Page 2 of August's Thief
In reply, CUPID made a tinkly little laugh, like silver bells. “Outside the box? Sweet, sweet August Angel. Look around you. Don’t you see? There is no box.”
“Not for you maybe.” By now my self-pitying tears were flowing freely. I made a hopeless gesture towards my hideous, disfigured face. “I’ve been trapped inside this one all my life.”
The purpose of the tissues became evident. As I made use of them, CUPID stayed quiet.
“So, what’s the grand plan?” I asked once I could trust my voice again. “Plastic surgery? A face transplant? A paper bag over my head?”
That tinkly laugh again. “Goodness me, no, August. None of that will be necessary at all! We’re not in the business of changing the cards you’ve been dealt; we’re here to play a poor hand well. And I have splendid news. Open your phone and click on the CUPID app. Your perfect match is ready and waiting!”
On cue, my phone pinged, and a throbbing pink heart appeared on the screen. Misery morphed into trepidation as my finger hovered over it. If this whole thing was a set-up designed to part lovelorn wealthy men from their cash, then it was an extremely elaborate one.
“Don’t be shy, August. Reach out, touch your heart. Reveal your perfect match.”
I pressed once, and the cartoon heart shimmered under my finger, then dissolved. The blurred outline of a man took its place. Fuck, how I needed this to work, almost as if my life depended on it. The image sharpened, and my own heart began pumping wildly. Then nearly stopped altogether.
I stared and stared at the photograph filling the screen. Through bottomless pupils, big and round, a vision of pretty, pretty perfection stared back.
“His name is Dawson,” offered CUPID, though I was hardly listening, already sucked into the screen. Those eyes, mygoodness, those eyes. Violet pools, like old lavender crushed between the pages of a dusty, long-forgotten diary. The colour of rich wives’ jewels sparkling from heavy ropes of gold. Of fragile veins, of thunderclouds. And their watchful expression: a little sweet, a little sad, a little wary, a whole lot naughty.
“He’s a delight, is he not? You can’t see his hands and feet, but I am confident they will be to your liking.”
I tore my gaze from the eyes, though they followed me regardless. White-blond hair framing porcelain skin. CUPID had sent me a malevolent pixie—a turned-up nose in a heart-shaped face, plush lips made for kissing, now twisted in a knowing smirk. Wiry, thin arms folded across a cropped T-shirt the colour of fresh peaches.
Tell me what your heart desires.
“What’s the catch?” I demanded. “There must be a catch.”
“Why, sweet August Angel? Why must there be a catch?”
I gave a shaky laugh, still unable to drag my eyes away from the young man taking ownership of my screen. Perfect match? In my wildest fantasies, maybe. “Trust me, there’s always a catch. No way would a guy like this even look twice at a man like me.”
“And you should trust me,” CUPID answered in a steely tone. “Dawson is your perfect match. I can feel it in my bones.”
I scoffed. “Do bots even have bones?”
“Yes, plastic ones. Now listen, your date is lined up for this evening. I’m sending you a time and an address.”
CUPID sounded awfully confident. Ah well, at the very least it would be dinner out at a smart restaurant. And hopefully across the table from a stunning companion. Unless this Dawson took one look at me and fled. “Okay,” I sighed. “You’re the boss. What’s the dress code?”
A hint of hesitancy. For the first time, CUPID appeared a little less certain. “Ah… shall we say… smart casual should suffice? And you may need a small amount of um… cash.”
“So there is a catch.” I knew it. This Dawsonwastoo good to be true. “Come on, out with it.”
“Goodness me, is that the time? Show yourself out, August. I’ll send you the details via the app.” The bot made a little coughing noise just as my phone pinged again, and a message flashed across the screen: Time:6.30 p.m. Place:Bethnal Green Police Station. Fine:not met, set at £70.
CHAPTER 2
Counting down the days to retirement, a bored desk copper led me to the holding pen. I heard myperfect matchwhile I was signing a form and payinghisfine, way before I clapped eyes on him. Yelling at chatterbox speed with a voice like incoming artillery. “And then I said to him, what you arresting me for? Cuteness? ’Cos I’ve also got a set of guns and a six-pack if you wanna see ’em.” A round of guffaws interrupted the flow. “So, then the copper said, ‘shut the fuck up,’ or he was gonna leave the cuffs on. ‘Yes please,’ I said, ‘or maybe you could swap them for that pink furry pair sticking out your back pocket?’ Lad blushed the colour of your sweater, mate. I reckon he was only about nineteen. And then I said, ‘do you want me to put my ’ands where you can hold?—’”
“Hey, Dawson,” my companion butted in. “Pipe down. The cavalry’s arrived. You’re going home—give the rest of us a bit of peace.”
Another couple of guffaws. We rounded a corner to find two raggedly dressed blokes, of the kind seeking somewhere warm for the night, lounging on the cold floor of the holding cell. A third, very blond and slight of build, stood with his back to us, waving his arms like he was conducting an orchestra. Dawson.Myperfect match. He spun around, my view of him obscured by the burly copper lumbering ahead of me.
“What, has my knight in shining armour finally come to get me out of here?”
Hefting a huge set of keys from his uniform pocket, the copper snorted. “More like that geezer fromThe Phantom of the Opera. But he’s paid up, and he’s taking you home. Thank fuck.” He turned to me. “When you get sick of him, mate, do us all a favour and don’t bring him back.”
Dawson sniggered. “As if I’d let him.” He patted one of his cellmates on the shoulder. “Laters, Pete. See ya, Derek. And remember: deny, deny, deny, all right?”
