28

THE TEAM

I start at Jordan’s apartment.

“So, funny story,” I begin as soon as she opens the door. She looks understandably wary—brows lowered over dark eyes, her hand paused on the knob. “Remember that time I told you that under no circumstances should you guys break into the Conrad Museum?”

“Pen—”

“I might have changed my mind about that. Can I come in?”

It says a lot about the shift in our relationship that she hesitates, checking over her shoulder to run it by Oz before she allows me in. It also says a lot that I’m slow to follow her through the door, unsure of my own actions. Do I wait to be asked to sit? Take my usual place on the couch? Fall on my knees and beg for the help I need?

Jordan cuts my worries short. “You look terrible. Sit down, and I’ll get you something to eat. And a first aid kid. Is that blood on your arm?”

I glance down to find a rust-colored smear along the underside of my forearm.

“It’s not mine,” I say wearily. Now that I’m seated—and on Jordan’s magical couch, no less—the sleeplessness of the last two nights hits me like a ton of mattresses. “I was trying to hold Grant down.”

Oz appears with a washcloth to wipe the blood away, leaving Jordan to decipher my meaning.

“Um, is that a sex thing?” she asks.

“No, it’s a hospital thing. He was shot.”

My confession causes the expected reaction. Oz applies the washcloth with renewed fervor while Jordan peppers me with questions: What happened? Who did it? Is he okay? Are you?

It’s difficult to handle this much sensory overload at once, so I ignore the bulk of her questions and focus on the ones that matter most.

“He’s fine, Jordan. He’s going to live. And so will I.”

Putting it into words—I will live—gives me renewed strength. That belief, the idea that I can survive this period in my life the same way I’ve survived all the rest, is a luxury I haven’t allowed myself in a long time.

With a deep breath, I tell the rest of the story—or as much of it as I can recall at the moment. Grant, the Peep-Toe Prowler, Christopher, the bullet… I get most of the details out, barely noticing when a sandwich and cup of coffee appear at my elbow, though that doesn’t stop me from consuming both.

“So there it is,” I say when I’m through. “The whole sorry mess of it. I know I have no right to ask for your help after the way we left things, but I need to know what kind of plans you guys made for the Conrad Museum—and whether those plans are still in place.”

Jordan’s expression is softer than when I first arrived, but it hasn’t reached her usual friendly levels yet. “I’m confused. Does this mean you thought we were the Peep-Toe Prowler?”

“Of course not!”

In my desperation to secure their assistance, the lie pops out without my permission. I have to force myself to retract it and try again. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right. I take another breath.

“Actually, that’s not true,” I admit. “I did have you guys fingered as the culprits. The style fit, and you guys were getting along so well with Tara…”

I glance up, heart heavy, to find they’ve arrayed themselves side by side, mirrored frowns on their faces. I shouldn’t be surprised; with Jordan and Oz, you never hurt just one of them.

“You have to admit it makes sense,” I add defensively. “You guys had the blueprints to the museum this whole time, and you lied that it was a jewelry store. And when I came over the other day, you didn’t deny that you were going to try and break in to steal the Starbrite Necklace.”

“Yeah, steal the necklace,” Jordan says. “It’s everything we love in a take—but the rest of that stuff? Pen, we helped you break into the FBI to prove that you weren’t the Peep-Toe Prowler.”

I flush. “I know, but you also told me the blueprints are nothing more than Riker bait, and that’s obviously not the case.”

“They are Riker bait. Or they were, rather.” Jordan finally relaxes, dropping elegantly to the chair across from me. She looks as sorry as I feel, so I think we might be making headway. “I lied about them being a jewelry store because I didn’t want you to get suspicious.”

“Because I’d tell Grant.”

“Because there was a possibility, however remote, that you might accidentally let something slip to him. You’re not a good liar, Pen. You never have been. Especially where Grant is concerned.”

I sigh. It’s true. It’s what makes leaving him at the hospital the way I did so hard. He knows I meant every word I said.

“I wasn’t kidding about Riker not taking the bait, either,” Jordan continues. “He didn’t show any interest in the job at first, and we had every intention of letting it go. But then Tara showed up and…”

Oz gently takes the empty coffee cup from my hand. I guess heavy projectiles aren’t something he wants near me right now.

“And all of a sudden, the doors miraculously opened,” I say in a flat voice.

“She’s good at that sort of thing. I know you dislike her, but even you have to recognize that she has her uses.”

Oh, Tara’s good. I never denied that. I couldn’t hand-select a better replacement if I tried.

“I wish I’d known about your plans, that’s all,” I say. “I understand you guys still have to make a living, and I know I’m not the most ideal confidante anymore, but I hate being banished like this. I feel like I’m being punished for making the decision to stay with Grant.”

Jordan takes my hand and presses it. “This is a lot harder than we thought it would be, huh?”

I nod, unsure of my ability to speak. It’s so much harder—and for so many reasons I never thought about before.

“If it’s any consolation, we dropped the museum heist as soon as you warned us away,” she says. “We wouldn’t do anything that’s in direct conflict with Grant’s interests. I hope you know that. All you have to do is ask.”

I groan, thinking back to the real reason for my visit today—not a long-overdue chat about our circumstances, but the hole in Grant’s side. “Actually, that’s not a consolation at all. In fact, I was hoping you would help me break in.”

Oz returns the coffee cup to me. I’m not sure what he’s doing at first, but when he goes to the chest and pulls out the familiar crumpled blueprints, the message comes through loud and clear.

These two have my back. Always. I’m ashamed of myself for forgetting that, but when I took to doubting myself, I started doubting them, too.

“You guys are the best,” I say, trying hard to keep it together. “I’m sorry I got so upset. From now on, we’ll do better at finding a way for us—for all of us—to move forward together.”

Jordan nods her agreement. “That sounds great, but I wouldn’t get too excited yet. You still have to get Riker on board.”

* * *

I’m halfway hoping Riker won’t be home when I arrive, or that he’ll take one look at me standing in the hallway and slam the door in my face, but of course, neither of those things happen. In his role as the injured party, he takes the magnanimous route, which means he lets me in with a cool, “So you’ve decided to start talking to me again. How nice.”

Tara isn’t anywhere to be seen, which doesn’t mean much except that Jordan probably called ahead of time and warned Riker to clear the apartment before my arrival. But magnanimity goes both ways, so I don’t mention it.

“I brought you something.” I hold out a duffel bag, heavy and stiff with the telltale sign of hundred-dollar bills in banded stacks. “Here. Take it.”

He doesn’t. He remains standing immobile, his arms firmly crossed. “I told you I don’t want your stupid money.”

“I know, but I’m giving it to you anyway.” I set the bag on the ground next to him and leave it there, determined not to give it another thought. If he doesn’t want the cash, he can flush it down the toilet after I leave. “It’s your half. I should have given it to you months ago, but I wanted you to have to come to me for it.”

“Well, that was a shitty thing to do.”

“I know.” While Jordan’s anger made me hesitant and unsure, Riker’s is familiar ground, and I saunter comfortably into his living room. “But it was the only way I could be sure you’d still have a reason to talk to me.”

He stares. “I talk to you. I talk to you all the time.”

“Not like you used to.”

“Maybe you’ve become a bad conversationalist. Maybe I ran out of things to say.” When his provocation doesn’t work, the right-side scowl on his face deepens, and he gives up his motionless stance. His movements are jerky as he enters the room behind me, but there’s no menace in him.

Only anger. Only pain.

“Fine,” he says. “You want to talk? Go ahead. I won’t stop you.”

So I do.

“I hate Tara Lewis,” I say. “I hate what she did to me, I hate what she did to my father, and I hate what she’s doing to you.”

His head jerks back in surprise at my bluntness, his anger dissolving to sarcasm instead. “Gee, don’t hold back on my account.”

So I don’t.

“I wanted her to be the Peep-Toe Prowler so badly, I looked for any excuse I could find to cast her in the role,” I say, gaining momentum. “It’s not that I want her to go to prison or anything, but her guilt would have confirmed everything I know about her being unscrupulous and evil. And I needed that. I needed it so much. I swear, Riker, I hate her a little bit less every time I see her, and it scares the crap out of me.”

“She’s not the Prowler.”

Well, obviously. I realize that now.

“I know it’s not fair for me to blame her for everything bad that’s happened in my life, but you have to remember that she’s been the villain of my story for just about ever,” I say. “It’s not easy to flip a switch and turn that off.”

“Yeah, well.” He sniffs. “You’re always on my case about getting my shit together, and that’s exactly what I’m trying to do—changing my bad behaviors, flipping those switches off even when it’s hard. Maybe it’s time you start doing the same.”

Ah, yes. Here he is. The new, responsible Riker. The Riker who doesn’t need gambling money and can stand on his own two feet. My instinct is to remind him how easy it’s always been for him to slip back into his self-destructive patterns, but I recall the photo Tara gave me of my mother, remember our conversation that day at the house, and I soften.

All he has is a void where you used to be. Don’t punish him for not knowing how to fill it.

“Do you really like her?” I ask, watching carefully to see his reaction. “Like…in a gross way?”

All he gives me is a one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t know yet. Maybe. Would it be so bad if I did?”

Yes, it would. I can’t picture the two of them locking lips without wanting to throw myself over a bridge. But if Tara is going to—ew—fill his void, then it’s not my place to interfere. Our friendship has shifted. Our lives have shifted. Instead of fighting it, the best thing I can do is try to shift with them.

“I guess not,” I concede. “You’re both consenting adults.”

He glances up through that wayward lock of hair in his eyes. “Seriously?”

Now it’s my turn for the lopsided shrug. “I’m not overjoyed at the prospect, but I guess that’s how you felt about me and Grant.”

“Tell me about it. I fucking hate that guy.”

I laugh—I can’t help it. Riker can stand there on the opposite side of the room, staring me down with equal proportions of antagonism and irritation, and still make me laugh.

My laugh turns into a hiccup. “Then you’ll be happy to know he’s currently tied to a hospital bed with an enormous hole in his side.”

“What?” He drops his pose and reaches for me, but the move is an abortive one, his uncertainty getting the better of his reflexes. “Pen, what?”

There’s nothing for it after that but to tell him the whole story, which I do more neatly and succinctly than I did at Jordan’s. The story loses some of its pain in the retelling, but I suspect that might have more to do with me pushing my feelings down as far as they’ll go. It’s the only thing I can do—I can’t handle them right now. Not if I want to see this thing through.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Riker sums up the situation quite nicely. He also finishes crossing the room so that we’re side by side once again. No more distance, no more walls. “Are you okay? That’s some serious damage.”

“Serious is right. And you can imagine how happy he feels about being incapacitated while I head out and save the day for him.”

The first real smile I’ve seen in a while spreads across Riker’s face. “Yeah. I’ll have to go visit him later and rub it in.”

A feeling of hope floods through me at the sight of that evil grin. God, I forgot what this felt like. To be part of a team. To know I’m not alone.

“Does that mean you’ll help? You’ll sign on for one last heist with me?”

“You know you don’t have to ask,” he says roughly and pulls me in for a brief and angular hug. “If I know you, Pen—and I think I do—this isn’t our last heist. Not by a long shot.”