Blood to Dust (33 page)

“We’ll need to move fast. Do you drive like a chick?” I throw a jab at her, curious to see if she’s still got those killer instincts.

“Nope, but you sure fuck like one,” she bites. I turn in her direction and grab my junk, already making my way across the road to Mrs. Hathaway’s mansion.

“You’re addicted to this.” I slap my mask over my face, even though it’s futile. If Mrs. H is home, she’ll recognize me from miles away. She’s spent the last few months memorizing every ridge of my muscles and every drop of ink in my tattoos. I’m not bothered by it. She’ll know that it’s me, but if my plan goes accordingly, by tomorrow we’ll be gone.

“You caught me.” She hugs the steering wheel, a devious smirk on her beautiful pinks.
That’s my girl
. Seb called her Diabla, like it’s a bad thing. She
is
a little devil, but I like her brand of evil.

“I’m riding that dick tonight if you come back with some money,” she mouths.

“You’re riding it even if I end up in jail. You know you’d try to sneak in for me.”

With that, I turn my back to her and stride ahead to Mrs. Hathaway’s house like I own the place. The Hathaways have a high, wrought-iron gate with golden spikes along the top, but I climb through it easily. I saunter right into the house, the front door might be locked but they always leave their balcony doors wide open. Mrs. Hathaway likes it when the landing is airy. My strides are confident and long as I walk past the little fountains and statues scattered across her massive marble floors, climb up the spiral stairway, straight to her bedroom and into the walk-in closet. Here, right here, was the first time she tried to seduce me. I was three days into my new job, scared shitless of the outside world and even more worried about the possibility of pissing off my new boss. I’ve learned that the female population is divided into two sections: the women who are weary of felons like me, who believe I’d rape them if I got the chance, and the women who get hot on my stained past. The last thing I wanted was to be in a room alone with her only to find out she falls into the first category.

I stand in the middle of her giant walk-in closet, taking in the cherry wood of the walls and the rows and rows of shoes, suits and dresses. Taking three steps forward, I swing a painting of a woman lifting her hair into a bun and the big iron safe stares right back at me.

Hello, you.

Three strikes, that’s all I have. I remember Mrs. Hathaway telling me this as she leaned into the safe, pulling out a whip and some leather cuffs and dangling them in her hands.

“This is where I keep my toys.” She smiled seductively, but my eyes travelled to the huge stacks of cash piled behind her in the safe, just like in the movies. Why did they have so much cash? Fuck knows, and I certainly wasn’t stupid enough to ask. But she saw the awe on my face. Her gaze trekked to the loaded safe, and when it landed back on me, a sly smile accompanied her words.

“But beware, Mr. Vela. If you’re going to try and steal something, make sure you get the password right. After three times, both Stan and I get an automatic phone-call and the local neighborhood officer gets paged. That’s how we know someone who is not supposed to have access to the safe is up to no good. Are you up to no good?”

Three strikes. There’s a four-digit combination, and I just know these two old idiots picked something obvious like a wedding date or a birthday or some shit.

My gloved finger drags through button number four, because I remember Mrs. Hathaway’s birthday is in April, when I hear the front door shutting downstairs.

Well, fuck.

I strain to listen and hear a set of feet, but it’s tennis shoes, so I don’t know if they belong to a man or a woman.

If it’s Stan, I can take him down without even blinking.

But if it’s Mrs. Hathaway. . .

I hear a feminine voice humming along with the whoosh, whoosh of her stupid pool, and know for a fact that it’s her. She’s fucking around downstairs doing hell knows what, but she’ll be up here soon. An idea so sick, twisted and perfect rises in my head, and I do the craziest shit I’ve ever come up with. Taking my clothes off, down to everything but my briefs, I jump into her bed and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

After ten minutes, she walks in and lets out a scream, followed by a giggle, followed by slapping her cheeks like an idiot. Giddiness dancing all over her uncontrolled facial muscles. She’s now eyeing my dick like it’s some sort of a holy grail.

“Oh my gosh! Nate! Where the hell have you been?”

My head is propped on one hand, and I give her what I hope to shit is a sultry look, because I’m not a good faker. But I do know how to get women wet. Even years in prison couldn’t take that away from me.

“Get naked and come here,” I order sharply.

She swivels her head to the open door and turns back to me, her cheeks flushed. Maybe it’s because she played tennis for hours this morning, but more than likely, it’s because she sees me willingly shirtless, lying on her bed.

“Stan is having drinks at the Simpsons’. He’ll be back in about forty minutes.” Another giggle escapes her lips. I hope Mr. Simpson and his bowtie choke on their stupid girly cocktails.

“That’s nine orgasms.” My voice is flat and cool. “By the fourth, you’ll be begging for me to stop. Now show me those beautiful tits I’ve been dreaming about.”

I pat the plush mattress. She gingerly steps forward, but stops, her brows creasing. Astonishingly, her forehead doesn’t wrinkle an inch. Jesus fuck. She’s got enough Botox up there to sculpt an actual size baby.

“Where have you been this week, Nate? I’ve been trying to call.”

“I wanted to fight this.” I get up from the bed, walking toward her, hoping my movements don’t give away my impatience. I don’t have time for this crap. I lift my hand and brush a strand of hair behind her ear. The cheesiest thing a man can possibly do. I have no idea why people do it. Is there anything sexier than watching Prescott’s dirty blonde locks getting all messy and tangled, knowing a part of the reason it’s a hot mess is because I fucked her senseless?

“I was reaching my fucking limit, Mrs. H. How long can a straight guy work for you, deal with your advances, without breaking? I wanted you so bad, keeping away from you was the only thing I could do to fight this. Until I realized,” I say and take another step toward her, my eyes turning to slits as my palm cups one of her cheeks. She leans into it.
Such a fucking goner. Like taking candy from a baby
. “I realized that I’m done fighting. I want this just as much as you do. Now tell me, Mrs. H, How. Hard. Do. You. Want. To. Be. Fucked?”

Her face is beetroot-red and she falls to her knees, her thumbs hooking each side of my boxers. An uncomfortable shiver breaks down my spine. Hell no. This man belongs to one chick, one who’s sitting in a stupid-ass car right now, waiting for him to come back with shitload of cash.

“Baby.” I fist her hair and jerk her face away from my junk. My dick is so soft and uninterested. How can she not notice? “We’ve waited so long. I want the whole fucking deal. Get me the whip and the handcuffs. I’ll show you a good time.”

With skepticism playing on her face, she rises to her feet slowly, her eyes searching mine. All she sees is a devious grin, and my heart skips as I pray she doesn’t see the Guy Fawkes mask I threw under my clothes. After long, agonizing seconds, she spins toward the closet and the painting. I follow her footsteps, knowing how hypersensitive she is to my movements.

“Why are you following me?” Her tone is quivering with excitement. Her suspicion grows beyond her want for me. This needs to be rectified. I keep a good distance between me and the safe, so I can’t pounce on her when she opens it.

“I want to cuff you to the old man’s tie rack and fuck you against his suits while you scream my name. Problem?”

She smiles over her shoulder. “You’re sick, you know that?”

“You’re about to find out just how much, sweetheart.”

She punches in the code to the safe, and my eyes follow her fingers religiously. 4.5.2.9.

4.5.2.9.

4.5.2.9.

4.5.2.9.

I chant the combination in my head like a fucking choir boy, slapping it with a catchy jingle, and watch as she produces the handcuffs from the safe and gives them to me.

“Hands up, against the rack.” I push her to the left side of the closet and she does as she’s told. Her wrists to the rack, I handcuff her tightly enough so she can barely dangle from side to side, her body long and erect, her feet barely touching the floor. I scowl, leaving her personal space at once and shaking my head.

She’s helpless, caged and locked onto the tie rack. I turn around and walk back to the safe.

“Jesus Christ, Nate! What the hell?” Her voice is low but panicked.

“Sorry.” I knock half her closet down and throw shit on the floor, looking for something I can use to stuff all the dough into. “I never planned on taking a penny I didn’t earn from you. It wasn’t my intention. Alas, shit happens. And when it does. . .” I punch in the numbers with steady fingers: 4.5.2.9. The door to the silver safe slides open, and all the cash smiles back at me, like it’s happy to see me too. I walk back to the master bedroom, get dressed and return to collect the cash, shoving it in one of her big purses, my boxers and my pockets, anywhere I can fit one hundred bills. “Let’s just say, I appreciate the help.”

“Help! What help?! Nate! Come back here right now! You can’t do this! Stan will kill me if he sees me like this. How could I explain it to him?”

I pause, and look back at her like I’m actually contemplating the question. She’s trying to wriggle free. “That’s a very good question. And not my fucking problem.”

“You low-life!” She swings from side to side. “You’re nothing but a stupid servant with swim trunks,” she spits.

“Yeah, well,” I grab a ludicrous amount of cash and shove it into the back of my pants, “the fact that you’re tied up to a fucking tie rack less than four minutes after you walked in on me in your bedroom doesn’t put you up for the smartest person in the world award, either. Have fun explaining this to your husband, Mrs. H.”

I jog back across the street with my mask on, my body heavy with all the cash I have tucked into shit knows where. Do I have dollar bills between my ass cheeks? Damn right I do. The stolen car is waiting for me, engine revved up and Pea sitting behind the wheel with her shades sitting on the tip of her nose. She’s glaring at what used to be her house, but snaps her attention back to me when I slide into the passenger seat and order, “Get the fuck out of here, fast.”

We bolt through the neighborhood, every mile we put between the car and the Hathaway house relieving a bit more of my panic. When we cross the gates, she zigzags out of the rich area of Danville, out of the town, out of the region, moving north toward Sacramento. Good call. We need to fly low until this evening.

“Your zipper,” she states, glancing briefly to my jeans as she maneuvers the vehicle. Gotta hand it to her—she’s a class act behind the wheel. Drives like
Diabla
and looks much more comfortable in the tiny, confined space of a sports car than I am. “You’re unzipped. Please enlighten me as to why your cock came out to say hello at Mrs. Hathaway’s house.”

I keep a straight face and casually roll my zipper up, before I start plucking out stacks and stacks of the one hundred dollars bills I need to count.

Where I expect her to be ecstatic, she remains silent. “Did you do anything with her?” Her voice shakes.

I place all the bills on my thighs and start counting. “This dick only salutes to you, Baby-Cakes. Didn’t even touch her. Actually, that’d be a lie. I did tie her up to a tie rack.”

She sniffs, making a U-turn in the middle of a town I don’t know. We’re just cruising along, getting farther away from our crime scene. I ease back into my seat and count silently, my eyes bulging out as I keep adding more digits to the number.

Six thousand. . .eight thousand. . .no wonder it felt so fucking heavy on my body.
How much money does Stan Hathaway keep in his safe?

“Has she touched you?” I hear Prescott ask from the seat next to me. I still mumble the numbers as I answer, “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so or you know so?” she presses. My head shoots up.

“Problem, Cockburn?”

She chews on her inner cheek, tapping on the steering wheel fast with her fingers.

“I hate not knowing what happened in there.” She hitches one shoulder up, looking fucking adorable doing so. I have a few more stacks of bills to count, but I’m already at fourteen thousand dollars.

“I got to the safe, she walked in on me, so I had to act fast. I stripped down to my boxers and waited for her. Pretended to seduce her. Didn’t touch her. I tied her up to a rack, grabbed the money and went back to the girl of my dreams, who was waiting in the car, feeding herself useless fears. Got it?”

She finally relaxes, taking a deep breath. She’s acting like a cute, jealous girlfriend. An unsolicited desire for her to be all those things stabs at my gut.

I want to treat her like a girlfriend. Wish I could take her to a restaurant nearby, or even a drive-thru, but it’s too risky to get out of the car or even make a brief stop at a junk food chain. Especially now, when not only is Godfrey on our heels, but also, more than likely, the police. By now, they’ve probably figured out I broke my parole, stole from my previous employer and might have even tied me to the Sebastian Goddard murder case. It’s all about the timing, and a lot of shit’s gone down since I went MIA.

As if on cue, we pass by a digital billboard, and when I see my face looking back at me from the panel, I choke on the very air I breathe.

WANTED BY THE FBI

FOR DRUG CONSPIRACY

REWARD UP TO $25,000

I lose my balance and blink in amazement. Drugs? What drugs? What fucking drugs are they talking about? Your homeboy doesn’t even toke up.

Godfrey.

I’m wanted by the fucking FBI, with my face plastered on billboards, probably all over this side of the state, because of Godfrey.

Life closes in on me.