Page 34 of Stealing Blinds

The midday sun caresses my face, the traffic and horns, buzzing conversations and far-off music lending a rhythm to my steps. I don’t take any of it for granted.

My father used to say, “The most valuable things to steal are freedom and time. But if you’re going to reach for something more, let it be for the sake of either family or prestige. Anything else is greed, and that leads to ruin.”

He stole because he could, because there was an artistry to it. My brand of thievery hasn’t specialized in that lately, but today, I’ll bask in the deliverance of the spring breeze, my taste of freedom and time.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and when I pull it out, I find that it’s Cash FaceTiming me. We’ve been texting a little for the past few days. Most of our conversations are pointless, which is kind of refreshing. He always slips innuendos in there. Admittedly, they’re funny, though I’m not sure they align perfectly with the friend route he agreed to. Texting has felt harmless, but this?

I hem and haw about whether to answer, glaring at the device as if it were a bomb. The request glares back, bullying me into submission. So, I flippantly accept.

His face fills the screen, that suave smile of his in full force. “Before you answered, I pictured you on a train.”

If I’ve learned anything about this man, it’s that nothing he says is haphazard, and yet it all seems off the cuff. His sleight-of-hand ability transfers to everything, even his communication. While I am normally ten steps ahead of most people, with him, I’m barely keeping pace. Not that I’ll ever admit that.

“So sorry to disappoint you.” Much to my regret, flutters erupt as I drink in his mussed hair, ocean blues, and open-collared button-up. “Why a train?”

The Walk signal illuminates, so I merge with the herd of folks prowling the city after lunch and cross the street. My feet patter the cobblestone, historic cast-iron buildings hugging my path and my heart thumping more than I’d like.

“Nothing about seeing you could ever be disappointing, Sly, but trains have a certain mystique. They’re a great place to make memories. Nostalgic and … intimate.”

How the hell does he turn the simplest subjects into something erotic?

“Oh, yeah? Have you made a lot of memories on trains?” Why would I ask that? What if he volunteers a spicy anecdote?

“None. Yet.” The latter word drips with his unruffled flirtation, declaring what’s in store. “But I can envision … clearly … making some with you, which is probably why I had that glimpse of you answering from one.”

The man is relentless. And so damn sexy.

Since I need to keep us on a platonic track, I briefly lift my sunglasses to narrow my eyes at him in subtle admonishment. “It reminds me of that slogan: Friends don’t let friends ride trains alone.”

“Exactly.” He chuckles. And winks—the bastard. “Remember that. There’s nothing better than letting your friend take you for a ride.”

I practically scripted that one for him.

A girl beside me giggles, reminding me that (a) I’m out in public and (b) Cash’s charm transcends the constraints of a screen enough to bewitch a passerby.

“What do you want, Noire?”

“You’re blushing, Palmer. It’s not that hot in New York.”

I gasp and narrowly miss slamming into three men in suits. “Excuse me.” I lift my palm in apology, skirt around them, and turn back to the menace on my screen. “And how do you know my location?”

“You just passed the Tribeca skybridge. Beautiful neighborhood.”

All right, I guess I can give him that one. Although I’m certain he’s tracking me somehow. That might even be why I had that sensation of being followed. And I don’t think he minds me knowing. I’d bet that his train suggestion was because I ate lunch in a restaurant modeled after a railcar. Bold. Before I can press further, a video sent from him pops up on the screen.

“What’s that?”

He sips a cup of coffee as he wanders through what must be his apartment—a sliver of Art Deco opulence. “That is what you saved me from by letting me be your Cinco de Mayo plus-one.”

“You really have a skewed vision of how permission and invites work.”

He ignores that and slants his head. “Watch it.”

I’m only a block from my apartment, so I indulge him and press play. Cash’s face assumes a small spot in the corner of my phone while the rest of my screen is filled with nonsensical mayhem.

Dancing. Singing. Some sort of race. And free-roaming chickens. But the focus is on the guy hitting a piñata—a penis piñata. Naturally.

The bat breaks loose, but the video rewinds and fast-forwards to the beat of “Mama Said Knock You Out,” with Maddox Noire making an impressive catch. Again and again. A second later, that is upended by a beefy guy diving for him in slow motion, with a theatrical, “Noooo,” edited in as he slams into Maddox. Headfirst. The collision is nearly as violent as one in an NHL game.