Whoa. Did I really just give in to that? I’m no romantic. Hell if I can think of one romantic thing I’ve done in my entire life, but that was like some movie-level kiss. You know -- like when a girl and a guy are stuck in a small space together, and their bodies are like magnets pulled towards one another slowly until they both just… collide.

 

That’s what we did. We collided. I know I made the first move. I am not sure why I leaned in towards her or why my hands seemed to grab firmly at her petite little waist. I’m not sure why I pulled my head down to meet hers or why my fingers slipped under her shirt. I’m not even clear why my mouth slightly parted, and my eyes closed when I kissed her. That movie hero guy giving into some busty movie star girl is not who I am. I don’t close my eyes when I kiss, and I certainly don’t touch gently.

 

All the ladies in my life are like the girls that were standing outside the ice cream truck earlier. They’re the ones that seem to grab on to me when I least expect it. They’re the leggy girls who keep up their steps with me, even in sky-high heels and tight little mini-dresses. They whisper the things I want to hear into my ear to make the hairs on my neck stand on end… “I’ve got a friend over there who would love if you joined us back at our place. We share.” … “Did you know that I used to be a gymnast?” … “I can do things to you, Mr. Murphy, that could knock you out.”

 

I accepted almost every single one of those invitations. None of them have up to their promised hype, though. So many naked girls lying on their stomachs in darkened bedrooms seem to run together. None of them were terribly interesting or challenging. Most just wanted to lie there and let me take over like it was an experience to add to their list of accomplishments. Get through one night with Mr. Murphy… check!

 

But as for me, I hate to be alone. I’ve been alone most of my life. My deadbeat dad ran out on my mom when she was only a teenager. He ran himself straight to prison on a twenty-year term for trying to stupidly rob some podunk casino rest stop out in the desert. My mom, on the other hand, ran herself into bars and didn’t stop running until it killed her when I was only ten years old. My grandma and grandpa raised me. They were good, salt of the earth people, but they weren’t exactly on their feet or really involved. They let me do what I wanted as long as they didn’t know what I wanted was.

 

Each night in my grandparent’s house, I slept alone on a cot in my mom’s old bedroom. No one tucked me in or even said goodnight. It wasn’t until I started sneaking in girls through a back window that I could sleep at night. They stroked my hair and undressed me. And I promised them a good night -- one they would never forget.

 

When my grandpa died, he left me his motorcycle. He never drove it. In fact, I didn’t even know it was in our garage until the lawyer in a suit pointed it out to me. (If I had known, I would have stolen it years earlier). But I rode that little Indian cream and black motorcycle up and down the streets and highways, through the Vegas strip, and out to the west coast until my ass hurt from the worn down leather seats.

 

It was in Cali where I met Tommy Willis. He had a motorcycle club up in LA called The Damned. Good group of guys -- they taught me everything I knew about running a gang, from how to make money dealing and transporting, to how to assign jobs and how the hierarchy of club life goes. When I was ready to go back to Vegas and help my grandma out at the family restaurant, Willis pulled me aside with his wrinkled hand on my shoulder and said, “You take five of my guys, and you make your own money, Liam.”

 

Steel Saints was born on the back of my grandparent’s Irish bar and grill, The Emerald Pub. I don’t know if my grandma realized what was going on or why I brought five guys back to work shifts in the kitchen during the day, but it worked. The restaurant boomed. Steel Saints started recruiting young guys like me. And we started making money with our connections with The Damned -- more money than I had ever seen in my entire life. I was hooked, and being president of Steel Saints only made me more and more motivated to keep it going.

 

Still, with all those guys around me constantly and the chicks piling up from the boxing, I still could never get over that desperate, hollow feeling of needing to never be alone. Maybe this girl Alana was a symptom of that. It has been a few days since I’ve gotten laid. Club politics has interrupted that mood and my nerves over robbing the mafia owner has put me on some kind of edge. Girls don’t particularly respond to that, even the masochistic ones.

 

I’m going to blame that mood and my desperation for some kind of human affection as to why I kissed this strange girl in the back of an ice cream truck I hijacked. It made sense in my mind -- even if it didn’t explain that, although she pulled away, I’m still holding her close to my chest, my fingers rubbing up and down the side of her love handles.

 

Her blue diamond eyes, staring almost humorously up at me, are a reminder that I actually have a job to do. There are guys back at The Emerald Pub waiting for me to get back. And my face has been everywhere now -- enough in that I have witnesses to prove that I’ve been at the Beat Box to not have done the robbery. I was in the clear. I could let go of her. I slowly remove my hands and arms from her and take a small step back so that my spine rests up against the ice-cold stainless steel freezer.

 

“I need you to drive,” I say firmly, remembering that I am Liam Murphy -- boxer, motorcycle club president, and ice cream truck kidnapper. I don’t have to ask her for anything. That gun tucked between my workout shorts and boxers could do all the asking for me if I wanted. “Let’s get going.”

 

I brush past her, pushing my shoulders up against her. She spins and looks at me, totally wordless. I seem to have that effect on most women I touch. But to my surprise, she crumples up the money in her hands and places it on the table and whispers the word that no other girl has ever said to me before, “No.”

 

“What?” I walk back towards her in complete shock. Either she’s dumber than she looks or she has something up her sleeve. Either way, I don’t like to be tested. What I say goes.

 

Her hands flex a bit until they ball up into small fists near the sides of her jeans. Her chest turns a rosy red, an obvious sign she was working herself up to something. She leans back as she says a bit louder, “No. I -- I don’t want to drive. If you’re going to use my truck for whatever plan you have in mind, you can drive.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a ring of four or five keys that glitter in the overhead light. “It’s a stick shift. Are you going to be okay with that, or do I need to teach you?”

 

Who the hell was this girl? I go from kissing her to wanting to ring her long, sleek neck. She really knows how to test my patience. “I know how to drive stick. Get in the passenger seat and don’t talk anymore.”

 

“Or else what?” she murmurs as she pushes past me this time, not caring if she runs into my shoulder.

 

I hate to admit it, but another smile creeps up over my face. Maybe it’s unchecked anger boiling over or maybe it’s because her fake bravery is cracking me up -- either way, she’s got some heat packing in that tight little body of hers. She sits down, buckles her seatbelt, and waits for me to join her in the driver’s seat.

 

For a good ten minutes of the drive, she manages to stay silent. From my few glances in her direction, I can tell she’s got something on her mind. At almost every stoplight she sighs heavily, and her fingers twist into knots on her lap. Finally, she bursts out, “Where are you taking me, Mr. Henry Murphy? And why do you insist on driving thirty miles over the speed limit? Are you trying to get us caught?”

 

“Us caught?” I shoot back, “You’re my prisoner, remember? I was the one who kidnapped you. But with all your fucking nagging, I’m pretty sure I’m ready to jump ship.”

 

“Thank God,” she spits out, quieter.

 

“Look,” I say defensively, “I know the streets. I know them better than any ice cream bitch could. And I especially know the cops and their routes. It’s seven o’clock, dinnertime. There are no coppers out on this road who aren’t more concerned with getting a hot sandwich than they are with pulling over ice cream trucks.”

 

“And you would know this how…?” I can tell she’s trying to pry out some information from me, but I’m just that much smarter than she is.

 

“I know this because I run the streets in this town. I know every cop, detective, bum, street vendor, and streetwalker. It’s my job to know this stuff, and it’s your job as an employee I’ve contracted out to just sit back and trust me.”

 

“Trust you? How can I trust you when I don’t even know your real name.” She sits up a bit in her chair, eager for my answer.

 

I look over at her and give her a long, dramatic wink. “You know part of my name. Murphy is real. The ‘mister’ part isn’t, but it’s a good boxing name.”

 

“So, you’re a fugitive boxer named Murphy?” Her face twists as she says that out loud.

 

“Yeah. I guess you could say that. But I would add that I’m a pretty damn good boxer. At least the agents think so.”

 

“Agents? So aren’t you afraid that you’ll get caught, put into jail, and lose out on boxing?” She actually sounds a bit concerned. This total stranger seems to care about something to do with me. That’s a bit of a change.

 

I think about what she’s said in silence for a brief moment. It’s not like I haven’t thought this through, but boxing is an expensive sport. If I want the best trainers, personal time in the gym, the right workout gear and equipment, I have to pay to play. Some guys do get big league, high-paying sponsorships, but that comes after an agent does that kind of ground work. It was a massive circle with money being in the center -- money which I didn’t have without Steel Saints and the jewels in the back of the truck unless I forced my grandma into retirement and sold the pub from underneath her. That wasn’t an option I would give myself.

 

I answer her a little less light-heartedly this time. “You gotta do what you got to do,” I say, doing my best not to snarl. “I didn’t grow up like you did with money around.”

 

“I didn’t grow up like that either. You think my dad made big money in this truck? You probably saw my business in the park, and I know you know how far I’ve been willing to go for a few extra hundreds. Money isn’t easy for me either. I’ve had to make hard choices too.”

 

“Like what?” I ask, unsure why I’m keeping this awkward, way too personal conversation alive.

 

“Like trying to decide if I should help out my dad by dropping out of school and running this thing full time. I was getting my master’s degree before...”

 

“Before what?” I ask, noticing the long pause between her words. Like me, she’s afraid of telling too much.

 

She faces the road before us, not daring to look back at me. Her bottom lip trembles a bit before she says quietly, “Before his accident. It was a car accident. No one knows what really happened -- just that he ended up crushed under a truck with a whole bunch of broken bones. They put him in an induced coma so he could recover, but they’re not sure when he’ll wake up.”

 

I pause, unsure how to respond to this. She seems absolutely heartbroken. I wouldn’t blame her either. My mom dying on me was one of the worst moments of my life. I remember visiting her in the hospital. Even though I hadn’t seen her in months, she looked so different than before when she was covered in wires and tubing. It was hard to let go of that memory.

 

Even though I relate to her, I still don’t know what to say. We sit in silence the rest of the way to The Emerald Pub. The only sound that passes is the old truck vibrating over the black pavement and the few items in the back rustling around.

 

When I park the truck in the back of the restaurant, I spot my boys almost immediately. No doubt they’ve been waiting for me for at least an hour. They look even more pissed off than I left them - when I said I was going to do the heist on my own. Part of me thinks they didn’t exactly trust that I would manage it. The other part of me thinks they didn’t trust I would come back with their cut of the diamonds.

 

Before getting out, I turn to Alana and say, “Just follow my lead, keep your head down, and look like you’re scared of me. You do right, and I let you go home tonight.” She doesn’t even register my warning. She’s too busy staring at the massive monster-like men walking quickly towards the truck.

 

Theo storms to her side, and flings open the door. His dark skin seems to glow eerily under the one streetlight. He barks towards me as he asks, “Who the fuck is this skinny little bitch? You picking up strays now, Murphy?”

 

I slip out of the truck and around the front, pulling him out of earshot of her. “She’s getaway baggage,” I say lightly. “Came with the jewels. I’ll figure out what to do with her later. Right now, unload.” I point towards the back of the truck where the other four men have begun to gather. “They’re in a fake bottom compartment of a yellow container full of chocolate insects. Do me a favor and don’t mess anything up. This girl did us a favor, and I don’t want to see that place trashed or her money gone.”

 

I unlock the back door and flip on the light. A few of the boys jump in and begin to search for the yellow container, carefully opening everything. As I watch, I feel someone tap lightly on my shoulder. I spin around to see the person I least hoped it would be. “What the hell are they doing to my truck? You didn’t tell me that they would be…”

 

“Don’t worry about it. They’re not going to do a thing to your truck,” I say as I lead her away, directing her towards the open door of the kitchen of the restaurant. She keeps her head directly aimed in the guys’ directions, monitoring their every move. Her feet and body seem to be in stone. “What did I say about having to trust me, here?”

 

If I was going to make Alana feel better about being an unwilling participant in a high-stakes jewel heist, I had to show her some courtesy. She had somehow managed to open up to me. Now it was my turn. I lead her through the kitchen, past a few of my guys working the lines, and back towards the office. I pull her in quickly, shutting and locking the door behind me as quietly as I can.

 

Without a free chair to sit in, she sits on the wooden desk, her feet dangling off the side. But as I push the passcode into the metal safe and remove the stack of hundreds, she jumps right back off. Her eyes glow wide as I hand her the stack -- probably a thousand bucks worth. “I told you there was more money.”