Page 2 of Heist in Paradise

Eau de testicles.

“Anything else?” I asked Ryle, who, among his cheeky habit of playing peacekeeper, was also a massive snoop. He could give the tabloids a run for their money.

“Ah, you know, the usual.” Ryle shrugged, picking up my wrench and fiddling with it. “Zola is fighting with Nate again. Something about finding an earring that wasn’t hers.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. He’s trying to save face, the poor numpty.”

My brow ticked up. “Numpty? You’ve been spending too much time with Callum.”

As expected, Ryle blushed a ripe tomato. “Madoc is up in the trees again,” he plowed on before I could tease him. “He keeps hurling pinecones at me when I try to talk to him.”

A weird, fluttery feeling unfurled in my gut. “Give him space. He’ll come down when he’s ready.”

“I don’t know. Madoc could probably live up there. He’s basically a raccoon.”

I smiled, unable to stop the image from forming—Madoc, our resident brood, with twigs in his hair and a nice pair of fuzzy black ears, armed with pinecones to protect his hollow. Affection and something hotter flared in my chest.

Jesus, I was getting sappy.

I needed a beer. Or a hard fuck. Preferably both. I settled for a cigarette as I loaded up the cars and took stock of our supplies. Most of our weapons were already shipped ahead to our next job. It saved us from being ass-probed at the airport, though it’d probably happen anyway. I was just hot like that.

Patting my pockets uselessly, Ryle came to my aid with his trusty Zippo. He didn’t even smoke, but he liked to keep them on hand. That, or he was a secret pyro. One problem at a time.

Quietly, I mouthed around the cigarette: “You think he’s alright?”

Ryle shrugged again. “Madoc is Madoc. He’ll keep going. That’s all we can do, you know. Take it day by day. Find the good in the bad. Ride the waves to calmer seas.”

I huffed in amusement. “We need to cut down on the fortune cookies.”

“Can’t. I’m addicted. Cookies are my crack.”

Basking in the soothing hit of nicotine, we fell into an easy silence. The metaphorical calmer seas. On habit, I glanced over at the two motorbike-shaped sheets in the corner. It had been months since Madoc and I hit the road, no expectations, no set locations. Just us and the open air and the zinging danger that came with every hard corner.

I missed him like a toothache. It hurt when we were together, especially when I prodded too hard, but damn, I kinda liked the pain. It was my fault that things had changed between us. I’d overstepped and then withdrawn too quickly, and instead of being mature and talking about it, we both shut down.

Feelings weren’t my strong suit. I almost wished he’d punch me out, so at least we’d have an excuse to engage.

My jaw clenched. “Tell the numptys to get packing. We leave at four on the dot.”

Ryle slipped off my workbench. He threw the wrench at me, hitting my chest dead center. “Aye, aye.” Cheeky fucker.

I rubbed my new bruise and flipped him off. “Bloodthirsty twat.”

“Be nice to me. I’m about to get a pinecone to the head.”

“Duck.”

“You know that won’t work. Madoc doesn’t miss.”

With that, Ryle slipped out the door, leaving it open so the message was clear: my solitude was over. Either I joined him, or he would set up camp in the workshop.

I couldn’t blame him. Ryle acted like a needy fuck when he was rattled. Our last job had been a spectacular fail. We’d lost half our loot in an ambush by a lowly street gang. Nate had nearly been shot for it. Our success rate was high—higher than any other crew this side of the Pacific—but one bad hit could ruin us. Dr. Z didn’t keep dead weight.

It didn’t help that he’d already sent us a new job. A dangerous one, far outside our usual territory. I knew it was a test…one we couldn’t fail.

All our lives depended on it.