Page 102 of Steal My Heart
She meows in agreement.
We reach Sienna’s office, but something doesn’t feel right. I lean my ear against the door.
“Oh, fuck yes, Sienna!” Ellis moans.
I silently push open the door to find my boyfriend fucking my boss on her desk. Nola hisses, and both Ellis and Sienna snap their eyes to us.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” Ellis says, his cock still inside Sienna.
“Save your bullshit, we’re finished,” I tell him through angry tears. Turing my ire to Sienna, I say, “And fuck you, bitch. I quit.”
Scooping Nola into my arms, I spin on my heel and run out of the hotel. She hops down, keeping pace with me on her leash as we return to Ellis and my apartment.
Now, Ellis’ apartment.
Packing up my few worldly possessions, I urge Nola along, but she hops up on the bed. “Nola, let’s go.”
She drops her hind legs, and the potent smell of ammonia fills the room.
“I love you,” I tell her with a laugh.
Walking down the street with a box, a stolen exotic cat, and nowhere to go, I swallow my pride and call my dad. “I’m in.”
Adjusting my stolen name tag, I enter the ballroom with a tray of hors d'oeuvres, surveying the scene. Dad’s across the room with a tray of his own. We lock eyes, and he gives me the hand signal to proceed.
In search of my mark, I work my way through the crowd. He’s not too difficult to find, being that he’s an imposing brick of a man with a military-tight haircut.
“What do we have here?”
My spine goes stiff until I realize it’s a guest asking about the food. “Crawfish mini boil.”
Of course I got stuck with the crawfish.
Smiling politely as the man takes one of the fancy cups, I continue through the crowd.
I can’t put my finger on it, but something doesn’t feel right. Shaking it off, I pause here and there as guests sample the food, which is fine by me, because those little mudbug eyes watching me are freaking me out.
Like an expertly rehearsed dance, Dad bumps into the mark, snagging his attention, and I swoop in from behind and lift his wallet from his back pocket.
It falls seamlessly into mine before I veer off into the back service area. Depositing my tray, I sneak out the back door and wait for Dad.
He arrives a few minutes later, bursting through the door in a dead sprint. “Run,” he tells me, and I take off beside him.
“Why?”
“Cops.”
We veer down an alley, running into a fence. “Up and over,” he says, moving a trash can and climbing onto it. He scales the fence and returns with a box, stepping onto it from the other side.
I jump, but I’m not tall enough to reach the top of the fence.
“Police! Stop right there!” Cops run towards us.
“Give me your hand!” I hiss in a panic.
“Give me the money,” Dad counters.
“Are you serious right now? We’ll divvy up later; give me your freaking hand!”
