Mara
We stand in the shadow of an oak tree. The administration building looms ahead. It is dark brick. It looks like a fortress to a student. To me, it looks like a cardboard box.
"There is a camera covering the side entrance," Dante whispers.
He is standing too close. His heat bleeds into my side. The smell of his leather jacket mixes with the night air.
"I see it," I say.
"Do you want me to handle it?"
"I thought you were just the logistics guy."
"I am multifaceted."
He reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a small black box. It looks like a garage door opener. He points it at the red blinking light above the door. He presses a button.
The red light on the camera dies instantly.
"Subtle," I say.
"Effective," Dante says. "After you. Thief."
I slip out of the shadows. I move low. My boots make no sound on the pavement. I reach the heavy metal door. I kneel on the concrete. I pull a tension wrench and a rake from my hair. They were disguised as bobby pins.
"Nice accessories," Dante murmurs. He is right behind me. Watching over my shoulder.
"Quiet," I whisper.
I slide the tension wrench in. I apply pressure. I insert the rake. I feel the pins set. One. Two. Three.
*Click.*
The cylinder turns. The door groans. I catch it before it can slam against the wall.
"Three seconds," Dante says. He sounds disappointed. "I was hoping for a challenge."
"Brad said it was impossible," I remind him.
"Brad is an idiot."
I slip inside. The hallway smells of floor wax and stale coffee. It is pitch black. I don't need light. I memorized the floor plan from the evacuation map in the lobby yesterday.
"Top floor," I say.
"Dean Miller. Room 402."
We move toward the stairs. We do not run. Running draws attention. We walk with purpose. We are ghosts in the machine.
"So," Dante says. His voice echoes slightly in the stairwell. "Where did you learn to pick a lock like that? Art school?"
"Sculpture class," I lie. "We work with wire."
"You are a terrible liar, Mara."
"And you are a terrible student. You haven't taken a single note in Ethics."
"I have a photographic memory. I don't need notes."
"Must be convenient."
"It is. I remember everything. Like the way you looked at that knife tonight."
I stop on the landing. I turn to face him. In the gloom, his eyes are black pools. He is enjoying this too much.
"Drop it, Dante."
"Why? Are you afraid I will tell on you?"
He steps up. He is one step below me, which puts us at eye level. The stairwell feels suddenly small. Claustrophobic.
"I am not afraid of anything," I say.
"I know," he says. "That is what makes you so interesting."
He reaches out. He brushes a stray hair from my face. His fingers graze my cheek. My breath hitches. It is a traitorous reaction. My body knows what he is, even if my mind is trying to deny it.
"We have a watch to steal," I say. My voice is tight.
"Right. The mission."
He steps back. The air feels colder without him in it.
We continue up. The fourth floor is silent. The Dean's office is at the end of the hall. It has a frosted glass window with gold lettering. *Dean Arthur Miller.*
"Locked," I say, trying the handle.
"Allow me," Dante says.
He doesn't use tools. He steps back. He raises a leg and kicks the door right below the lock mechanism. It is a precise, controlled impact. He didn't just kick it; he broke the structural integrity of the latch.
*Crack.*
The wood splinters. The door swings open.
"Subtle," I mock him.
"We are pressed for time," he says. He smirks. "And I hate keys."
We step inside. The office is plush. Leather chairs. Mahogany desk. Bookshelves filled with books that have never been opened. It smells like old money and arrogance.
"Where is it?" I ask.
"Over there," Dante points.
Behind the desk, there is a glass display case. Inside, resting on a velvet pillow, is the Rolex. It is gold. It is gaudy. It is exactly the kind of watch a man buys to prove he is important.
"It's not even a rare model," Dante says. He sounds offended. "You can buy this at the mall."
"It is a Submariner."
"It is a mid-life crisis."
I walk around the desk. The case is locked with a simple key latch. I don't even need the picks. I use a paperclip from the Dean's desk. I straighten it out. I jam it in.
*Pop.*
The glass door swings open. I reach in. I grab the watch. It feels heavy. Cold.
"Got it," I say. I hold it up.
"Too easy," Dante says. He is leaning against the doorframe. Watching me. "This isn't a heist. It is a shopping trip."
"Brad thinks this is Mission Impossible."
"Brad thinks Olive Garden is fine dining."
I laugh. I can't help it. The tension of the night releases in a short, sharp sound.
"We should go," I say. "Before security does their rounds."
"Wait."
Dante pushes off the doorframe. He crosses the room in two strides. He blocks my path.
"What?" I ask.
He backs me up. My legs hit the edge of the heavy desk. I have nowhere to go. He plants his hands on the mahogany on either side of me. He boxes me in.
"Dante."
"You are bored," he says. His face is inches from mine. His eyes are searching mine, looking for the cracks in my armor.
"I am not bored."
"You are. I can see it. Your pulse is slow. Your pupils aren't even dilated. Breaking and entering doesn't do it for you anymore, does it?"
"It is just a watch."
"It is child's play," he whispers. "You are too dangerous for this school, Mara. You are a shark swimming in a puddle."
"And what are you?" I ask. I look up at him. I refuse to shrink away.
"I am the one holding the shark," he says.
His gaze drops to my lips. The silence in the room is deafening. My heart hammers against my ribs. Not from fear. From this. From him. He smells like danger. He smells like the one thing I ran away to avoid. And God, I want it.
I lean in. Just a fraction of an inch.
He mirrors the movement. His eyes half-close.
"Mara," he breathes.
*Bzzt.*
The sound cuts through the tension like a knife.
My phone. Vibrating in my pocket.
Dante freezes. He pulls back an inch. He curses under his breath.
"Saved by the bell," he mutters.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. I pull my phone out. My hand is trembling.
"It's an alarm reminder," I say. "Midnight. The deadline."
"We should go," Dante says. His voice is rough. He pushes off the desk. He straightens his jacket. He looks composed again. Almost.
I pocket the watch. I need to regain control. I need to win this round.
"We need to leave a message," I say. I try to sound steady.
"A message?"
"For Brad. He needs to know who owns him."
Dante smiles. The darkness returns to his eyes. He likes this game.
"What do you have in mind?"
I look at the empty velvet pillow in the display case. I grab a notepad from the desk. I take a heavy fountain pen. I write two words. I tear the page off. I place it on the pillow where the watch used to be.
"Perfect," Dante says, reading it over my shoulder.
"Let's go," I say.
We leave the office. We leave the broken door. We leave the note.
We slip down the stairs. We exit the building. The cool night air hits my flushed face.
"My car is around the back," Dante says.
We walk fast. The adrenaline is fading, leaving that electric hum in my veins.
"Mara," Dante says as we reach the car.
"Yeah?"
"Next time," he says, opening the passenger door for me. "Turn off your phone."
I look at him. I smirk.
"Next time," I say, "make me."
He laughs. It is a dark, promising sound.
We get in. He revs the engine. We peel out of the parking lot, leaving the scene of the crime in the rearview mirror.
We have the watch.
And back in the Dean's office, on the velvet pillow, the note waits for the morning light.
*Time's up.*
And underneath, a crude drawing of a crown.
We are going to ruin Brad Sterling. And it is going to be fun.
