Page 52 of Broken Mercy
“You’re not trying to check me into the boards like we’re playing hockey. Just a bump. Go again.”
“Can’t we do something else?”
“No. Again.”
His attitude annoys me. It’s like he’s trying to teach a child. I gather myself, steady my breathing, and stride toward him. This time, when our shoulders collide, I manage to get my fingers near the pocket, although I don’t manage to get inside. He twists and snatches my wrist, holding it tight.
“Miss, are you trying to rob me? Police! Help!”
“Let go, you dick.” I swat at him.
“Thief! Thief! And now you go straight to jail. Sorry.”
“Hilarious.” I twist from his grip. “Again?”
“Again.”
I try several more times. Each one is uniquely terrible. Once I touch the phone, but can’t get it in my fingers. Another time I straight up trip and fall on my face. He picks me up, pats my ass, and tells me to keep going.
“This is useless.” I flop on the couch, frustrated. “Can’t we do something else?”
“All things considered, you’re doing well.” He pulls over a chair and sits on it backward. “You know what thieves and magicians have in common?”
“Bad hats.”
“Misdirection.” He flutters his fingers to the left. When he snaps his right fingers, he’s holding a flower.
“How the?—“
“Misdirection,” he says again, twirling the flower, and snaps. “Check your pocket.”
I pat my sweats—and there it is. I slip my phone back out. “When? How?!”
“Stealing is easy. Any idiot can grab something and run away. Getting away with it is the hardest part. That’s where misdirection comes into play. When you bump me, you’re not trying to hurt me. You’re trying toannoyme, just long enough to make me focus on you instead of on your fingers robbing me. So try it again, and this time, be annoying.”
I get up and toss my phone to him. He puts it back in his pocket and faces me, that inscrutable look on his face again, driving me crazy. God, what is it about this man that annoys me so much? He’s attractive. I like being around him. I think he’s funny sometimes, but I’d never tell him that. When he’s around, I feel strangely safe.
I like when his hands are on my body.
I like his warmth in my bed. I like his scars, his wounds, his battered pride. He’s confident and competent, and I like that, too.
But he’s a bastard.
I stride toward him.Be annoying.Misdirection. The bump never works, I’m either too clumsy or too slow, and he’s always waiting for it. But what if I tried something else? What if I went off-script and decided to be another person?
What would Annie do in this situation?
Or, better yet, what would my version of my sister do? What wouldIdo, if I weren’t so scared all the time?
I don’t slow as I approach. For half a beat I think I’m going to go through with the same old bump, the usual tactic, but Iveer at the last moment, letting my gut guide me. I’m never impulsive like this. All my life I’ve planned every last moment of every single day. Nothing’s ever been hidden, nothing’s ever been spontaneous.
But for once, I decide to be more like him.
I go straight to Brenden. I walk to him, press against the front of him, touch his chest with the palms of both my hands, get up on my toes, reach up to tug his head down, and I kiss him hard.
He grunts in surprise. His lips are firm and tight, resisting me, at least until my tongue slips against them. Then he yields and we’re kissing for real.
Oh, shit.
