Page 4 of Playing With Fire
“Infamous, actually. You’ve heard of me?” I ask feeling a little self-conscious. I’m not used to exposing my identity.
“Of course, you’re the hacker that’s known for taking funds from politicians, celebrities, pretty much everyone with a lot of shady wealth.”
“Wait,” Ritchie cuts in. “You steal their money?” he asks in a bewildered tone.
“It’s not stealing per se. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her, Ritchie,” Thomas says giving him a look that I can’t decipher.
“I make it a point to mind my own business,” Ritchie says dismissively. He’s still looking at me. I can see the judgment in his eyes.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I say quietly, unable to look into his cold blue eyes.
“Then explain what Thomas meant by you taking funds.”
“Most of the money comes from shady deals, she takes their illegal money and donates it to children’s homes around the world,” Thomas answers for me. Yes, I definitely like him. Ritchie is shaking his head.
“So you really are acting like Robin Hood. It’s still stealing, Xandra,” he says accusingly.
“Someone has to do something,” I counter.
“She’s just trying to do the right thing,” Selena says coming to my defense. Everyone else looks uncomfortable with the turn of events.
“No, she’s not. She’s trying to play a hero when really, she has a faulty moral compass. That’s not how you do things,” Ritchie says, he still hasn’t taken his eyes off me.
“Not everyone is like you. I care and I want to help people,” I say angrily.
“You can’t save the entire world, Alexandra. 15 years on and you still haven’t learned your lesson,” he says with a note of finality. Then he stands up abruptly and walks out of the room.
Son of a bitch. I hate him so much.
Chapter 3
(Ritchie)
______
8 years old.
I could still hear their screams. It was like a ringing in my ear that refused to stop.
“Ritchie, run,” she screams and just like that, I left my mom.
“Son, go,” he shouts and I leave my dad.
“Ritchie, help,” my little sister pleads. I hesitate, she’s my little sister, I can’t just leave her. But I don’t know how to help her. She’s under a table that I can’t move. I try but there’s not enough strength in my gangly 8-year-old arms. Tears stream down my face.
“Ritchie, go,” my mom screams again.
I listened that time because I was scared. Because I didn’t know then that it would have been smarter to stay with them.
I covered my ears and slid down the wall, trying hard to block it all out. The nightmares had become part of my day. I saw it all when I was awake, and when I was asleep. My eyes closed as I tried hard to forget. I just wanted it all to end.
I jerked when I felt a warm hand against my skin. I flinched away, partly because of surprise but mostly because I hadn’t felt any physical touch in a week. I had not wanted any. Also, the hands had felt hot against my skin. Too hot.
I looked up to a pair of amber-colored eyes, pretty like the sun.
“You’re freezing,” the girl said. She looked to be around my age.
She shrugged off the pink puffer jacket she was in and placed it over my shoulders.
