The Kiss Thief

I’d visited her room a few times when I knew she wasn’t there, always watching out for two things. The third note—she hadn’t opened the box yet. I knew because the tiny golden key was positioned precisely in the same place, not moving an inch between the cracks of her expensive, ancient wooden floors. The floor was due to be replaced before her arrival, but now that I knew where she kept her secrets, I decided to keep the cracks intact. The other was to check her phone for traces of Angelo. There were none. His messages were left unanswered, though she did not delete him from her contacts.

“We’re here,” Smithy said as he parked by Lincoln Brooks High School. The place had produced more gang members than literate citizens, and it was my job to smile, wave, and pretend that things would be okay for the students. They were going to be—once I’d clean their streets of Francesca’s father’s employees.

Protocol demanded one executive protection agent should open my door while the other positioned himself behind me at all time, so that was what we did.

I walked across the yellow, uneven lawn toward the low, gray, depressingly square building, passing metal barricades with excited students and their parents who came to see an alumni rapper who was going to perform there later that evening. The kid had more ink on his face than a Harry Potter book and some questionable scars. I waltzed toward the principal of the school, a shapely woman with a cheap suit and an ’80’s haircut. She ran toward me, her heels stubbing the dry ground beneath us.

“Senator Keaton! We’re beyond excited…” she started, just as gunfire cracked through the air. One of my bodyguards jumped over my body instinctively, throwing me to the floor. My stomach plastered to the ground, I twisted my head to the side, watching the barricaded crowd.

People started running in every direction, parents tugging their children, babies crying, and teachers yelling hysterically at the students to calm down. The principal slid down to the grass and began to scream in my face, covering her head with her hands.

Thanks for the help, lady.

Another bullet sliced through the air. Then another. Then another, each of them getting closer to me.

“Get off me,” I growled to the EPA on top of me.

“But protocol says…”

“Protocol can go fuck itself in the ass,” I snapped, the remainder of my previous, less-than-delightful life creeping into my language. “Call 911 and let me deal with this.”

He disconnected his heavy body from mine reluctantly, and I sprang up to my feet and started running for the kid with the gun. I doubted he had more bullets in that thing. Even if he had, he proved to be a shit aim. He couldn’t put a bullet in me if I literally hugged him. I raced right toward him, knowing that I wasn’t brave as much as I was vindictive and stupid but not giving much damn.

You took it too far, Arthur, I thought. Further than I gave you credit for.

He played nice and sent me an invitation to an engagement party and suggested we stay at his place. He was building an alibi. I bet he was sitting somewhere in public right now. Maybe even pouring bowls of soup in a fucking charity basement.

By the time I put a good dent on the distance between me and my pimply assassin, the crowd had evaporated, and he was exposed. He turned around and started running. I was faster. I caught the hem of his white tee from behind, yanking him back to me.

“Who sent you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he shouted, kicking the air as I dragged him back, but not before prying the gun from his hand and kicking it to the side. Not ten seconds later, ten police vehicles were surrounding us from every direction, and armed and shielded, special unit officers came out, officially arresting him. I cursed under my breath. I needed a few more minutes with him. I knew, without a shadow of the doubt, that he wasn’t going to throw Arthur under the bus. But my EPAs and driver already escorted me to the other side of the building with two detectives and four officers tailing behind us.

“What you did today is a very admirable thing, Senator Keaton. School shootings are a real issue these days, and I…” the principal started.

God, woman, just shut up.

“Any injuries?” I cut her words.

“Not so far,” one of the officers said as we made our way to my vehicle. “But you will be the talk of the town for the next couple of days. That was heroic.”

“Thank you.” I hated compliments. They made you lax and unguarded.

“Zion says you’ll need to make some media appearances today,” my EPA—the one who shielded me from the bullets—stared at his phone.