Not Looking for Love: Episode 6 (A New Adult Contemporary Romance Novel) by Lena Bourne Page A
Authors: Lena Bourne
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"Thanks," she says, blowing smoke into his face, making him cringe even worse. But she's looking at him with that look Gail sometimes got when she wasn't sure about me. It was the last look she ever gave me, and I'll never forget it.
"Let's go, Greg," one of the men calls, holding the door open.
It's all the urging he needs. He jogs up the stairs past me, and leaves her looking at his back. Like Gail must've done when I left.
"You too," the man at the door barks, and I do my best to snap out of the memory, but it's not easy.
"There." The guy points at a door then strides toward it, not waiting for me. It leads to a large room with a long wooden desk running down the center, lined with comfortable looking chairs. Mike's already there's, sitting with his back to the large grimy windows. There’s a TV screen on one wall, and a couple of greyish whiteboards. Maybe if the floor wasn't raw concrete and the room wasn't filled with a bunch of dangerous looking thugs, this could be just another meeting room.
Vlado walks in through a side door, the sleeves of his light grey suit rolled up, and the buttons of his jacket undone. The room falls silent, and my chair scraping against concrete sounds as loud as a scream. Mike flashes me a dirty look, but I ignore him.
Vlado pulls a manila folder from the stack at the end of the table and shakes it at us. "This will be a simple job, so I expect it to go smoothly."
A few of the guys mutter agreement. I assume those that don't say anything are the ones that fucked up the last job.
"The cars will be arriving to the showroom on Thursday night, then be transported for the show on early Saturday morning," Vlado goes on, handing a stack of papers to Mike who takes the first sheet and passes it along. I suppose any second now, Vlado will start drawing diagrams on the board. This is too weird.
"The heist will happen on Friday night."
I finally get my own paper. It's just a list of ten cars with an address and a small, grainy map with a route through the city outlined on it.
I don't like it one bit. The showroom is way uptown, and traffic will be horrendous. My heart starts racing when he announces the drop off is in Brooklyn. Even if we can get the cars out without triggering one of the thousand alarms they'll have set, it'll be a nightmare getting them all the way across town on a Friday night. Prison, here I come.
But all the others are just nodding along, like this will be as easy as a cake walk. One of the guys gets up and starts talking about the best possible route, his Jersey accent so strong I have trouble following along. He wants to take the FDR. The fuck? On a Friday night?
"No," I say, surprised to hear my voice. They all turn to me, Mike's eyes full of dark warning. But Vlado smiles, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest.
"You have a better suggestion?" he asks. The guy I interrupted is shooting me murderous glances now too.
"The 59 th Street Bridge and through Queens. That's how I'd do it," I elaborate.
Greg pulls a map from one of the folders and spreads it out across the table. "Show us."
I get up and walk over, my heart sinking deeper into my stomach with every step. I can't believe I'm doing this. I swore a million times I'd never steal another fucking car. It takes me awhile to get my bearings on the map. It looks old like it's been used a lot, and it's already covered by circles, crosses and lines from other jobs. I could do this easier on a computer but no one's turned it on yet. I guess Vlado likes things old school, and I'm pretty sure not all the guys in the room can actually read.
"We're waiting," the guy I interrupted snaps just as I finally see the path I'd take if I had to do this. Which I do.
I explain it to them, and some of them argue. But Queens will be empty if we're coming out of the city at that hour and none of them can really argue with that.
"Sounds like a good plan," Vlado finally says, eying me
"Thanks," she says, blowing smoke into his face, making him cringe even worse. But she's looking at him with that look Gail sometimes got when she wasn't sure about me. It was the last look she ever gave me, and I'll never forget it.
"Let's go, Greg," one of the men calls, holding the door open.
It's all the urging he needs. He jogs up the stairs past me, and leaves her looking at his back. Like Gail must've done when I left.
"You too," the man at the door barks, and I do my best to snap out of the memory, but it's not easy.
"There." The guy points at a door then strides toward it, not waiting for me. It leads to a large room with a long wooden desk running down the center, lined with comfortable looking chairs. Mike's already there's, sitting with his back to the large grimy windows. There’s a TV screen on one wall, and a couple of greyish whiteboards. Maybe if the floor wasn't raw concrete and the room wasn't filled with a bunch of dangerous looking thugs, this could be just another meeting room.
Vlado walks in through a side door, the sleeves of his light grey suit rolled up, and the buttons of his jacket undone. The room falls silent, and my chair scraping against concrete sounds as loud as a scream. Mike flashes me a dirty look, but I ignore him.
Vlado pulls a manila folder from the stack at the end of the table and shakes it at us. "This will be a simple job, so I expect it to go smoothly."
A few of the guys mutter agreement. I assume those that don't say anything are the ones that fucked up the last job.
"The cars will be arriving to the showroom on Thursday night, then be transported for the show on early Saturday morning," Vlado goes on, handing a stack of papers to Mike who takes the first sheet and passes it along. I suppose any second now, Vlado will start drawing diagrams on the board. This is too weird.
"The heist will happen on Friday night."
I finally get my own paper. It's just a list of ten cars with an address and a small, grainy map with a route through the city outlined on it.
I don't like it one bit. The showroom is way uptown, and traffic will be horrendous. My heart starts racing when he announces the drop off is in Brooklyn. Even if we can get the cars out without triggering one of the thousand alarms they'll have set, it'll be a nightmare getting them all the way across town on a Friday night. Prison, here I come.
But all the others are just nodding along, like this will be as easy as a cake walk. One of the guys gets up and starts talking about the best possible route, his Jersey accent so strong I have trouble following along. He wants to take the FDR. The fuck? On a Friday night?
"No," I say, surprised to hear my voice. They all turn to me, Mike's eyes full of dark warning. But Vlado smiles, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest.
"You have a better suggestion?" he asks. The guy I interrupted is shooting me murderous glances now too.
"The 59 th Street Bridge and through Queens. That's how I'd do it," I elaborate.
Greg pulls a map from one of the folders and spreads it out across the table. "Show us."
I get up and walk over, my heart sinking deeper into my stomach with every step. I can't believe I'm doing this. I swore a million times I'd never steal another fucking car. It takes me awhile to get my bearings on the map. It looks old like it's been used a lot, and it's already covered by circles, crosses and lines from other jobs. I could do this easier on a computer but no one's turned it on yet. I guess Vlado likes things old school, and I'm pretty sure not all the guys in the room can actually read.
"We're waiting," the guy I interrupted snaps just as I finally see the path I'd take if I had to do this. Which I do.
I explain it to them, and some of them argue. But Queens will be empty if we're coming out of the city at that hour and none of them can really argue with that.
"Sounds like a good plan," Vlado finally says, eying me
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