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The same honed focus falls over me that I feel when I’m about to pick someone’s pocket or swipe something at the store. Steady breathing, exuding the confidence that nothing is wrong, and blending like I belong are the ways I get away with what I do.
This is no different. Even though my heart skips a beat at every unfamiliar sound. I keep my cool mask in place as I reach the garage.
It’s a sub-level entry from the house, the circular drive sloping down an incline to the four large black garage doors flanked by industrial style lamps. Tossing a quick glance at
the main house, I dig my homemade set of lock picks from the pouch of tools on my belt and slide on a pair of driving gloves. They’re not quite badass cat burglar leather gloves, but they were in the fifty cent bin in a thrift shop.
My expression melts into surprise when I grab the handle of the side entrance door, freezing as it turns. It’s not locked.
Swinging my astonished gaze back and forth for another check of my surroundings, I slip inside, closing the door behind me.
Other than the foreboding entrance, Devlin’s security is appalling. The keys aren’t even in a lockbox. They’re proudly displayed on the wall by the door, with tiny spotlights beneath the logos of each car brand.
Fucking rich people.
Their arrogance grates on my nerves. While they live with the constant expectation that they can have everything they want, Mom and I struggle to keep our heads above water. These pampered assholes are so trusting of their huge gates and private security to do the heavy lifting.
I’m offended it was so easy to get in here as I tuck my lock picks back into my zipper pouch of supplies.
The air inside the garage is cool and artificial, like there’s a fancy temperature regulation system at work. Each car is parked diagonally in its own spot with an overhead light illuminating its sleek features. There are more than the five cars I’ve seen Devlin use—every high-end model I’ve ever heard of and some I don’t recognize. It’s like I’ve walked into a museum where car nuts would drool over makes and models they only dream of setting eyes on. The excessiveness of this collection turns my stomach, and a quiet scoff falls from my parted lips.
There are so many that my eyes blur and my temple throbs as I try to do the math in my head to add up the value surrounding me. I don’t know what some of these retail for, but the ones I do are easily upwards of seventy grand. This entire room could wipe out the debt that hangs like a poisonous fog over Mom’s head in one swoop.
It’s not fucking fair.
But this is the cruelty of the world.
My hands clench into fists, the material of the gloves creaking the harder I squeeze. Dad taught me all about this harsh world at a young age before he took off.
Another collection notice from one of his gambling debts sits heavy in my pocket, the crumbled mail stuffed there after reading it made my eyes sting and a sickening panic surge on my way out of the trailer to execute this plan. The only choice was to take it with me. I couldn’t leave it for Mom to find. Each one breaks her spirit a little more, no matter how strong she tries to be for the both of us. I’m the strong one and soon she won’t have to worry.
I take a quick stroll down the row of cars on the left, sneering at a garish yellow Lamborghini, a gunmetal gray Audi, a shimmering pearl-colored Mercedes-Benz GLS, and a sleek black Escalade. The other side of the garage is just as bad with a vintage Mustang and vehicles that look more like futuristic flying cars.
For a moment I’m struck by indecision. I didn’t realize he had this many cars. It’s safer to take one of the more nondescript ones I’ve never seen him use. It’ll be easier to move something common rather than the high profile cars. My gaze flits back and forth, considering the options.
I have to be smart about my choice.
Mom’s voice still echoes in my mind when I overheard her last week, pleading on the phone for a loan she applied for. It fell through, the slimy scum of a loan officer unsympathetic to her quavering voice as she explained to him what our situation was if we didn’t get that money. He didn’t care, like all men. Like Dad. Once again reminding me why I can’t trust any of them.
My throat thickens at the memory and I screw my eyes shut. I don’t have time for this. I need to act now.
At the end of the row in a prominent position is a car that makes me fume as soon as I spot it.
The red Porsche.
Devlin’s prized ride. Possibly the only thing he loves in this world more than himself. I’ve seen him practically make out with it in the school lot while his groupies watch and giggle. They probably hope he’ll fuck them in the cramped back seat, but I’ve never seen him give any of his hookups a lift when he drives it.
The gleaming red car is a beacon, drawing me a few steps closer. I tap my fingers against my legs. The sweet satisfaction of taking something precious from Devlin sings in my blood. My indecision vanishes, obliterated by the chance of getting the ultimate revenge on him.
Stalking back to the mahogany display box on the wall, I snatch the key fob beneath the shiny Porsche logo. A smirk curls the corners of my mouth when I admire the empty space left behind.
“Karma’s a bitch, Murphy.”
Spinning on my heel, I hurry over to the Porsche. The door opens without hitting the button on the fob. Even the cars are barely protected, left unlocked.
I huff in angry amusement, muttering as I slide behind the wheel. “Is that big gate supposed to keep you safe? Think again, asshole.”
After adjusting the seat forward from Devlin’s height, I push the keyless ignition. The engine purrs to life, sending power racing through me as I grip the wheel. A subtle rumbling vibration stirs through my thighs and I bite my lip. Damn, this is a nice car. My eyes crinkle with my smile. Now the driving gloves are more appropriate.
