Page 61 of Broken Mercy
But I won’t have to get there alone.
CHAPTER 17
TALIN
Ireally hate to admit it, but I liked sneaking around with Brenden.
Setting aside the terror, it was kind of fun.
I felt proud thinking of using Annie as a distraction. It wasn’t even hard to convince her. She immediately grabbed the microphone like of course this party needed her singing to liven it up, why hadn’t she been asked sooner?
And there was the look on Brenden’s face when he found out that I had what he wanted the whole time.
Pure freaking poetry.
The only problem is, now I want more. He gave me a taste of what it’s like to be him, and I keep thinking about it. The sneaking, the risk, that’s never been me. I follow rules. I’m always watched. I’ve never been able to disappear in my life, not really. While he’s the total opposite: he lives like he’s entirely wrapped in shadow.
I ambush him two days later when he comes back from one of his random trips away from the house. He never says where he’s going and I know better than to ask. I’ll only get that hard glare in return like I’m crazy for even opening my mouth. But this time, I’m patient; I linger near the steps until I hear the front door open, and then I pounce. It’s past ten at night.
“I’m ready for another lesson,” I announce once he’s inside and I’m between him and escape.
He looks around in a mild panic like he might find a waiting open door ready to embrace him. “Must be nice,” he grunts, quickly gathering himself and heading to pour a glass of bourbon. “But it’s late now.”
“It’s always either too late or too early with you. I think now’s a great time.” I stand with hands on hips. If I give him an inch, he’ll pry himself a mile and fade into the distance. I have to corner him, and I can’t back down. “Remember how working together got you what you wanted?”
He takes a long sip. “I recall something like that.”
“You need me.”
“Your job is over.”
“Brenden. I want to learn.” A tickle of desperation forces its way up my throat. “If this works… and I’m on my own… I’ll need something, you know? To fall back on?”
His face gives me nothing and it’s infuriating. “You won’t want to fall back on stealing. Trust me, it’s not a great life.”
“Then show me something else. Damn it, I barely see you. Give me something.”
I don’t know why that seems to work. He lowers his glass down to the island, shoulders hunched briefly, before letting out a frustrated sigh. “Lock picking.”
“Really?” I perk up instantly, grinning massively. “You will?”
“I’ll show you the basics, okay? It’s actually not that hard once you understand.”
“Fantastic! Amazing! What should I do? Do I need to get changed?”
He rubs his nose and gestures with his head. “Come here.” He takes me to the back door and slips out a small black leather satchel. Inside is a series of small, thin, metal objects, each with a differently-shaped end. “These are the picks.” He takes one out and a long metal tool that looks like a miniature crowbar. “This is a tension rod. The goal is to use the pick and the tension rod to move the little tumblers back into position so you can turn the lock and open it.” He opens the back door, locks it, and gets to work with a single pick and a rod under it. His tongue pokes out the side of his mouth as he concentrates, and about thirty seconds later, the lock clunks open.
“That looked… kind of hard.”
“It is and it isn’t. You’ll need to develop a feel for it, and which pick works best is down to personal preference, experience, and luck.”
What follows is the most frustrating half hour of my life. At first it’s fun and I feel like I’m a spy learning forbidden knowledge. But that quickly turns into me wiggling the picks around wildly and not making any progress over and over as Brenden tries barking orders at me that don’t make any sense.
“You’re a terrible teacher,” I say, exasperated, as I fail to open the lock for the tenth time.
“You’re a worse student. Here, it’s like this.” He takes my wrist and presses his body against me. I go still, trying not to help as my heart thuds wildly in my chest. I like his smell. His breath is smoky alcohol. “Follow with me.”
He manipulates my wrist and fingers. I try to concentrate on the picking, but it’s really hard with him so close. He’s focused on the task, and I start to feel tumblers fall into place. The pressure he uses, his raking method, it’s all quick and deft, the product of well-practiced fingers with thousands of failures and thousands of successes. Another tumbler, and another, and the lock gives way. He uses the tension bar to turn like a key.
