was planning. I could have done something to protect myself.”
“Maybe,” I admit hoarsely, knowing I hadn’t thought things through. But I had feelings driving me. Womanly, soft, vulnerable feelings for Saint, which had made me terrified he’d end up murdered. “Or you could be dead.”
“I can’t fucking believe this,” Saint mutters, turning away from me in frustration. He then spins around, a sly look in his eyes. “Or maybe I shouldn’t believe you at all. I mean… you’re still working with Neal. Clearly, the fact he has murderous intentions doesn’t scare you away.”
I furiously shake my head. “It’s not like that. You have to know I can’t stand the guy. Never could, but—”
“I get it,” Saint sneers, cutting me off. “The money’s too good. Makes you overlook your morals, right?”
“No, it’s not like that at all.”
“Save it,” Saint growls, holding up a hand. “I don’t believe a fucking thing you have to say.”
For some reason, this cuts me deep, even though I have no right to expect him to have an ounce of faith in me. Stepping away from the wall where I remained frozen until now, I reach out a tentative hand.
I don’t have the guts to touch him, though.
“Saint… please believe me. I may have made an unbelievably unwise decision, but the reasoning behind it was good. I cared about you so much, and I was terrified of losing you.”
“You did lose me,” he yells. “I got arrested. I went to prison. My mom…”
When his voice cracks, he looks embarrassed about showing vulnerability.
“You never turned me in,” I whisper, voicing what has haunted me for the past three years just as much as the fact I sent him away. “Not any of us.”
“A choice I’m regretting more and more,” he grumbles before sucking in a deep breath. “Look… I want in on whatever Mercier has planned. I’m not going to fuck up my chances to get on this crew. We have this art heist to plan and execute, so we have to try to work together. Leave the past in the past for now, okay?”
No, that’s not what I want. I want to hash this out. I want him to say he forgives me… that he understands why I did what I did.