Stepbrother Thief (8 page)

Aveline shrugs as she lets me in behind her and watches as I close my eyes and take a deep breath of the lilac scented air in the shop. A few well-placed candles spread the sweet smell around the shop, letting it mix with the crisp bite of cotton and denim.
God, I really am going to miss my closet back home.
I wouldn't call myself a fashionista or anything, but I do like to keep up with trends. Besides, what girl doesn't like to dress up? It's like Barbies for grown ups.

“I'm not really into fashion,” Aveline says, a navy hoodie tossed on over her tank top. I think she's got a gun hidden away in there somewhere, but I'm not about to ask. “I'm just psyched we snagged that parking space.” She jerks her thumb out the window and then glances around at the tables of perfectly folded clothes. “Take your time, pick out whatever you want. It's all on your brother, so I don't care how much you spend. He said he didn't either.”

I smile tightly, but I don't say anything, instead trying to distract myself with a rack of designer tops.

It doesn't work.

I glance back at Aveline, at her perfect makeup and her casual clothes, her sharp eyes taking in the entire store with a single sweep. She might have a messy truck, but she's a lot more similar to Gill than I ever was. I have a habit of looking at the world through rose-colored glasses. Why not try to see the best in everything, in everyone? The world is already cruel enough; I'd rather look for beauty than trouble.

“You gonna try all of that on?” Aveline asks, trailing me as I start to load up my arms with clothes. Everything I had, everything I was, it all got left in Paris. If I have to start over, I'm at least going to do it in style. If a nine year old can call me out on my fashion faux pas, then I know I'm in serious trouble.

“Of course,” I say, handing my growing stack over to an employee when she asks if I'd like her to get a dressing room ready for me. “Don't you try on clothes before you buy them?”

“Sugar, I buy my shit from
Le Target,
” Aveline laughs, pronouncing the superstore's name as
Tar-jay
and shaking her ruby red hair out around her shoulders. “I don't have time to shop for stuff like this. Besides,” Aveline begins, lifting up a Herve Leger dress in a metallic rose gold color, “can you imagine me trying to do my job in this? I mean, I know I'm more on the 'paperwork' end of things, but I like to be ready.” She puts the dress back on the rack and watches as I run my fingers across sleeves, hems, straps. I want to dress her up so bad it hurts. Aveline has a perfect figure, sharp green eyes, and hair the color of cherries. Anything I'd pick out would look great on her. We're strangers though, so I don't feel comfortable asking.

“Paperwork?” I ask, deciding to steer the conversation in a different direction. “I didn't know your and Gill's job required much, um, paperwork.” I pause to pick up a pair of designer jeans and Aveline gets in close, putting her red lips close to my ear.

“How do you think you're going to live a normal life without a passport? A driver's license? Maybe you might want a birth certificate. That's my thing.” Aveline leans back as I look over at her and realize for the first time that I'm actually about four inches taller. Wow. Attitude really is everything, isn't it? If asked, I would've said Aveline was about ten feet tall.

“Do you use the originals to … you know … uh …” I look around and I'm not sure what to say. I know how picky Gill is about procedure and all that. What am I free to talk about here? “Procure new ones?”

“Don't need the originals,” Aveline says as I start to wander towards the shoe section in the back. “I have my own methods of getting shit done. You don't worry a thing about it though. Really, you've done enough.”

“I didn't really do much of anything,” I murmur, my eyes scanning row after row of designer heels and boots.
Nothing much except let Gill pretend to abduct me, force me to let him into the store, show him where the safe in the back was.

“You have no idea how important you were to all this,” Aveline says, her voice softening a little. She picks up a metallic fringed sandal and frowns. “Don't let that asshole brother of yours tell you otherwise.”

“He's not really my brother, you know,” I say, expecting her to respond with something like
oh, I know, but stepbrother's the same thing, isn't it?
Instead, Aveline lifts her face up to mine, her eyes wide and her sensual mouth parted just so.
How could Gill
not
be in love with this chick? Mon Dieu.
Aveline really is gorgeous.

“He's … Cliff isn't your dad?” Aveline says as I blink back at her in confusion. “I heard you call him Papa—more than once.”

“Yeah, well, my mother married Cliff when I was sixteen.” I take a deep breath and feel that familiar pain yawning open inside my heart. “She died when I was seventeen, not long after we moved to France. Cliff took care of me, got me through it all. He …” I can't tell the rest of the story, not now, not here, not to some woman I just met. “Gill's my stepbrother,” I say and recognition flickers in Aveline's green eyes. “He didn't bother to tell you that?”

“He doesn't tell me shit about shit, not unless it pertains to the job.”
Sounds like a typical Gilleon reaction to me.
“Who, exactly, you, Cliff and Solène were wasn't important, not really. It took a whole lot of pressing on my end to even get him to admit that you guys were family at all. The rest, I was just guessing.” Aveline pauses as I pick up an open-toe bootie and ask the sales associate if they've got a women's ten in the back. I'm kind of done with the subject, but I can see Aveline's not ready to move on. “So is Solène your sister then? Or Gill's?”

“Cliff adopted her after my mother passed away,” I say and then attempt to change the subject. “Do you like this?” I ask, turning to hand the bootie over to Aveline. “I think you'd look amazing in it.
Très chic
.”

“Not really my thing,” she replies, her eyes narrowing slightly, cogs and wheels spinning in her gaze as she puts the information I've given her together. I'm absolutely dying to call up Leilani and have a mindless conversation about which episode of
Supernatural
is our favorite—it changes on every re-watch and during every new season. Leilani won't twist my words back at me, read between the lines, try to analyze everything to within an inch of its life. But I can't call her, not yet, not until Gill says it's safe. Technically, I'm supposed to be dead.

I put the display shoe back and accept the box from the sales associate, sitting down and draping the clothes I'm carrying over the bench next to me.

“So … what about you? You said you met Gill through a series of business associates, but is that all there is to it?” I put on my best conspiratorial girlfriend voice, the one I use with all my friends when I'm fishing for gossip. I didn't plan on asking Aveline about Gilleon outright, but fuck it. “Are you guys a couple?”

“Holy hell, no,” Aveline says with a curling of her lip. “I'd sooner date a brick wall. Gill's hot, I get it. I mean, I've seen the man naked once or twice, but we've never gone there with it. Dating him would test the patience of a saint.” I decide not to ask Aveline when and where and how she managed to see Gill naked because, honestly, that would imply that I cared. And I don't. I don't give two shits about it.

I slip my foot into the bootie and slide the zipper up to the top, sighing at the feel of soft suede against my skin. When I get the other one on my foot and stand up, a rush of calm settles over me. It sounds stupid, I know, to let shopping have this big of an effect on me, but it's not about the shoe really, or the act of purchasing it. I just … when I'm dressed up like this, I feel as if I'm put-together, like I'm in control of myself. I think of my clothes as a uniform for life, a weapon. If I look good and feel good, then nobody can wield that insecurity against me.

“What do you think?” I ask Aveline, but she's not looking at me, instead opting to do another quick scan of the store behind me.

“Those look great on you,” the sales associate says, some young chick with perfect highlights and a silver nose ring. “I could box them up and have them waiting at the counter for you when you're done with your shopping?”

“
Oui, ça marche,
” I say and then realize I've switched back to French again. “Yeah, that works. Thanks.” I sit back down and start taking the shoes off.

“Wonder why Gill gave me shopping duty today,” Aveline muses, crossing her arms over her ample chest. “He keeps looking at you like he's got something to say. You two have a big blowup or something?”
And here it comes, the subject that never seems to go away.

“Or something,” I say, spotting the panties and bras across the store and deciding that they're far more important than shoes—though I'm not done with those yet either.

“Must be a pretty big something, the way he fucking stares at you like that.” I squeeze the bundle of clothes in my arms a little too tight and end up stabbing myself with a wooden hanger.
I am a beautiful person who deserves nice things. The past doesn't have any bearing on my future, not unless I want it to. I can and will succeed in life.

“A silly misunderstanding is all,” I reply, even though that's about as far from the truth as I could possibly get. Misunderstanding? What Gill did was no misunderstanding—the letter he left made his intentions, and his actions, pretty goddamn clear.

I'm so nervous, I can barely even stand up straight, using the wall in the hallway to keep myself upright. Gill's right by my side, biting his lower lip and locking his fingers together behind his neck. He's nervous, too, even if he won't admit it out loud.

“Come on, Regi,” he says, dropping his arms by his sides and reaching out to take my hand. I stare into his blue eyes as he pulls me to him, tucks me against his chest with a sigh. I try to resist, too nervous to stay still for long, but as soon as I feel Gill's body heat, smell his scent, I relax.

I can't help it; I'm in love.

“We can do this,
ma belle petite fleur.
” I roll my eyes, but a smile takes over my face anyway. Gill's fluent in French since he used to live in Toulouse with his parents as a kid. He spends half his day coming up with stupid pet names for me; he knows that one's my favorite. “Nobody's going to care.”

“So you think,” I say, knowing my mom has a tendency to overreact sometimes. I know it's just because she loves me, but I've got to admit, coming to her to confess my sins is a little daunting.

“We'll never know unless we try,” Gill whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. My heart flutters in my chest and I have to force myself to breathe. Being with Gill … it's like his presence is all I need to stay alive, like food and water and air don't mean a thing. Somehow, over the past few months, I've fallen completely head over heels for him, for his dry humor, his wry smiles, all of that passion and dedication that rests inside his heart.

Gill kisses my head again, and I stand up straight, looking him over in his black hoodie. I keep feeling stupid for noticing, but … Gill's getting muscles from all that working out he does. He's starting to look less like a teen and more like a man.

I swallow hard.

How stupid of a thought is that?

I take a deep breath and tuck my hands inside the front pocket of my dress. It's a cute little blue and white striped number that makes Gill's eyes widen when he sees me wearing it. I like looking nice for him. Hell, I just like looking nice. It feels good, you know? I don't want to be one of those vain bitches at my school or anything, but I want to feel like I can stand up to them, too.

“Let's go,” I say.

Gill and I make our way down the stairs, navigating our new Parisian apartment with ease. Ten weeks in and the transition isn't as bad as I thought it would be, not with Gill by my side. I feel like I could do anything with him, move anywhere. I could pack up right now and scrape together a living in the Australian Outback, on the top of Mount Everest, in the middle of a Louisiana bayou, complete with alligators or crocodiles or whatever it is that lives there.

All I need is him, his love.

My mom and Cliff are sitting at the dining table in the massive open room that makes up our main living area. There are no walls here, just perfectly placed furniture and accessories to designate the spaces. Mom's pretty damn stylish.

“Hey there,” she says, closing the top on her computer and smiling a big, bright wide smile at me and Gill. “I was just about to come looking for you two. Cliff and I thought you guys might be interested in going out to eat?” She raises her blonde brows at me and gestures for us to take a seat at the table. My stepdad's squinting at the screen on his phone, no doubt trolling the internet for the next best place to eat. Both my mom and Gill's dad are crazy obsessed foodies.

“Actually,” I say, my voice warbling as I struggle to pull together the words that are so desperate to escape my chest, “Gill and I wanted to talk to you about something.”