THIEF: Part 3

  THIEF

  Part Three

  KIMBERLY MALONE

  Copyright © 2015

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter One

  “Oh, I just love weddings!Don’t you, Erin?Aren’t you excited?”

  I reign in my cringe-reflex as Aunt Jane passes me another clipping of a flowing white gown.The woman in the photo has her hair teased around a gilded crown of daisies, staring wistfully out floor-to-ceiling French doors.She doesn’t look like a bride.She looks like a bored model.

  “You bet,” I manage, but she barely hears me, already digging another bridal magazine from the enormous stack she brought to my home after brunch.

  “What do you think of rose gold and cerulean?” she asks.

  “For what?”

  Aunt Jane laughs at my stupidity, head thrown back.I can practically see her tonsils.“For what,” she repeats.“For the colors, silly girl.Every wedding needs signature colors.”

  I glance half-heartedly at the swatches she slides my way, then sigh.“Look, Aunt Jane…weddings just really aren’t my thing.”This is an understatement of ridiculous proportions—in elementary school, when classmates would play Wedding at sleepovers, I was the girl sitting awkwardly in the corner, watching their display like Dr. Goodall studying the chimps.Marriage in general isn’t something I’ve thought about much, let alone actual weddings.

  For Aunt Jane, however, weddings are worth living for.Glamour, pomp, and parties are her thing, after all.And with Mom six feet under, Jane and I are left to do this alone.The least I can do is sit here and pretend partial interest.

  “You’ve got a good eye for design and style,” Jane tells me.“Give yourself more credit.I think you know more about this stuff than you think.”She holds up a clipping of a towering cake, as detailed as the Sistine Chapel.“Yea?Nay?”

  “A big fat nay.’”

  “Honestly, Erin Caitlin,” Jane scolds, but there’s a smile at the corners of her mouth.“You know, you’ll have to do this eventually.”She holds up her left hand.The ring glitters like it’s in blazing sunlight, even though it’s been raining all morning.“Someday—probably a hell of a lot sooner than your old aunt here—you’ll find a guy who treats you like Killian treats me.”

  I think of fat-faced Killian Rogerson, my aunt’s whirlwind romance.He’s ten years her senior at sixty-five, with pockets as deep as his pores, and for some reason Aunt Jane’s crazy about him.Even if she didn’t have her own nest egg built up, it’d be easy to see it’s not about the money.

  “Wouldn’t hold your breath on that one, Aunt Jane,” I smirk.I pray she can’t hear how sad my joke actually sounds, but no such luck: she sets down her scissors and magazines, reaching for my arm.I don’t think she means to, but she uses her left hand, and I have to fight not to stare at her ring.

  “I’m sorry about that Silas boy,” she says seriously.“I know you really cared about him.”

  “Yeah…well.”I pull away, pick up a magazine, and pretend to read an article on choosing caterers.“Not like there’s anything I can do.He’s gone now.That’s that.”

  “Erin,” Jane says.She waits until I look at her.“You’re clearly miserable without him.Why not give him a call?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Look,” she says, “take it from me, who’s had so many breakups I can’t even keep track anymore—it’s not important who did this, or who said that…all that matters is, do you love him?”

  I try to read the article again, but my eyes drift to the window.All I can see is rain and a piece of the highway, everything washed in gray.“I don’t know,” I tell her.

  Jane clucks and goes back to her clippings and dream wedding notebook, where she’s attaching every glitzy option with gluestick like a kid.Of course she thinks it’s so simple.For her, who hopped from boyfriend to boyfriend all these years—most of whom were much younger than her—there was never a question of love.There were no apologies.It was just a matter of walking away when the fun ended.Until Killian, who, for reasons I still don’t understand, changed Jane’s mind in a matter of weeks.

  Even if he would apologize, I want to tell her, even if I wanted to call him, even if we could move past it all and just be happy in love like we used to, which we can’t, it still wouldn’t matter.

  I don’t know where he is.No one does.

  A month and a half ago, Silas Marlowe disappeared.Not a soul—least of all, mine—has heard from him since.

  “Glad to hear everything’s going well since your case got dropped with Fox Ridge.”

  I nod and fake a smile, not looking up from my checkbook as Kyle Meegan, my lawyer, gets up from his desk.“Yep.So do I make this out to you, or the firm?”

  “Either’s fine.”He comes around to my side, leaning against his desk.“They haven’t found Marlowe yet, huh?”

  “Nope.”I tear the check away and slide it to him.I don’t like the way he says “Marlowe,” as though just a few weeks ago, Silas wasn’t sitting in this office with us, helping me navigate Mom’s death and the lawsuit against me from her ex, over a stupid junker in the garage I didn’t even really want.

  Of course, I’d also hired Kyle to defend me in the Fox Ridge case, when the ranch thought I stole funds during my community service.They dropped the charges when it came out I’d been framed.

  Framed.The word still doesn't make sense to me.Actually, it's the rest of the phrase that doesn't make sense, when I had to tell my lawyer, the police, and the ranch what really happened: I was framed...by Silas.

  So I guess I should agree with Kyle, call Silas by his last name, refer to him like a criminal.He doesn’t deserve anything better.He definitely doesn’t deserve the feelings I still have for him, but whenever I try to dig up my anger, a handful of sadness comes with it.Yes, I feel betrayed.Furious.Vengeful.All the things I should feel.But underneath it all, I’m just sad things weren’t different.I miss Silas, even if I can’t explain why.

  “So,” I sigh, “what’s next?”

  “Depends on what Gordon does,” Kyle says matter-of-factly.

  “Williams,” I correct.If we’re not granting Silas the courtesy of his first name, my mom’s sleazy ex-boyfriend sure as hell won’t get it.

  “Right.”Kyle flips through some papers.“The car he wants is gone now, correct?”

  “Yeah.I donated it to Goodwill.It’s long gone.”

  Kyle sighs.“I just don’t get the guy’s motivation—that car is worth less than his lawyer fees will be, fighting you on this.”

  “He wants to make me miserable,” I say simply.“That’s his motivation.”

  “Well, he won’t win, if that’s any consolation.Your mom signed that title to you before she died, and Gordon sold it to her fair and square when they met…the guy’s got nothing on you.”He closes the folder and smiles confidently.“It’ll be the fastest civil trial I’ve ever worked.Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not.”I try to smile encouragingly, but my face feels frozen.I’m not afraid of losing—I just don’t want to see Gordon’s face in court.But I won’t offer a settlement.I won’t let him think he’s won.

  Kyle’s watch beeps.“I’ve got dinner plans with my son,” he says, “but
I’ll call you later in the week with my plans for the trial—what we’ll say, the documents we’ll need.Won’t take long.”

  Won’t take long, fastest civil trial: Kyle makes it sound so easy.And for him, it is.Open and shut.Get in, get out, get paid.I wish I could see it that way.

  Chapter Two

  My new place, a renovated townhouse at the edge of the city, seems emptier than usual when I get home.Silas jumped his lease when he took off; legally, I couldn’t stay at his apartment without starting a new one, so I had to leave.Not that I minded.Silas’s apartment was tiny and packed full of memories I didn’t want to have.

  The townhouse is cozy, just enough space.When I first toured it, I liked the way the closets smelled like sawdust and paint, the way water beaded on the glass backsplash of the kitchen, and how the stairs creaked with a sturdy reassurance under my feet.Mostly, I liked that it was in a neighborhood I didn’t know, where no one knew me except the postman—and even then, only by E. St. James, the formal type of all my letters.So I bought it.

  Tonight, I change into yoga pants as soon as I get inside.My couch is deep; I sink into it under a thick fleece blanket and turn on the television.The local news is mostly puff pieces tonight: the beginning of apple-picking season, featuring Isolde Thompson, mini-celebrity of Channel 5, fishing fat red apples from the trees of Hoffman Orchard; a new skating rink opening across town, just in time for the holidays; and the latest flu outbreak at a string of daycares, with generic shots of parents dousing kids in hand sanitizer.

  I don’t even realize I’m waiting for it until his face shows up on the screen, the same file photo they’ve used for weeks, and I let out my held breath.

  “…still haven’t found twenty-four-year-old Silas Marlowe, wanted for petty larceny and kidnapping,” the man says gravely.“Investigators believe Marlowe has left the state and urge anyone who sees a man and child fitting this description to call their local police: Marlowe is 6’1” with brown eyes….”

  “Hazel,” I tell the television.

  “…and the child, Emma Landings-Marlowe, five years old with blonde hair and a missing eye, with severe scarring on her face and arm.”

  Emma’s picture has the strange effect of making me miss Silas even more, almost understanding why he took off—he didn’t want to lose her—and making me even angrier.I think of the day he left, when I realized it wasn’t his ex-wife who got wasted and caused the fire that damaged Emma as a baby: it was Silas.When I’d closed the door on him that day, I hadn’t seen Silas.I’d only seen a monster, and my own reflection in his glasses.

  The news starts recapping the events of Emma’s kidnapping, but I’m not interested in hearing this story again.It’s been on every screen and everyone’s lips since the day Silas left; it’s almost all anyone I know talks about with me.

  It’s not just the repetition I hate, not having a chance to forget a little and let the pain die down; it’s the reaction I have to give.People bring up Silas with this eager face, like they’re just waiting for my explosion.And I am angry, so I call that forward and show them what they want.

  I nod when they call Silas a scumbag.

  I make noises of agreement when they say I’m better off.

  “Totally,” I tell them, when they ask if I’m over the loser already.

  Aunt Jane is the only one who rarely talks about him; when she does, she acts like getting back with him is as simple as kissing and making up.I never have the energy to explain it all to her.

  What I really love most about my apartment?I don’t have to keep up the act.

  When I’m by myself—like I’ve been most days lately—I can vacillate freely between blinding rage that makes me throw vases and scream into my pillows like a maniac, and crippling sadness that it’s all over.That he’s really gone, and was never quite the person I thought he was in the first place.

  And, every now and then, I get a third feeling, one I’m ashamed to even admit.

  “I still love him.”

  Liv, my counselor, didn’t make the disgusted face I’d expected when I finally blurted the truth to her one session.Silas had been gone nearly a month by then; I didn’t understand why I still had feelings for him, or how I could experience pure hatred and head-over-heels love at the same time.

  “That’s not unusual, Erin,” she said sweetly.Liv has wispy blonde hair, always pulled into a bun secured with pearlescent sticks, and round wire-rim glasses that look like an old lady’s, even though she’s barely thirty.Her voice is so gentle, it might as well be cotton candy floating into your ear.

  “It’s not?”

  “People can’t just turn their heart off,” she explained, “even after their loved one’s lied to them, betrayed them…it might be a while before you can make sense of all your feelings.”She took off her glasses, which she usually does at the end of our sessions, when she’s about to make a serious point.“Silas left so quickly, you never got closure—no explanation, no time to absorb what happened, and no chance to say your piece.”

  “Well…how do I get closure?”I spread my hands, showing her I was lost.“I don’t even know where he is.”

  “You might never get closure,” she said.“So give yourself time.Don’t feel guilty for still loving him.In time, you’ll get over that feeling.”

  “And what about the anger?”I ran my hands through my hair, sighing.“That’s the hardest part, feeling so angry and sad and still loving him, all at the same time.”

  Liv smiled knowingly, like a wizened old grandmother, and made me feel better with just a look.After ten weekly sessions, I still didn’t know how she did that.“This is clearly a very complicated relationship, Erin,” she said, cocking her head to one side.“Those feelings will wax and wane in their own time and pattern.You just have to go with it.”

  Go with it.It was easier said than done, especially when my feelings had no pattern.One minute, I’d be furious, then sad, then….

  I grab the remote and start channel-surfing again.I know exactly what channel I’m clicking towards, but it makes me feel less guilty to “stumble” on it in the guide: TRXHD.Triple-X, the porn channel my cable company accidentally—or maybe not—included in my move-in package.

  There’s little, if any, storyline to the porno they’ve got on tonight: it’s five minutes in, and already the leads are fucking.There’s a girl about my age bent over a Lucite table, the edge curving against her body; the guy, a little older, has his penis buried in her from behind.

  It’s cheap production, poor sound, bad lighting…this channel will play just about anything, as long as the actors are nude.Still, the sight of this girl getting plowed is a turn-on.Like most of the nights since Silas left, I watch the porno and imagine the girl is me and the man is Silas; under the blanket, my hand slips into the yoga pants.

  “You like that, baby?” the guy groans, thrusting deeply.The girl squeals a response, just as the camera catches a shot of her breasts pressed against the clear desk’s tabletop.I watch her nipples bob along to his rhythm.My fingers rub my clit in a fast, circular motion, matching the guy’s thrusts and the girl’s moans.

  My first orgasm is quick and intense, but doesn’t feel like enough; the girl keeps cooing about how full she fills, and the more I think about Silas’s thick cock—how incredible it felt inside of me, how he moved exactly where and how I needed him to, without me having to say a word—the emptier I feel.

  I sit up and look around.My bright purple dildo is packed away in a box somewhere; finding it would take hours.But then I notice the candles on the hearth, long, rounded at the base.Not as thick as Silas, but they'll do.

  My hands can’t grab them fast enough.Before I’m even back to the couch, I’ve got the candles in one hand, the other pulling my pants and underwear off in one motion.I lie down and shove one of the candles into my dripping pussy, my moan overlapping with the girl on TV’s.

  “Fuck me, Silas,” I whisper.I pull and push the candle in and out of me in a steady motion with one hand,
the other rubbing my swollen clit.

  “I’m so close,” the girl whimpers, and I do the same.The guys picks up speed, thrusts even deeper—so I do, too.

  “Oh, God,” she screams, “I’m coming, I’m….”Her sentence dissolves into a happy, piercing scream, her body quivering with her orgasm; watching her sends me into a second orgasm myself.

  “Silas,” I sigh happily, refusing to let myself remember.I will, when I'm finished—but for now, I can pretend.

  “Ready for it up the ass?” the guy asks, suddenly.The girl’s barely recovered from her orgasm, but she nods and dutifully points her ass into the air.The camera swings around to show her tight hole, the way it puckers and flinches as the enormous cock pushes its way inside.

  Just like that, I’m horny again.Silas and I never got the chance to do anal, but that’s part of why it’s my favorite thing to imagine: pretending we had more time than we did.

  “Go slow, baby,” I whisper, as the slick candle from my pussy slips into my asshole, quarter-inch by quarter-inch.I take the second candle and push it into my pussy, just as the girl on TV gets her partner’s cock all the way in and a bright pink dildo in her pussy to the hilt.

  “Shit,” she breathes, “I feel so full, baby.”I echo her, imagining my purple dildo is inside my pussy and Silas’s cock is in the back.He’d say something like, “I can feel your dildo rubbing against my cock,” and I’d shudder, like I’m shuddering now, at the throaty, slightly overwhelmed tone of his voice.

  “I’m gonna come!” the girl exclaims, and I start rubbing my clit again, catching up.My panting grows faster, louder, with tiny noises of pleasure I can barely control.“I’m gonna come,” I say quietly, then again.“Silas, I’m coming, I’m—”

  My third and final orgasm for the night is stronger than any I’ve had when playing with myself before; I feel my pussy tighten and quake around the candle, then my asshole.My vision spirals into fireworks.