Page 1 of Push & Pull
PART 1
PUSH & PULL
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Prologue
Theperfectopportunitytomake her escape came at dawn.
Petra had been waiting for it. Ever since Clyde Quimby fell asleep in the hotel bed, his snores loud enough to break Petra’s eardrums, she had quietly rinsed his stink off in the shower and grabbed a fresh change of clothes from the one bag she brought with her.
As soon as dawn came, so did the fog.
Nice.She peeked through the curtains of the roadside motel room. Clyde’s car was parked right before the door, but she could barely make it out in the fog.Thick enough that if he wakes up, I’ll be long gone before he can do a damn thing about it.
Petra glanced over her shoulder. Clyde had kicked off the covers and drooled on his pillow.
She woke up her phone to find a message from her Uncle Michail.“Your share is $5000. Noon. The usual place.”
That didn’t mean she wasgettingfive grand. That meant she owed her uncle five-k for the pleasure of keeping her alive and out of trouble.
She was one grand short for their meeting at the usual diner. One grand that Clyde Quimby was about to contribute to Petra’s fund.
One day, this will be in the past.She went through the motions as she located his pants on the floor and unburied his wallet from the back pocket.One faraway day, when I finally get my shit together.Not having to sleep with winners like Clyde would be a big step up in her young life. Because, so far, twenty-something Petra was growing wearier with this life her uncle seduced her into when she was sixteen and desperate for validation.
Oh, well. If stealing from men’s pockets was good enough for her mother – currently enjoying the next three years in a Pennsylvania Correctional Institution – then it was good enough for Petra Kallis.
What do you have in here, Clyde?Cash. Good. Almost immediately, she counted through several hundred dollars that a fool like Clyde kept on his person. Liberating cash really was the cleanest way to do these things, wasn’t it?Nearly untraceable.Petra once again glanced at the man who scratched his bare ass in his sleep. Not for the first time, Petra was grateful she had convinced him to turn off the lights last night… and slipped him something to ensure he slept quickly and fitfully.
Not enough cash, though. She needed more. That meant she was going after the cards.
Petra was of two minds when it came to stealing plastic. Credit cards were kinder to the victim since they offered more protections and would be more of a nuisance than a life-altering event, but debit cards? God, they were easier to use, bless them. Cash on hand once she found a working ATM and used this poor man’s pin.0378.March 1978. His birthday, according to the driver’s license and insurance card Petra bypassed when looking for more cards.
Clyde snorted in the bed. Petra froze, waiting for him to fall back into slumber before she finished her rooting.
She left the credit card and took the debit.Sorry, Clyde.Eh, she wasn’t really sorry. It wasn’t like she was stealing from an angel of his community. The man wasn’t Satan, but he wasn’t exactly Jesus, either.He’s married. Never took off his wedding ring.Petra discovered recent school pictures of his kids. Where did they think he was right now? At some conference in Chicago? A far cry from an Indiana motel out in the middle of nowhere, let alone with a “girl” he picked up at a club the night before.
It had all been arranged, of course. The location. The timing. The complimentary drinks and a motel run by one of Uncle Michail’s cohorts.
The mark. Poor Clyde had been scouted long before he knew Petra existed.
She gingerly plucked her jacket off the back of a chair and put it on without making a sound. After securing the cash and card in her front pocket, she stole one last look at Clyde and snaked her way out the door.
Damn, it was cold.
She pulled the hood up over her short hair. Light feet bypassed Clyde’s car, the front office, and the dumpsters in the back.That must be it.Far in the back of the private parking lot was a red ‘90s Corolla with the keys already in the ignition. A gift from Uncle Michail’s cohort, no doubt.Where’s the bastard now?Probably not even on the property. He had better things to do, like count his underground gambling funds. This sleazy hotel in the backwoods of Indiana was only good for two things: helping lost travelers get some much-needed shuteye as they regrouped and replanned, and assisting women like Petra in their successful fuck-and-runs.
That’s not what I call them. That’s what Uncle Michail said when he introduced me to the concept on my 18thbirthday.Except, for as long as she could, Petra pretended she was fifteen when seducing the worst of the rich.
The driver’s side door was unlocked. Petra tossed her bag into the backseat and shut the door with aclap.Unfortunately, a quick and quiet escape was no longer in the cards. Not when being 5’1 meant readjusting the driver’s seat because whoever stole this for Uncle Michail’s friend was apparently a former basketball player.
She had gotten the seat how she liked it when two big hands slapped against the window.
“Jesus!” Petra barely had time to react when Clyde, half-naked and mad as hell, punched the window and barked that he was going to kill her.
“Get the fuck outta there you little thief!” Another large fist came down upon the window. Petra turned the key in the ignition. No point in slapping on the seatbelt when a crazy motherfucker cared a lot about the debit card and the six or seven hundred dollars she had sniped from his wallet. What? Was he not grateful that she left his driver’s license and credit cards? She only wanted his money! Not his identity! “The police are already on their way! Get the hell outta there so I can beat your ass myself!”
The Corolla roared to life. Without looking out the back window, Petra slammed the car into reverse.
