Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Taylor

The news is already speculating on the reason someone would steal artwork so expensive. Really, it doesn’t take a fucking rocket scientist. Money, why else?

The truth, however, is much simpler. Ford’s father owned the artwork, and he is a piece-of-shit bastard, so we stole it. It’s his father’s most prized possession, since his mistress gave it to him as a gift. I should mention the mistress in question is Ford’s ex-wife, and the painting was purchased with Ford’s money.

Zeph and I met in prison, and to no one’s surprise, we became best friends.

A year ago, we tried to rob Ford, and though we managed to break into his building, he came home and found us inside. Rather than being scared, he asked how we got through his state-of-the-art security, so both Zeph and I laughed and showed him the flaws in exchange for no cops. He was so impressed, he offered us full-time jobs on the spot. Legal ones with benefits.

I wouldn’t say we purposely go around stealing shit, but the artwork technically belongs to Ford. Though since I’m sure he will be the first person they look into, we all booked a nice, convenient holiday—except this fucking storm has us trapped in this town. I have no fucking clue where we are, but we should have already reached our cozy little cabin and be relaxing with the women Zeph organized to meet us there.

Unfortunately, shit went south at the bar.

Zeph got himself into a brawl with a guy as big as a fucking bear... for fun.

Who wants to be punched in the face for fun? Someone with a back catalog of trauma. But doesn’t everyone have that? Well, at least everyone I have met does.

I landed myself a stint inside for boosting cars. People look down on me for it, but when you run with the wrong crowd, you don’t always have a choice. I also had to eat, and a stolen car here or there helped.

Ford pulls the car over so Zeph can puke. I swear the guy drunk so much he is ninety percent flammable right now. He just falls out of the car and pushes himself up to his feet with a chuckle.

“Fuck,” Ford says. “We need to find somewhere to hide out. We can’t keep driving in this weather.”

Zeph grumbles, and I look around. This neighborhood looks deserted, no cars line the streets, and the houses are dark with no lights on.

“Let’s break into one of these places for the night,” I suggest.

Ford nods and kills the engine, and we both get out and join Zeph where he sways on his feet. “That one will do,” Ford says, nodding toward the apartment in front of us. Not that it’s a regular apartment—no, the thing is massive.

After stealing the painting in fucking Santa suits, we kept them with us and were planning on burning them when we reached our destination. It’s so fucking cold, I pop the trunk and pull them out of the car, then put mine back on. Ford raises a brow at me.

“It’s fucking cold and Zeph forgot to pack our suitcases.”

In hindsight, we shouldn’t have agreed to let him pack, but he assured us they were in the fucking car.

Ford motions for me to pass him his Santa suit, and once we are dressed, we help a very drunk Zeph into his.

Then Zeph pulls out the stupid glow masks he acquired for the heist. When Ford gave him the responsibility of obtaining them, we figured he’d get something we could pull over our faces, but no, the idiot found glow masks. We were already near our heist location when we found out, so it was too late to buy more.

Zeph grabs his mask and pulls it on, then somehow manages to flick the switch and light it up. He even pulls out his fucking Santa hat. Again, the suits were Zeph’s idea. He thought it was hilarious, knowing when they eventually reviewed the security footage, they would see three fucking Santa Clauses robbing the house and hopefully chalk it up to seasonal thieves. Meanwhile, Ford and I just slide on our balaclavas, you know, so we don’t draw any attention—well, no more than necessary, considering we have to scale the fence. It is no easy task with a drunk Zeph. He runs and jumps, grabbing onto the fence and flipping over to the other side, then groans as he hits the snow-covered ground.

Ford and I gracefully climb the metal fence, dropping quietly to our feet on the other side where we pick up Zeph.

When we are on the doorstep, he shrugs us off. “I can smash a window,” Zeph slurs.

“Hold on, let’s try the handle and check under the doormat for a key. Rich people are a little careless.”

Zeph huffs at me as I twist the handle, and the door opens. The sight before us is a little underwhelming. It’s obviously mid renovation with plastic sheets hanging from the ceiling, but at least it’s somewhere we can hide and ride out the storm. A floorboard creaks underfoot as I close the door.

“Let’s go upstairs. Maybe we can find a bed so Zeph can sleep this off. Tomorrow we can head toward the cabin,” Ford says.

Our alibi is up in smoke now that we didn’t make it to the fucking cabin. Everything we planned so perfectly is ruined.

We take the stairs up, with me leading the way and Ford going last. Thankfully, he did, because Zeph fucking stumbles backward at one point, and Ford has to steady him the rest of the way. Once we get him to the top of the stairs, I glance around and am relieved to see the top floor looks more like a place we can stay. Ford and I convince Zeph to lie down, and as soon as we find an empty room, he falls face-first onto the bed.

However, Ford and I are frozen when the sound of music suddenly pierces through the air at a deafening level.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Someone’s home.”

“I’ll go check it out. You keep the idiot in here.”

Ford nods, and I creep out of the room and continue down the hall. I find a tiny woman singing into a crystal decanter in a spacious lounge area, and I watch as her blue hair whips around her face. If I’m not mistaken, her cheeks are wet with tears. I wonder at her trauma. Mine is a deadbeat father who beat me more often than not, especially after a night on the booze. It’s the reason I don’t drink. I won’t become the man I hate.

“ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMASSSSS IS NOT YOUUUUU,” she screams, sounding like a dying cat, dropping to the floor and turning down her music. “Stupid fire! I’m going to freeze to death before anyone finds my body. Wouldn’t Blake like that? The stupid cheating bastard!”

She must get the feeling she is being watched because she suddenly whips her head toward me, and thankfully, I’m still wearing my balaclava. The woman simply stares at me; she doesn’t scream or try to run. Then, after a few seconds, she laughs.

“Great! Just fucking great. Now I’m going to die here like a big loser by a wannabe Santa in a face mask.”

“I don’t want to kill you,” I say, and she scoffs at me.

“Okay, Mister Robber Santa Man, what do you want then? It can’t be me—I’m a mess and I’m totally not worth going to prison for.”

I can’t suppress my chuckle. “Been there, done that. I do, however, need to tie you up until I figure out what to do with you.”

She pushes herself to her feet, and I again wait for her to run or scream. Instead, she looks around the room and shrugs. “I hope you brought rope then.”

I smirk when I notice a set of Christmas lights beside the half-erected Christmas tree. Since she hasn’t moved, I slowly walk toward them. Big mistake. She makes the smallest sound, and as I turn around, the decanter is flying toward my head. I duck, keeping her in my sights as her small frame darts from the room.

“We have a fucking problem!” I yell, then move to follow her. Ford appears in the bedroom doorway, swearing under his breath.

We both give chase, taking the stairs two at a time. There is no way we won’t find her; we can’t have any witnesses. I’m not going back to prison, but I also don’t want to kill a woman either.

We are fucked—so fucking fucked.

“You take this level, and I will head to the basement. We need to find her.”

“Ho, ho, fucking ho,” Zeph barks, his mask illuminating the space erratically as he staggers down the stairs after us—at least he uses the handrail this time to keep from face planting. A small squeak has him turning his head. “Oh look, who got me an early Christmas gift?”

He reaches our level and saunters over to the woman, who is huddled beneath the stairs, and wraps his hand in her hair.

“Let me go,” she snaps, standing to her full height. Once he has dragged her out, you can see she is tiny, and he towers over her.

Zeph chuckles. “No can do.”

“Be a good girl and come back upstairs. We will make you a deal. Once the storm passes, we’ll clear out of here. We don’t want any problems,” Ford says.

She huffs, and it’s the most adorable thing I have ever fucking seen. She slaps at Zeph’s hand, which is still twisted in her hair.

“Let’s make this quick. Am I allowed to piss first? It’s not like I can jump out the window or anything. Dying might seem like a good idea right now, but I wouldn’t give the smug bastard the time of day—my ex, that is, asshole.”

The slight slur to her words makes it obvious she is as drunk as Zeph. Ford storms toward them, and Zeph lets go of her hair as Ford picks her up like a rag doll, throwing her over his shoulder. She chuckles, clearly too drunk to realize the danger she is in right now. We could be murderers or the type of men who would take advantage of a woman.

She mumbles something about Ana and organizing masked men to chase her around the house, claiming she is the “bestest best friend ever.”

When we are back upstairs and have allowed her a bathroom pit stop, I get the string of lights, and Ford raises a brow. “We have no rope and she is a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet at best. This will hold her until we figure out what the fuck we are going to do. Hopefully, the storm passes overnight, and we can leave tomorrow.”

Ford flops her onto the couch and I realize she has passed out cold. I wrap the lights around her ankles and wind them up her body, with Ford helping to move her so I can get her secure.

“Can we plug her in?” Zeph says with a smirk.

“No,” Ford and I blurt out at the same time.

“Let’s all get some fucking sleep,” Ford grumbles. “We can take turns monitoring her. I can’t fucking get caught for this shit. I won’t give my father the satisfaction.”

I’ve met his father and can confirm he would get way too much enjoyment if Ford got arrested for this crime. Ford is thirty-eight years old, and his old man still treats him like shit. Despite the fact the guy has single-handedly turned their family business around to earn four times the profit his father ever did.

“I’ll take the first shift,” Ford says, and both Zeph and I smirk. “Keep your cocks in your pants. You can fuck each other’s brains out when this is all over. Do I need to remind you we all have a lot to lose?”

He’s right. The painting is worth a fuckton of money, and even if we sell it for half its value, we will be rich for the rest of our lives. That’s something worth keeping my cock in my pants for.