Page 2 of Bronson

The ones with no visitors.

They break my heart. And I’m there for them till the end.

I hold their hands when they take their last breaths.

But I’m not perfect. I can’t seem to help myself… I just like nice things.

But the items I crave aren’t within my means on my meager salary. And until I can get myself a sugar daddy and pull a Pretty Woman, marching myself into Daughtry’s, demanding service, I’m going to have to do what I do best.

Take what I want.

And never get caught.

I know it’s wrong. I’m not an idiot. I’ve heard every lecture about stealing and consequences, usually delivered by people who’ve never had to decide whether to pay the electric bill or eat something besides stale bread for dinner.

Not that hunger is why I take things. That would almost make it noble.

I take beautiful things because they stay.

People disappear. They forget birthdays. They drink through Christmas and leave little girls sitting alone beneath a tree without presents. But a beautiful dress never forgets you. A pair of shoes never looks through you when you cry. Things can be held. Hidden. Kept.

That’s the excuse I give myself, anyway.

I have plenty of them. None make what I do right.

My latest acquisition sits in a prettily decorated store window, taunting me every day as I make my trek to the bakery in my soft-soled shoes.

This window doesn’t just belong to any store—it’s the store. The one everyone in New York City who’s anyone shops at from recently made celebrities with cash falling out of their pockets to the highest class of old money in New York.

Even the mafia.

I’ve seen the well-groomed gangsters with their slicked-back dark hair and pinstriped suits marching out the door with their purchase. A pair of two-carat diamond earrings, an apology gift after their wife finds out they have a hot little goomar on the side. Armed with one of those little red bags, the man knows his wife will forget to care she’s become number two in his heart.

Because in his guilt-laden, bulging wallet, she’s still number one.

Oh, those red bags.

Just seeing one swinging freely from the hand of a millionaire makes my heart pound faster. Blood rushes past my ears, my eyes widening as I picture the small red leather box that rests within—as red as my gel-manicured fingernails.

On top of that little box, the name boldly emblazoned with curving gold letters, right on the front…

Bachman’s.

Saturdays are my one day off. The day I do my collecting. I hit a different borough every week. No more than five stores, no less than three. I take what I want, then I go home with my spoils. Stuffing my goodies underneath my bed. In the tiny wardrobe that’s so full I can barely close the doors.

I do have rules.

No wallets. No purses belonging to actual women. Nothing from a shop where the owner works behind the counter and every sale keeps the lights on. And never anything sentimental.

I stick to luxury stores, places with security guards, obscene markups, and insurance policies worth more than the building where I live. Places that will record a loss on a spreadsheet and move on.

It is still stealing.

But rules make it easier to pretend I’m not the kind of thief who truly hurts anyone.

I know I shouldn’t…

I know it’s wrong…