"Wait. I want something else."

"We have an agreement. You got your hundred grand. Wait a month to give your notice, then get out of here like we talked about."

She doesn't say anything. Instead she stands up and slips her arms around me from behind. Her lips are cool, then hot on the side of my neck. Her hand slides down my stomach and I can feel her breath quicken as she feels the muscle, and then her hand slips inside my jeans, and her fingers wrap around my cock.

Oh God damn it.

"Just the once?"

Leave, Apollo. You're on a time frame.

"I brought condoms," she mutters.

Condoms. Plural. Oh, honey.

I yank her hand out of my pants and set the bag down on the table by the door, and grasp her wrist hard. I can feel her fear, as her breath quickens against the back of my neck. A quick visual check makes sure the fucking door is locked.

Then I spin around and crush my mouth against hers. Brenda's eyes are still open. She's genuinely surprised.

"So I get a bonus?"

I lick my lips. She tastes like strawberries for some reason. My hands move to her waist, up under her top. Her skin is soft and warm and her body is supple. She's no model but she's real, and I like real. I'm a very grounded guy. When I pull her against me the feeling of her full breasts pressed against my chest kicks my motor into overdrive and I feel my cock harden. She feels it too, judging by the wide-eyed look on her face. She's got that kind of almost innocent I-can't-believe-this-is-happening look on her face that I do so enjoy, and I savor it as I push her back to the bed. I gingerly lift her bag and set it aside, where she can see it, still bowed by the weight of the money inside.

She's not even paying attention. She's more concerned for my hands. The way she just lets me have her is kind of innocent, in a way. Endearing, and arousing. She doesn't say a word as I slip my hands up and undo her bra, push my fingers under the cups and hold her breasts in my hands. I can feel her heart pounding, little throbs against my fingertips. When I graze my thumbs along the underside of her tits and tickle the sensitive skin under them, she goes stiff and gasps, and I feel her nipples tighten against my palms.

Then it happens. She wriggles loose, and shimmies out of her clothes in a way that's experience, coquettish, and embarrassed all at once. I can see her flinching, trying to resist the urge to cover herself with her hands and arms as she stands before me, and the relief in her eyes as I begin to undress. She's afraid I'll see nothing but stretch marks.

Brenda joins in the undressing, and as I pull my shirt off, she undoes my jeans and pulls them down, and a dizzy kind of joy washes over me as she takes me in her mouth, kneeing in front of me. I don't like making her kneel like that while I stand, so I back up to the bed and sit down and she follows, diving between my legs to suck me so hard it almost hurts, her nervous innocence gone and replaced by the hunger of a woman who knows how she likes it.

A little part of me is saying hey, I could get used to this, but it's my balls talking. I have to keep a clear head. Somehow.

Wow she's good at this.

I mean, very good. I flop back on the bed and she pushes my shaft against my stomach and licks the underside, and sucks on my balls, and makes hungry little noises doing it. She works her way back up and really gets started, using her hands too, and I have to sit up to watch her. She stares into my eyes, and I can see her smiling even as her lips stretch around me. If this is her bonus, I need to start being more generous with all my partners. Her eyes never leave mine, even as I began to pant and sweat beads on my chest. I try to warn her, but the look on her face says everything.

I explode inside her mouth, and it makes her all the more eager, until I'm lying on the bed tingling from head to toe, shocked. She rises, licking her lips, and crawls up onto the bed on all fours, moving over me, her heavy breasts caressing up my stomach and chest as she settles on top of me, and her arms slip around my sides.

She wants to cuddle. Great.

I roll over all at once and she just looks shocked, and squeaks in alarm. I peck her on the lips and then immediately move to suck her hard nipple, and the sound she makes has me hard again already. She grabs my head and holds my face to her chest, and I explore all over with my tongue. From the sounds she's making, I must know what I'm doing. As much as I enjoy the tight hard tips of her breasts, there's so much more to explore. My tongue on the soft skin under and between them drives her wild, and when she bucks under me I can feel how wet she is. It takes everything I've got not to just ram myself inside her and claim her as mine. She's already broken my rule, though. A gentleman sees to the lady first.

Then I'm on my knees between her legs, and I take my first taste of her sex, lightly. She's got a thick bush in her natural color, a honey brown, and it tickles my nose as I run my tongue around her entrance and over the hard, sensitive button that makes her legs jerk when I touch it. I want her even more when her body grips my finger as I suck her clit, and she clutches fistfuls of the hotel bedspread and pulls on them as her legs clamp down on my head.

Easy, girl.

Ah, the hell with it.

She's adorable when she climaxes, this one. She turns red all over and curls up in a ball, hugging herself and squeaking and panting through clenched teeth, as if she needs to be quiet. When she curls her fingers in my hair I can sense she's almost ready.

I rise. No words are spoken. She fumbles through her pockets and pulls out the condom, tears open the wrapper and slips it on me as I lie down, piling up the pillows under my head. I like it best with the girl on top, guiding her down and watching her body take me in, as I do now. Brenda takes it slow, leans on my chest, and I get a wonderful view of my shaft sliding inside her wet sex and her body, slick with sweat and flushed with pleasure already.

She knows how she likes it. She sinks down and grinds, closing her eyes to savor it. When I press my thumb to her lips she takes it in her mouth and sucks and digs her nails into my chest as I cup her breast in my hand, circling her hard nipple with my thumb as she grows more excited, her riding more frantic. She starts to rise up and sink down, eyes open, sucking my thumb as her body swallows me, squeezes yet more pleasure from me. Her hot walls grip my shaft, her stomach tenses as she swivels her hips forward and back, and she pulls my hand from her mouth to let out a satisfied sound, almost a purr. All at once she slips off me and turns around, lying on the bed and raising her hips. She wiggles her backside, and I get the hint.

I enter her from behind and press her to the bed. She likes that, from the way she wriggles under me to meet my thrusts until she's a clenching, shivering mass under me. I was right, she's quite the little devil here. Now I'm in control, and I take her harder. She almost impresses me, urging me on, until I'm really cutting loose and I can feel her ready to explode. When she does she bucks up under me and her head almost hits my chin as I go rigid. I can't hold back anymore and collapse on top of her, throbbing as I finish. She holds my hand and wiggles under me, rubbing her ass against my stomach as I draw out of her.

I get up on shaky legs and she rolls on her back, then on her side.

The bag is still on the side table. I grab it, lock it in the bathroom with me, and wash up quickly. I can't strut out of here covered in sweat, this isn't that type of hotel. I make it fast, dry faster, even using the hair dryer to get there. Once I'm dressed I check that the goods are all in the bag and check on Brenda. She's lying on the bed, asleep. I must have tuckered her out.

I tuck the covers up around her neck and walk out of her life. I make sure the door is locked before I go.

It feels like tearing something off, leaving like this. Every time it's the same. It's just a job, get over it. She'll be fine. If she's not, it's her problem. She spent her whole life getting into trouble. I just tossed her a life preserver. If she doesn't swim to shore it's not my problem. I have the biggest score of my life in a bag slung over my shoulder. The little sting I feel when I withdraw from Brenda is muted by the heady feeling of carrying millions worth of stolen goods in my bag. The necklace makes up the bulk of that. There will be a few thousand in cash in the wallets, the watches worth maybe twenty grand all together. The rule is that Dad splits the proceeds of the sale of the target with me, but the incidentals I get to keep. Before I go out I duck into the bathroom off the lobby and into the big stall at the end, peel the cash out of the wallets and stick it in my pockets. Rough count comes to fifteen thousand, not bad. The wallets get wrapped up in toilet paper and go in the trash can. Goodbye, wallets.

It's dark by the time I walk outside. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous, but years of practice make me walk tall, focus my eyes on the distance and generally avoid looking like a victim. Wouldn't that be cute, I go through all that trouble and some tough with a gun steals the stolen goods. They'd probably sell it to a pawn shop. A guy comes at me with a knife or something, I can handle it, but I don't do guns. A man must have a code and all that. I'm a thief, not a killer.

Fortunately this is one of the better parts of town and when I hail a cab I get a ride easily. I think the cabbie is a little surprised by the tip I leave before slipping off to a corner store. I'm famished.

I grab a pack of cupcakes and a bottle of iced tea, and on the way out a little girl says, "Want to buy some cookies?"

I stop. They have a little table set up, the kid and the mom. I give the mom my trademark smile and I give the kid a wad of cash.

That's why I end up meeting my father with stolen goods and two big grocery bags full of Thin Mints. I bought the whole supply.

I like Thin Mints.

The hotel where we've holed up is not upscale. I'm not sure it's downscale. It might not even be on a scale. The rooms are adequate, though. Two beds that don't appear to have any critters and a bathroom and a fridge and microwave. Such is the luxurious, devil may care life of the master thief. I don't take two steps into the room before he looks up from the work he has spread out over the desk in front of him and shoots to his feet. I barely have the door closed before he grabs the bag.

"Did it work?"

"Yeah."

"The contact?"

"She's been well compensated."

He gives me a look but says nothing. With the specially prepared case spread open on the bed, he lays the necklace out on the yellowed white sheet. It loses a certain luster in this light. Such a small thing, for all this to do.

"Now what?"

"Now I take care of it. You stay here."

Oh. Great.

He packs up the goods, both the necklace and the other items I stole. I count the cash now- minus my cookies and snacks, it comes in at just under fourteen thousand, plus whatever the sale of the various baubles I stole brings me back. Dad has connections with dozens of fences; the necklace was a special job. A buyer approached him through an intermediary.

I kill the time showering, and eating the breakfast of champions- hot dogs and cupcakes, microwaved Pop Tarts and then a beer. Thievery works up quite an appetite.

It's after four in the morning when he gets back. My cut is in a brown paper bag. He tosses it to me and I count it out. Ten grand, not bad. I put the rest with it and hold it in my hand, staring at just shy of twenty-five thousand before I peel some off to fill my wallet and wrap up the rest in the paper back and stash it with my things.

"How much for the necklace?"

"Two point five, as the buyer promised. Minus the Frenchman's cut, that's two million, three hundred thousand dollars, wired to our accounts at Credit Suissie. Fifty percent is yours, of course.

I nod. I've been building quite a nest egg, working with my father. He's showed me the balances. For now the cash and sale of smaller goods is enough. I'm saving the rest, letting it grow. By the time I'm his age, I'll be retired, and living comfortably. I've been looking at Argentina. It seems like a really nice place, and more important, we've never worked there.

Dad drops a folder on my lap "Study."

It's not schoolwork. It's another job.

Already? Usually after a score like this we take at least a month off.

"What's the game?"

"Art theft. We're stealing a painting."

"How?"

"Access to a vault. I think a social engineering approach is going to be our best bet. The curator of the collection is a woman."

"Yeah? I'm to use my rakish charms on her, then?"

"No."

I look up, raising an eyebrow.

He smirks. "I am."

I open the folder and flip through the pages. It's a dossier, information gathered from a variety of legal and illegal sources on a mark. Everything is here- school records, info from a hacked facebook account. This doesn't look like a museum curator. She turned eighteen last month, just graduated from high school. I flip through the pages.

She's gorgeous. I find myself staring at the photo.

"She doesn't look like a museum curator."

"She's not. The curator is Carol Mathews. That's her daughter. Diana."

"Diana."

She would be, wouldn't she?

Continue reading Mockingbird Continue to Contents Scar Tissue Jennifer packed her messenger bag. In went her laptop, her binder full of lesson plans, and her battered, dog-eared copy of the twelfth grade English textbook. After she snapped the flap down and tightened the bag up on her back, she stopped and sighed. It was the first day of school. First day number four. She hoped she'd pull off her first day this year without tearing up.

This was the third year Jennifer faced life alone. She shifted on her feet, wriggling her toes in her sneakers and flexing her riding gloves, working up the will to open the front door. Her husband Franklin did the honors for her four years ago. Her departure on the very first day of her teaching career was domestic bliss in its purest form. He woke up early and roused her from sleep with blueberry pancakes. He kissed her on the cheek and soothed her frayed nerves by reassuring her that she'd do a fine job and be a good teacher. The kids would love her.

Now she was alone with mounting dread and memories, a screeching alarm clock woke her for an oatmeal bar and orange juice chugged straight from the carton, a quick shower and a coordinated selection from her predominantly neutral wardrobe.

A favorite picture of Franklin by the door was the only thing left to say goodbye on her way to work. Niagara Falls served as the background to their honeymoon photo, and the way the sun caught the water made everything glow like a cheesy painter's view of heaven. Big dark sunglasses hid Jennifer's eyes, and unusually unkempt hair framed her grin. Her husband had a silly, boyish smile that infected everybody around him.

The picture filled her with joy when Franklin was alive. Looking at it now brought lingering doubt and guilt. Why am I alive, and you're not?

Jennifer took a deep breath. I can do this. I have a job to do.

Franklin's voice drifted from the back of her mind. You can do it, kiddo. She was almost two years older than her husband. That was their little joke. She tightened her pads and riding gloves and strapped down her helmet.

She scrubbed at her eyes, sucked in another breath, and yanked the door open.

Humid August air and a wet smell hinting at a coming thunderstorm greeted Jennifer on the front porch. She shrugged to shift the bag's weight before locking the door, and then lifted her trusty three-speed from the front porch to the sidewalk. As soon as she stepped off the old warped wood, it hit her. Did you leave the stove on? Is the door locked? Did you turn the bathroom fan off? Did you leave a lesson plan on the table?

Jennifer shook her head. Every single time she left the house, she had to do this. Sighing with resignation, she checked the door again and went through a mental checklist. She had not cooked on the stove in a week, the door was clearly locked, the bathroom fan had a fuse if it overheated, and she never put the lesson plans on the table. They were in her bag. Rolling her shoulders with a renewed confidence, she stumbled as she turned and almost bolted back to the house.

A black Dodge rolled down the street and stopped in front of the neighbors' mailbox. The illegal blacked out windows hid its interior, but she knew who was driving. She froze, then moved deliberately slow and ignored the threat the way she'd ignore a wasp buzzing about her head. You leave me, I leave you be.

Her trembling hands choked the handlebars as she pedaled. Jennifer could ride for an hour ninety-degree heat without breaking a sweat, but perspiration beaded between her shoulder blades. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed the Dodge followed behind. She leaned into the bike and pumped harder on the pedals to increase her speed. The car kept pace.

The driver shadowed her as she stopped at the first intersection and pedaled across Commerce Street, the main drag. No one was out this early in the morning, at least not in this part of town. Thick silence was broken only by the thick rumble from the car, rolling along behind her.

Shimmering beyond rising waves of heat was the high school. She would be safe once she made it to work.

After she reached the top of the hill, she sat up on the seat and eased up on the pedals to coast downhill. She was almost there. The school meant people: other teachers, students, and most important, a burly state policeman who served as the school's resource officer. She would be safe at the school.

Exhaust roared out of the Dodge as it launched past her left elbow by maybe a foot. Her heart jumped into her throat. The car swerved left and then right before coming to a lurching stop that blocked the road. Panicking, Jennifer choked on the brake as hard as she could. The font wheel locked and the handlebars jerked in her hand. The handlebars came alive in her hands. The bike went down and she went with it. She put her feet down to catch herself, and a shock of white hot pain shot up her leg as her bad ankle folded inwards and she went down. Her arm landed on the pavement and the loose gravel tore open her skin as she rolled onto her back.

The car doors simultaneously swung open and the car rocked on its springs as Grayson Carlyle stepped out from the driver's side. His passenger stood up and slipped on a pair of wraparound sunglasses. Elliot Katzenberg, her brother-in-law, nudged her bicycle with his foot. Jennifer shifted into a sitting position and looked up at him while ice spread through her veins.

"You look like you could use a ride," he said.

She looked at Elliot, then to Grayson, and then back to Elliot. Her cell phone was in her hip pocket. Even if the fall didn't crush it to pieces, it offered little help. She couldn't call the police. Grayson's father was the chief of police. Elliot's uncle was the mayor. His father was a senator. Jennifer glanced around the deserted street. There weren't any witnesses. Instinct drove her to skid backwards on the street, pushing with her heels and hands. Her ankle hurt like hell.

Elliot offered his hand.

"Come on."

Jennifer pushed herself out of his reach and grit her teeth against the pain as she stood. She would die before she let herself be in an enclosed space with Elliot Katzenberg ever again. She learned her lesson the first time. Hobbling over to the bike, she picked it up and start wheeling past the car.

Elliot calmly reached out and seized her hair. Frizzy auburn curls, woven into a single loose braid, hung to her waist. When Elliot's fingers closed around it and tugged, the pull on her scalp froze her still as liquid terror swirled in her stomach. She let out a little whimper. His voice clawed its way from memory to the forefront of her mind, stinking of grain alcohol and cheap fruit punch. Shut up, Jenny.

"Let go of me," she said.

The rational part of her mind was rapidly losing to the part of her that wanted to shriek, punch him in the face, and somehow hope he'd let go. She'd never outrun both men with an injured ankle. Elliot was the quarterback in high school. She knew from experience kicking him in the belly only made him mad. The first time she tried that, he hit her harder. His younger brother screamed his lungs out to get everyone else's attention at the party to finally pry him off her. Franklin wasn't there to save her this time.

"Get in the car," said Elliot. "I'm giving you a ride."

Fight-or-flight won out. Jennifer tried to pull her hair out of his grip by jerking her head, but his hand tightened and yanked her back. She grabbed at his wrist, trying to soften the pull on her scalp. He turned and pushed her towards the open car. Her ankle sent pain up her leg, and she let out a scream. Grayson kicked the front seat forward to shove her in the back seat. Through the corner of her eye, she saw something moving towards them. The two men spotted it too, and all three stopped their movements.

A long sleek car rolled down the street and came to a stop behind her fallen bicycle. The expensive car looked so out of place that she could hardly believe it was there. The softly purring engine went silent and the driver's door swung open.

"Who the hell is that?" Elliot looked at Grayson, who shrugged in response.

The driver was almost as tall as Grayson, but about half as wide, with a powerful angular build. His green eyes looked right at her, and she saw a flash of something that resembled recognition. Of all the things to think at that moment, she thought he had pretty eyes, set in a narrow clean-shaven face framed by long dark hair tied loosely behind his neck. He looked out of place dressed in a salmon polo shirt and khakis, like he'd be better suited to a uniform, or maybe a suit of armor. He walked up to Elliot.