Page 1 of Little Bird
Taryn
We shouldn’t be doing this.
Honestly, we shouldn’t even be considering it.
Then again, that’s nothing new for me. I’ve been thinking a version of that for most of my life. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this. I don’t belong.
The people around me don’t want me here.
But I digress.
And also, the people in front of me definitely do want me here. Because they’re my best friends. My sisters from another mister (or two).
My other halves. If you’re allowed to have more than one.
Stella Fontenot slumps forward, nearly knocking over the milkshakes littering the table, and I tear my focus away from my thoughts and back to the space in front of me.
“Stella, careful!” Arden breathes, snatching at the milkshakes. She sets them out of the way, then turns judgmental blue eyes on our self-declared Minister of Mischief.
Stella, said minister, just gives Arden a defiant grin. “Grow up, Arden. Those cups are empty. And we’ve got planning to do.”
Arden huffs a frustrated sigh and keeps moving the cups away, her eyes dark with suspicion, and I suppress a grin. My first of the night, if I’m being honest, but probably not my last. Stella and Arden are like a comic duo, even when we’re in the middle of a scheme that’s definitely going to get us in trouble.
It’s midnight in the city and we’re out way past curfew and huddled in our favorite corner café, the table in front of us crowded with glasses that once held milkshakes and a plate that still holds a few cheese fries. Around us, the diner is mostly quiet, half the lights dimmed for closing. There aren’t many patrons in here anymore, and I’m not even sure why those have been allowed to stay.
This café was supposed to close half an hour ago.
I cock my head at the thought, everything inside me focusing on it as I realize that there’s something wrong there. We’re still allowed because of who our families are—Stella is a Fontenot, but her father is part of the Poffo clan, and that gives her specific rights. Arden is a twice-removed Rossi, so although she doesn’t have a lot of power, she does have a name that gets results. And me?
I’m the bastard stepchild of one of the higher-ups in the Massimo clan.
Well. Not a bastard. But not exactly claimed, either.
Still, the point is the same. The owner of the café kept the place open for us because of who we are and how much money we spend here.
But the rest of the restaurant should be empty.
And it’s not.
“Stella, did you tell Joe to keep the place open for other patrons?” I ask, my eyes on a man in the back who looks way too alert for the middle of the night on a Tuesday.
I realize too late that Stella was saying something, and when her eyes turn toward me, they’re dark with anger.
Stella hates being interrupted.
“Yes,” she snaps. “Because it’s less suspicious if we’re not the only ones in here. Which you’d know if you were paying attention.”
Her voice falls silent and she glares at me in that intense, hyper-focused way she has when she expects something.
I’ve known her for long enough to know exactly what she’s waiting for.
“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll pay attention, I swear,” I whisper, giving in as quickly as possible.
Don’t look at me that way. My life is a whole lot easier when I give Stella her way. Besides, she’s right. We’re here to do some important planning, and I’m getting too lost in my head to pay attention.
One more beat of Stella aiming her laser beam eyes at me and she nods, forgiving me just as quickly, then turns back to Arden and the paper I now realize she’s laid across the table. The paper doesn’t have a lot on it—scribbles, mostly—but they must mean something to Stell, because she looks down again, grinning.
“The store is right down the street,” she whispers, her voice full of conspiracy and secrets. “And I happen to know that there’s only one guard there right now.”
