We drive through the gates with no problem, and I leave the engine running as I park about a hundred yards from Mrs. Hathaway’s house. I learned her schedule during my time as her help and I know that today, she and Stan are playing tennis at the Simpsons’. It’s unfortunate that I have to do it on a sunny Sunday, the streets are relatively busy (though less so in the sleepy neighborhoods of Blackhawk) and it’s going to be a bitch to get away if things go south. I motion for Pea to sit her ass behind the wheel.

“We’ll need to move fast. Do you drive like a chick?” I throw a jab at her, curious to see if she’s still got those killer instincts.

“Nope, but you sure f*ck like one,” she bites. I turn in her direction and grab my junk, already making my way across the road to Mrs. Hathaway’s mansion.

“You’re addicted to this.” I slap my mask over my face, even though it’s futile. If Mrs. H is home, she’ll recognize me from miles away. She’s spent the last few months memorizing every ridge of my muscles and every drop of ink in my tattoos. I’m not bothered by it. She’ll know that it’s me, but if my plan goes accordingly, by tomorrow we’ll be gone.

“You caught me.” She hugs the steering wheel, a devious smirk on her beautiful pinks. That’s my girl. Seb called her Diabla, like it’s a bad thing. She is a little devil, but I like her brand of evil.

“I’m riding that dick tonight if you come back with some money,” she mouths.

“You’re riding it even if I end up in jail. You know you’d try to sneak in for me.”

With that, I turn my back to her and stride ahead to Mrs. Hathaway’s house like I own the place. The Hathaways have a high, wrought-iron gate with golden spikes along the top, but I climb through it easily. I saunter right into the house, the front door might be locked but they always leave their balcony doors wide open. Mrs. Hathaway likes it when the landing is airy. My strides are confident and long as I walk past the little fountains and statues scattered across her massive marble floors, climb up the spiral stairway, straight to her bedroom and into the walk-in closet. Here, right here, was the first time she tried to seduce me. I was three days into my new job, scared shitless of the outside world and even more worried about the possibility of pissing off my new boss. I’ve learned that the female population is divided into two sections: the women who are weary of felons like me, who believe I’d rape them if I got the chance, and the women who get hot on my stained past. The last thing I wanted was to be in a room alone with her only to find out she falls into the first category.

I stand in the middle of her giant walk-in closet, taking in the cherry wood of the walls and the rows and rows of shoes, suits and dresses. Taking three steps forward, I swing a painting of a woman lifting her hair into a bun and the big iron safe stares right back at me.

Hello, you.

Three strikes, that’s all I have. I remember Mrs. Hathaway telling me this as she leaned into the safe, pulling out a whip and some leather cuffs and dangling them in her hands.

“This is where I keep my toys.” She smiled seductively, but my eyes travelled to the huge stacks of cash piled behind her in the safe, just like in the movies. Why did they have so much cash? Fuck knows, and I certainly wasn’t stupid enough to ask. But she saw the awe on my face. Her gaze trekked to the loaded safe, and when it landed back on me, a sly smile accompanied her words.

“But beware, Mr. Vela. If you’re going to try and steal something, make sure you get the password right. After three times, both Stan and I get an automatic phone-call and the local neighborhood officer gets paged. That’s how we know someone who is not supposed to have access to the safe is up to no good. Are you up to no good?”

Three strikes. There’s a four-digit combination, and I just know these two old idiots picked something obvious like a wedding date or a birthday or some shit.

My gloved finger drags through button number four, because I remember Mrs. Hathaway’s birthday is in April, when I hear the front door shutting downstairs.

Well, f*ck.

I strain to listen and hear a set of feet, but it’s tennis shoes, so I don’t know if they belong to a man or a woman.

If it’s Stan, I can take him down without even blinking.

But if it’s Mrs. Hathaway. . .

I hear a feminine voice humming along with the whoosh, whoosh of her stupid pool, and know for a fact that it’s her. She’s f*cking around downstairs doing hell knows what, but she’ll be up here soon. An idea so sick, twisted and perfect rises in my head, and I do the craziest shit I’ve ever come up with. Taking my clothes off, down to everything but my briefs, I jump into her bed and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

After ten minutes, she walks in and lets out a scream, followed by a giggle, followed by slapping her cheeks like an idiot. Giddiness dancing all over her uncontrolled facial muscles. She’s now eyeing my dick like it’s some sort of a holy grail.

“Oh my gosh! Nate! Where the hell have you been?”

My head is propped on one hand, and I give her what I hope to shit is a sultry look, because I’m not a good faker. But I do know how to get women wet. Even years in prison couldn’t take that away from me.

“Get naked and come here,” I order sharply.

She swivels her head to the open door and turns back to me, her cheeks flushed. Maybe it’s because she played tennis for hours this morning, but more than likely, it’s because she sees me willingly shirtless, lying on her bed.