Damn it.
Groaning, I close my eyes and thud my head back against the seat. “You don’t have to look so smug about it.”
“I’m not smug. I’m happy. You’re always trying to do things by yourself, even while you stick your neck out for everybody else.” She sighs. “I just want to be able to return the favor for once, that’s all.”
“You can help by keeping an eye on the gas station.”
“I’m watching. It’s not sprouting legs and going anywhere, Fel.”
“I don’t know how I’m related to such a smart-ass,” I hiss.
She bumps me with her elbow. “Yes, you do, because you’re one, too.” Then she sucks in a breath, perking up and leaning forward. “Hey, look!”
I look.
Just as the lights over the pumps shut off, followed by the glow spilling out the front windows of the gas station.
They’re closing up.
Which means as soon as the night clerk is gone, I can go raid that trash can.
Except as usual, I’m not going to get quite that lucky.
Because the clerk—in the garish orange and green uniform of the station—makes a beeline right for the can, knocks the lid up with one elbow, hauls out the bag, and drags it off.
The whole time he’s looking at it with an expression of dismay, his entire body listing to one side with the extra weight, and although I’m too far away to hear, I can still imagine the little oof he makes when his lips puff out.
“Crap,” Ember sputters, craning forward to peer out the window as he disappears around the corner. “Where’s he taking it?”
“Dumpster’s on the other side of the building,” I tell her. “Let’s wait.”
We both shift restlessly, listening to the distant clang of the dumpster lid falling, and then the sound of a car door opening and closing. The growl of an engine. Finally, headlights sweep across the lot, and a beat-up old Tercel pulls out.
All clear.
“Go!” I cry, already bolting for the driver’s side door.
We go scrambling out like our butts are on fire, darting across the front of the gas station and whipping around to the other side.
No security cameras that I can see.
Pretty sure this place was last updated in the eighties. I still keep my head down and pull the collar of my shirt up like that can hide me as I scurry after Ember into the alleyway and dart for the dumpster.
It’s kind of like an adventure.
A very smelly, very gross adventure.
I’m as delicate as I can be, flipping the dumpster’s lid up and reaching inside.
Only to go scrambling back with a shriek.
A pair of glowing yellow eyes lunge at me, and something makes a noise like a drunk snake.
“Whoa, calm down!” Ember just barely catches me as I stumble, grabbing my shoulders and pushing me upright. “It’s just a raccoon.”
She’s right.
A fat, ornery raccoon huddles there like the king of trash hill, glaring at me for interrupting his seven-course dinner. I exhale sharply, struggling to settle my pulse, and scowl at the critter, flicking my hands at it.
“Shoo,” I growl. “Go on, get!”
The raccoon snarls at me again before letting out a disgruntled chittering sound and darting off, bounding over the crinkling trash bags and the side of the dumpster.
Ember lets out a little giggle.
“You didn’t have to be so mean.”
“...look, tree hugger, those things can have rabies.” I straighten, squaring my shoulders. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here before he comes back with friends.”
We make short work out of hauling the top bag out, though it takes both of us when it’s so heavy I’m amazed the weight of the bars hasn’t ripped right through the plastic. I toss aside crumpled papers and things I’d rather not think about before they appear.
Two shiny gold bars, sitting there against the torn-up trash bag, gleaming in the light spilling down the alleyway from the streetlights on Main.
Ember lets out a soft, whistling breath. “Pretty wild.”
“I know.” And I feel as heavy as those bars. “There’s a lot more where these came from. Ember, I...I don’t know if I can let you shoulder the responsibility for this. With the vault.”
“It’s the safest option.” She starts to touch my arm, then looks down at her grimy hand and pulls it back, wrinkling her nose. “Look, Fel, we’re family. What’s family for, if we’re not looking out for each other?”
I don’t know.
I just don’t know, even if I get how she feels when Mom’s the main reason this is so important. I can’t forget that photo of Paisley, standing outside her house, reminding me just how easily the next time there’s a call it could be the Coeur d’Alene police asking me to identify a body.
No.
I don’t know what to say, so I just offer the best smile I can muster and lug one of those godawful heavy gold bars into my arms. I hope the second one doesn’t topple tiny Ember over.
“C’mon,” I say. “I need to swing by my house for an overnight bag and a shower before heading back to Alaska’s place.”
I turn to totter back to the car, reeling under the twenty pound plus weight of the bar. Ember strains behind me, followed by her shuffling footsteps.
But I nearly drop the bar I’m carrying on the hood of my car as she teases breathlessly at my back, “Ooh-lah-lah! Overnight bag? I thought you two weren’t a thing.”
“Oh my God, stop.” I wrangle the bar into the crook of one arm like the heaviest golden baby on the planet, sweat rolling down my neck, so I can pull the trunk open and pitch the thing inside.
“I hate all those rumors. Nothing’s happening. People just have the wrong idea, as usual. Alaska’s helping me out, and it’s already too much of a burden on him. I wouldn’t ask him to take on anything else.”
Ember lets out a low grunt as she steps up next to me and drops the second gold bar into the trunk. It hits the other with a clatter, hard enough to make the station wagon bounce on its rear wheels for a second.
But she’s not bouncing, not her usual bright, effusive self, as she gives me a long look.
“That’s the problem,” Ember says softly. “You think being with you would be a burden. I bet he feels differently.”
“Not if he knows me.” I shrug. It’s just the stone-cold truth. “Every man turns tail and runs when they realize what a disaster I am, Em. Not to mention I’m a workaholic. I practically live at The Nest. When would I have time for a boyfriend, anyway?”
“If you met the right guy, you’d make time. Believe me, Fel.” Her smile starts creeping back, merry and sweet. “And Alaska seems like your type. Big, hunky, and not easy to scare off. You’d think he was one of our guys from the start with the way he fits in around here.”
“He might fit in around here,” I say, and cut off the conversation by rounding the front of the station wagon and slipping behind the wheel. “But he doesn’t fit with me.”
It’s not fair.
Alaska’s bed shouldn’t smell so much like him.
My dreams are haunted by mint and muscle and testosterone musk spun visions—especially the kind where a beast of a man surfaces from glacial waters, dripping wet and magnificent.