I couldn’t get Asher out of jail the night he was arrested. I tried everything in my power, but they wouldn’t release him. I had my attorney work on his case, and even he—someone I pay almost a million dollars in salary a year, working for days—couldn’t get him out of jail. They claim they have evidence that the truck is the same truck that was reported stolen last week. That with Asher’s prior history they won’t release him.
It’s been a week since his birthday. Since the night he was arrested.
I have spent the week staying at his place. Alone. I slept in his bed. I ate—no, mostly drank beer out of his fridge. I used his outdoor shower and toilet and actually started to enjoy it. I love every part of his shack. I love how simple he lives. And I love his place because it completely reminds me of him.
It took me a while to realize why the police weren’t going to just let Asher go. Even if it was truly a mix-up. Even with proof that I was the one who bought the truck for him. That it wasn’t stolen. His rap sheet is a million miles long. He has stolen countless cars, jewelry, money. Anything of value, and he stole it. He was in and out of jail most of his adolescence. He was once even charged with an armed robbery that would have put him away for twenty years. It was a miracle he wasn’t already in jail.
Although maybe it would have been better if he were in jail. A lot less people would have been hurt if he were in jail this whole time.
I sit in my car outside the jail, waiting for Asher to come out, so I can take him home. It’s a strange feeling. I know he didn’t steal the truck, but he easily could have. It’s been over a year since he was in jail for theft. But he could easily still be stealing and just not getting caught.
Or he could have changed.
I shake my head. He hasn’t changed. He stole me. It’s no different than stealing a car. Nothing’s changed. He’s a villain. A monster. I knew that. I just thought that maybe I could be the one to change him. That I could make him different. Better.
My fingers drum against the steering wheel as I wait. My heart beats fast, and my hands are sweaty. I’m nervous, waiting for Asher to come out. Because I’m afraid that one week has somehow changed everything. No, I know it has. I already think of him differently. Just knowing that he has gone to jail for such horrible things makes me feel differently. It reminds me of who he really is instead of the man who knows how to turn me on. How to fuck me and nothing more.
I see the door open and watch Asher walk out. He stops a second when he sees me, seemingly just as surprised to see me sitting in my car as I am at the sight of him. Because, looking at him now, I know that one week can completely change your whole world. One week can change everything.
Asher looks completely different than the man I knew who walked into the building. For one, the clothing he walked into the building with is gone. For some reason, he’s wearing shorts and an old-looking sweatshirt that is far too big on him. He starts walking again, and the hood falls down. I gasp in complete shock. His long locks are gone, exchanged for a much shorter cut. His beard has grown out longer than it ever was before. And his eye looks bruised with a cut above it.
He’s gone from a relaxed, beach-loving surfer to a hardened criminal overnight. I don’t know what happened in there, but gone is the goofy, arrogant smile, and in its place is a menacing grimace. He looks even colder than when the police arrested him.
I’m not sure if he’s going to walk to my car or not. He seems mad. I just don’t know if he’s mad at me, if he thinks I somehow set this all up, or if he is mad at the police and having to spend a week showering in front of other men and feeling afraid for his life at every second.
So, while he is walking down the sidewalk, I take the time to admire his body. I bite my lip as I take in his darker look. A look that I am just as desperate for as his surfer look.
He walks to my passenger door and opens it. He sits down without a word to me. We look at each other, just like we did when he fucked me in the truck, just like we did when he was in the back of the police cruiser. Both of us have so much to say, but neither of us is able to say anything.
I take a deep breath and say, “You hungry?”
He narrows his eyes and nods.
I smile weakly. “I know this great little place that does great American style food just up the road, or I can take you to get something else if you prefer.”
He shrugs like he doesn’t care.
I pull out of my parking spot and start driving toward the little diner in silence.
When we get to the diner, I stop and look at Asher. “This place makes great milkshakes. I figured we could both use one.”
Asher chuckles. “A milkshake would actually be perfect.”
I let out the breath I was holding since he stepped foot in my car. I smile. “Good.”
We get out of the car, and our fingers brush against each other before Asher finally grabs hold of my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. I let out another deep exhale, but I still feel anxious.
We take a seat in one of the booths on the far side of the diner where no one else is sitting. We each order milkshakes and burgers.
“I’m sorry,” we say at the same time.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” we say.
Asher relents and lets me speak.
“I’m sorry that you ended up in jail. I didn’t realize the police would mistake the truck as a stolen one. I’m sorry your birthday sucked and that I couldn’t get you out earlier.”
Asher shakes his head. “I’m the one who should apologize. I should have told you the real reason I never have anything nice. Why I haven’t replaced my old truck in years even though it’s broken down. Why I live in a shack on the beach when I have millions sitting in the bank.”
He takes a deep breath as he grimaces and then looks me in the eyes. “It’s because I’m a thief. I used to steal cars; now, I steal women’s hearts. But the police will always believe that anything nice I own is stolen. You need to know my whole story. It starts ten years ago…
* * *
Ten Years Earlier—Asher
I’m not supposed to steal. I know that. I thought I had put the stealing all behind me.
But why is the temptation so great right now?
Maybe because I have had a shitty day. Although that doesn’t make what I’m thinking about doing right. But I’m tempted all the same.
I’ve already done the hard part of sneaking into the garage without getting caught. I watched in my car as the family pulled out of their driveway. Gone for a weeklong vacation. It’s not really a challenge. The family leaves the back door that leads into the garage unlocked so that the various people they’ve hired to take care of the pool and garden have access to their tools. And there isn’t anything of value to steal in the garage anyway. They have a second garage for their fancy cars. But the garage is attached to the house.
I doubt they leave the door leading into the house open, but I try it anyway. It’s locked, like I suspected. But I know where the spare key is. My friend, Sawyer, had to use the spare key to get into the house when he lost his while he was dog-sitting here last month.
I pull up the floor mat and find the key. I put the key in the door and turn it until it unlocks the door. I push the door open, holding my breath, hoping that they haven’t installed an alarm system since I was here with Sawyer. No alarm sounds, so I make my way inside until I’m standing in the family’s expansive living room that is two stories high. I can’t help but look up at the huge ceiling and large windows that sit uncovered, revealing me to the outside world.
No one can see me, I have to remind myself.
It’s dark outside, and I haven’t turned any lights on. Man, I’m rusty at this.
I think about stealing one of their fancy cars. That is my favorite thing to steal. I love the thrill of driving out with a fast car that isn’t mine. The only problem with stealing a car is getting rid of it before you get caught. I’ve done it several times in the past, but I’ve also gotten caught. And I don’t plan on going back to jail anytime soon.
I find the stairs in the dark and begin creeping up them. I know enough from my past that, even if I think everyone has gone, it is better to be quiet. You never know if someone has decided to stay behind in the house even if you think they are all gone.
When I make it to the top of the stairs, I’m greeted by a small, fluffy dog that begins jumping at my feet. They left the dog, which means someone is going to be over at some point to let it out. It probably won’t be till later since they just left, but to be sure, I have to move quickly.
I walk down the hallway until I find the master bedroom. The door is shut, and even though I’m confident that no one is behind it, I slowly and cautiously open the door.
The little dog decides to join me, still jumping at my feet whenever I walk. I hate dogs for this reason. They are horrible at protecting the home they are supposed to be guarding, no matter the size or breed. And they often just drive me nuts while I’m trying to do my job.
When I’m inside the bedroom, I quickly scan the room, trying to decide what to steal. I know the family is rich and most likely has a safe of some sort somewhere around here along with countless pieces of jewelry. I head toward the closet at the back of the room and find the safe. I’m tempted to break into the safe. The best items are in the safe. But the safe is the worst place to steal from. They know exactly what they have in the safe. The items they are less worried about, they keep in the bathroom or bedroom, and those are easier to steal without them noticing.
That’s my target. Items that they won’t even notice missing. So, as much as the safe calls my name, as much as I want to crack it because I can, I won’t.
I turn my attention toward the bathroom and find the jewelry box sitting on top of the counter. I’m wearing gloves, so I don’t have to worry about leaving my fingerprints behind. I open the box and slowly move the jewelry around, trying to find something valuable that doesn’t look like it has been worn in a while. When I get to the back of the box, I find two necklaces in the same container.
I grin. This is exactly what I want. If I take one of the necklaces, it won’t even look like anything is missing. I take the diamond necklace out and stare at it. It’s not the most expensive thing in this house or even in the jewelry box. But the necklace is easily worth twenty thousand to thirty thousand dollars. It’s enough to satisfy my urge to steal.
I place the necklace into my pocket. Then, I close the jewelry box and put everything back in its place. I start looking to see if there are other items in the bathroom or bedroom that are worth stealing when I hear the distant sound of sirens.
Shit. I glance around the room more thoroughly and see motion detectors in the corner of the room.
Shit. Shit. Shit. I must have triggered a silent alarm when I entered the house.
I start running down the stairs in the dark. The yipping dog is still jumping at my feet. I run fast enough that the dog can no longer keep up.
I make my way to the back door and open it. I move into the garage. The police sirens grow closer with every second that passes. I have to make a run for it. My car is parked a street back, so I begin running through the backyard to take the most direct route even though it’s risky. The fence at the back is high and hard to climb, and any number of neighbors could see me and report me.
I run as fast as I can as I turn and look over my shoulder. I see the police cars arriving at the house. I dart behind a large tree as flashlights shine into the backyard. I take several deep breaths while I wait for my chance to jump the fence and disappear into the darkness.
If I admit it to myself, I love the excitement of the police being here. I love how my heart is racing. I love the thrill of getting caught. I just don’t like actually getting caught.
The lights turn away from me and move toward the other half of the yard. I take one more deep breath before I run toward the fence that is ten feet or so in front of me. There is no turning back now. No place to hide. I have to make it over the fence that towers over me as quickly as possible before they decide to shine their flashlights back in my direction.
I reach the fence as beads of sweat pour off my neck. I run, jump, and grab hold of the large tree branch that is hanging over the fence from the neighbor’s yard. I begin using my arms and legs to climb over the wooden fence.
I finally reach the top and throw my legs over before jumping down. I’m not safe just because I’m on the other side. In fact, I will never be safe again. I will always be on the run. Always on alert that I could be caught.
I begin running through the neighbor’s yard. I trip and almost fall over a tree branch that I didn’t see in the dark, but I keep running. I run until I reach the neighbor’s gate. I carefully open it, hopeful that it doesn’t squeak or make a sound, and then I make it through. I quickly shut it, and then I’m in the clear. It’s a straight shot to my car.
I don’t run now that I’m in clear view of the neighbors. Instead, I walk as calmly as I can toward my car. I quickly start it up and then drive at a normal speed, away from the area.
I stole again. I’m a thief. I don’t even care about the money or things that I steal. I live for the rush I just experienced. I just don’t know how to get this feeling without stealing. If I could find a way, I would never look back at this lifestyle again.
* * *
Five Years Earlier—Asher
My heart is racing. It always does on a night like this. The sun is just beginning to set. Before it rises again in the morning, I’m going to have a sweet-ass new car, and I’ll be halfway to Mexico where I will sell it and then do it all over again.
I put my headphones on and then flip the hood of my sweatshirt up while I sit on the bench outside the dealership, waiting for the rest of the straggling employees to leave. The music is loud and steady. I try to use it to steady my heart, but I know that nothing is going to be able to do that. Not until I have the car in my possession, and I’m long gone.
So I sit and wait, hiding my face beneath the shadows of the hood. If employees drive by the bench, they will just think I’m waiting for the bus. They won’t remember me. They never do. The few times I was caught were because I had been speeding after I stole the car or had friends who ratted me out. Neither is a mistake that I will repeat again.
I watch the last employee leave for the night, which leaves me exactly one hour until the janitor comes to clean. It’s not quite dark, but it’s dark enough to not draw too much attention to myself. I wait two more songs to ensure that no one is coming back because they forgot something inside, and then I get up, avoiding eye contact with the woman who just sat down on the bench next to me.
I walk slowly and carefully with my head down, making sure to avoid my face being caught on the security cameras that circle the outside of the dealership. I reach the door and then put on gloves before pulling out a lock pick. I enter the code I already gathered into the alarm system to prevent the alarm from going off and use the pick to unlock the door.
The door lock is loose and is easy to pick. It practically pops open on its own. I push the door, careful to keep my head down. Even though the alarm system is down, the cameras are still fully operational. So, I have to ensure that my head remains down to keep them from learning my identity. To stay out of jail.
I walk straight to the Lamborghini that is sitting in the middle of the showroom. The keys are, of course, not in it. I could spend minutes that I don’t have searching for the keys, or I could hot-wire it. I go for option two.
I hot-wire the car, and then I get ready for the part that really gets my heart racing. The part that I live for. I stomp on the gas, going full speed ahead. I slam through the glass and drive as fast as I can away from the dealership.
I stole the car even though I don’t need the money. Even though I don’t need the car. Just because I want the freedom to feel how I do right now. I just want to live.
* * *
Present—Sloane
Asher finishes his story. “That’s why I’m dressed the way I am. That’s why I cut my hair off. I’m never going to be just a surfer. I’m always going to be part thief, no matter that I don’t actually steal cars anymore. That is what the police think of me. I’m a thief.
“You knew that I was trying to steal you from Wes. But you don’t treat me like I’m the monster that I am. You act like I’m just a normal person. You need to know that this is who I am. I’m a thief. This is me.”
I nod, trying to take in what he said. “I know you are a thief. I’ve always known. Now, I just know how much of a thief you really are. But it doesn’t matter. We aren’t really married. Not in the way that counts. I’ve kept the story out of the news. I’ve just been telling everyone you were sick with the flu this week. No one knows where you really were.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t understand why it matters that you understand me. That you understand that I steal because I have to. I need that rush. I need that adrenaline boost that nothing else gives me. I need to feel alive. I need to fill a void that has never properly been filled. And stealing often does that for me.”
He lifts my chin up to make sure I’m looking at him. “But I need you to know that I need you more.” He hesitates a second and then says the thing that both of us have been avoiding for days, “I love you, Sloane.”