Page 20 of Mile High Heist

“They were giving them out.”

That made her panic. “So you just took it?” She reached out to grab, but I knocked her away. The toddler cackled.

“Ah,” I tsked in disapproval. “We don’t snatch.”

She flushed. I noticed the way it pooled on her neck, spreading like a rash. Her hand flew up automatically, as if to cover it. Too late.

I drank in the rest of her: the puffiness of her bottom lip, the off-center ponytail, that beautiful, mortified flush. The pieces clicked together with satisfying clarity.

She cleared her throat, trying to ease her awkwardness. “I can look after him, if you want.”

“I don’t think so,” I smirked. “I don’t know where your hands have been.”

Olivia bristled, cheeks violently red. “That’s—”

The mother returned in a frantic swoop, cutting her off. I returned her offspring, ignoring her plethora of pointless gratitude. I reclaimed my seat and the broken pen I’d wedged in the crack.

Olivia hovered, biting her lip.

I was getting bored again. “Spit it out.”

Olivia opened her mouth, then shut it. Like Jax, she was full of contradictions. She never did what I expected her to do. She didn’t run when she should. She didn’t ask the right questions. She was delicate, but she also climbed trees and dove headfirst into the sea to find me after I was shot.

I hated her.

Hated her enough that it made her interesting. I imagined cracking her open and dissecting that pretty grey matter until I understood her. Then I imagined slinging her legs over my shoulders and plunging my tongue into her body until her nails raked bloody down my back.

And then I’d let Jax taste her on my tongue.

My fingers curled over the pen reflexively.

Her eyes dropped down to my makeshift weapon and her face hardened. That, at least, was predictable. I made a habit of flashing my weapons at her—bonus points if she touched them first.

Olivia leaned down, her breath ghosting over my ear. “I’m not saying you’re right. But what should I do about the briefcase? We need to know if the prototype is in there.”

“Take it.”

She huffed. “No shit, Sherlock. I mean, how do I get it? I’m not a thief, remember?”

I reached up and tugged on her scarf. “No,” I drawled, watching her throat convulse. I hated vulnerability, but on her, it was alluring. Skin begging to be bruised. “You’re not a thief.”

I released her, and she straightened, fussing with her uniform while she glanced around nervously.

A moment later, she understood. I knew she would. She wasn’t stupid, though it would be easier to ignore her if she was.

“Oh,” she said in realization. “Of course. Duh.”

I rolled my head back toward the window, flipping the pen idly between my fingers.

She leaned in again, whispering: “You better not stab anyone.”

“Say please.”

She sighed in resignation and straightened. With a final sugary glare, she strutted away.

The man beside me released an appreciative noise. My eyes snapped to him. He flinched in fear.

“She didn’t say please.”