Page 4 of Bronson

They don’t even know I exist.

I’ve gotten pretty good at being invisible. Sometimes, you must disappear to get what you want.

I turn the corner and I’m on Bachman Avenue, named, I assume after the jewelers that guard the ring I so covet. This street houses the stores that are the cream of the crop. All places I’ve never had the guts to steal from. The only reason I even discovered this part of town was the bakery is here and they were the only ones to answer my ad. Home for the aging seeks day-old pastries in exchange for smiles.

I pass Daughtry Clothiers, Clara’s Children’s Boutique. My heart beats faster just knowing I’m getting closer.

One more store, then another… there it is.

I stand in awe.

The brownstone building is strong, proud. This historical giant is much older than any of us busy pedestrians bustling past it. I wonder what history it’s seen over the past century. What secrets it holds.

A sigh escapes my lips as I stare at the gold letters.

Bachman’s.

I gaze through the window. My eyes lock on the display case holding the ring. The blue diamond glitters at me prettily in the sun.

My heart pitter-patters. A dull sweat breaks out across my hairline. I get that tingly feeling in the palms of my hands.

The itch to steal.

I should ignore it. I want to.

I can’t.

I shake my head, my pin-straight hair falling right back into place. I glance down at my shoes. My light blue scrubs covered in dancing kitties. I don’t look the part today. There is no way I should go in there like this. There is no way I should go in there at all, right?

The Bachmans are mafia. Bad men. And their origin story is much like mine.

Before they were Billionaires, they stole from the rich to give to the poor.

Call me…Robin Hood.

My eyes go back to the diamond. The sunlight hits it perfectly. Rainbows dance along the case. The princess-cut gem stares back at me. I belong to you, it whispers. A gust of that fresh autumn air ruffles my hair. A red leaf swirls before me.

There seems to be magic in the air today.

Why not? It’s a free country. I can march in the most exclusive jewelers in New York City wearing kitten scrubs. It’s not like I’m not going to take anything. Though I daydream, I would never really steal something so valuable.

I find my head nodding. I’ve made my decision—I may as well do a quick surveillance.

Brushing imaginary lint from my clothing, I take a deep breath. Jutting my chin up as if I belong in such an establishment, I harden my gaze. I march myself down the sidewalk, right past the display.

My feet touch the store’s stone step for the first time, sending a flutter of nervous butterflies through my gut. My fingers curl around the cold metal handle. I’m surprised at the heaviness of the door as I tug at it. The weight is almost too much for my five-foot-four frame. I struggle, but with sheer will, I finally pull the thing open. The momentum is more than I am prepared for and I do a half stumble, half fall, before catching myself.

My first time entering the store is nothing like I imagined. I always thought I would plan it out, make a day of it. Wear my white Dior dress. Slick my hair back into one of those tight ponytails the businesswomen wear. Have my makeup done for free by the lady at the MAC counter who’s practically adopted me. She croons over my olive complexion, and loves how I look amazing in red lipstick. Her compliments once caused me to slip a stick of ‘ruby red’ into my purse on my way out the store.

I would breeze into Bachman’s (obviously in my fantasy I don’t have trouble pulling the door open) and demand to see the blue diamond.

To try it on.

The salesclerk would be intimidated by me. Moving quickly to satisfy what she assumes to be a wealthy young baroness. She would bring me the diamond. I would eye her, bored, and say, Sometimes a girl just got to treat herself. You know?

Today does not go that way at all.

After almost falling, I regain my balance. A burning blush rises in my cheeks. I scoot out of the way to avoid the heavy door whacking me in the ass as it closes behind me. My hand instinctually goes to my bag—the five-hundred-dollar yellow leather over the shoulder purse that’s the only splurge I’ve allowed myself to purchase, legally. Yellow because it’s so conspicuous. Who’s dumb enough to draw attention to the place they tuck their stolen goods? Smoothing my hair with my trembling hands, I will my nerves to steady.