Cruel Paradise

4

Standing outside the front of an institutional-looking red brick building, a cheerful blonde reporter beams at the screen.

“In other news tonight, we have a heartwarming story about the generosity of the human spirit. As we reported last month, a fire destroyed the storage facility of the headquarters of Newborns in Need here in Boston. NIN provides care necessities free of charge to agencies and hospitals serving premature, ill, or impoverished newborns throughout the United States.

“As this location is the main distribution hub for those critically needed supplies, the fire was particularly devastating. But today, an anonymous donor gifted two thousand boxes of diapers to the organization to replenish their losses.

“In addition to the diapers, large quantities of formula, clothing, blankets, and toys were also donated. No word on who the anonymous philanthropist might be, but Meryl Hopkins, president of the charity, has called him an angel. Back to you in the studio, John.”

Declan clicks off the TV and looks at me in disbelief. “A philanthropist thief? I don’t get it.”

“Neither do I. By any chance, does Liam own other companies serving the newborn market?”

“No.”

I mull it over for a moment, equal parts confused and intrigued.

A pair of female thieves breaks into a warehouse and steals a truckload of diapers. If caught, they’d be facing first degree grand theft charges with a possible maximum sentence of thirty years in prison, charitable donation notwithstanding.

So why risk it?

And what about the other items, the clothing, food, and toys? If those were stolen, too, that means the diaper theft was part of a larger, organized operation. One that must’ve taken weeks or months to plan.

All with a final payout of nothing?

It doesn’t make sense.

No one in their right mind takes such risk with zero reward. If it wasn’t money the thieves were after, it was definitely something else.

Because if there’s one thing I know for sure about human nature, it’s that a person who isn’t motivated by greed is usually motivated by something much darker.

Like amassing power, for instance.

Like taking revenge.

Things I myself am all too familiar with.

When I start to type fast and hard on my computer’s keyboard, Declan says, “What’re you doing?”

“Going hunting.” The Department of Defense website loads, and I quickly get to work.

Ready or not, thieves, here I come.

3

J U L E S

W

hen I glance over my shoulder again, Fin sighs in exasperation.

“Will you quit doing that? You’re making me jumpy.”

I mumble an apology and take another sip of my margarita, but can’t shake the sensation that I’m being stared at intently.

Considering I grew up under the constant, watchful gaze of several dozen bodyguards, tutors, and nannies, I know the feeling well.

Which is why I’m on edge when I should be celebrating.

Sitting on either side of me at the high-top table in La Fiesta’s noisy, crowded bar, Fin and Max don’t share my jitters. They’re all smiles and easy laughs, flirting with the cute bartender who keeps sending over free drinks.

As usual, I’m the lucky beneficiary of the incandescent glow my friends produce—hence the free drinks—but if I were here alone, I’d be paying.

Not because I’m a dog or anything. Though compared to the curvy, creamy beauty of Fin and the edgy, tough-girl s*x appeal of Max, I’m as interesting as the sole of a shoe.

It’s for the same reason I wear baggy clothes and no makeup and go by a fake last name: to blend in. To disappear into the background.

Attention is the last thing I want.

Attention means questions, and questions mean answers, and answers—especially truthful ones—are something I never give.

For a girl like me, attention can be dangerous.

It can be deadly.

So I keep my head down and my mouth shut and stay as cool and detached as possible, even as these two yahoos on either side of me cause spontaneous erections all around.

I wish Fin didn’t have such a fondness for low-cut blouses.

“Could you put those things away?” I say crossly, waving a hand at her boobs. “They’re almost in my salsa.”

I grab the dish of salsa out from under her hovering breasts, take a tortilla chip from a basket in the center of the table, and dunk the chip into the sauce. Then I pop it into my mouth, enjoying the spicy, satisfying crunch.

Fin smiles serenely at me. “I know this is hard for you to understand, B Cups, but the girls need air.”

“What they need is scaffolding.”

She arches her brows. “Are you suggesting my glorious cleavage is sagging?”

“No. I’m suggesting you invest in some undergarments that don’t provide the male population of Boston with an anatomical drawing of your chest. It’s like you’re wearing tracing paper for a bra. That man over there is about to have a heart attack.”

Fin turns her green-eyed gaze to the person in question, an elderly gentleman sitting a few tables away. He promptly chokes on his taco when he notices her looking at him.

She says fondly, “The poor things. They don’t stand a chance.”

“Speaking of poor things,” says Max under her breath, “that guy at the end of the bar is fire. My panties are melting.”

She’s staring over my left shoulder. When I start to turn my head in that direction, she hisses, “Don’t look!”

“How am I supposed to judge if he’s fire if I can’t look?”

“I mean don’t look now.” She casually pretends to inspect her manicure. “I’ll let you know as soon as he’s not burning holes into the back of your head.” So someone is staring at me.