Mockingbird (A Stepbrother Romance #2)
by Abigail Graham
Chapter 1: Apollo
I have a bad taste in my mouth.
Looking over the railing gives me vertigo. It's twenty stories down from the penthouse, not far by skyscraper standards, but far enough. The people down there on the sidewalk might be on another planet for how far away they are. I can see them moving, each dragging a long shadow in the afternoon light. It's seven o'clock and it'll be full dark soon. The city skyline takes the sun away from the ground faster than up here, nearer the clouds. A basso rumble rolls under my feet. The party is starting.
"What are you doing?"
I shouldn't have stopped to look. At the sound of her voice I almost drop the tray I'm carrying, perched on my upturned hand. I think I look ridiculous in this monkey suit; whoever chose red crushed velvet for the hotel livery deserves to die for crimes against fashion. I put on my best fake smile and my best dull please-don't-fire-me look. The heiress is staring me down with the fury only the offended wealthy can muster, and if I get fired I won't be able to steal that pretty necklace she's wearing.
Of course, I don't actually work here, but if she kicks up a storm and gets me 'fired' it would raise quite a few uncomfortable questions, such as what I'm doing here in the first place.
Just an honest thief, doing my job. Robbing the rich, giving to the poor… and myself. Mostly myself.
Veronica Maxwell is easy on the eyes. If I wasn't worried about her screwing up the job, her fury would be almost endearing. She has a rosebud mouth given to petulant pouting, high cheekbones, flawless skin, and shocking blue eyes, captivating, ethereal, and without a spark of human decency. All I need is to hear her grating voice for confirmation that the rumors are true. You wouldn't know it from looking at her, but she is a total bitch.
She flicks her perfect platinum blonde hair over her bare shoulder and scowls at me.
"Well?"
"Sorry, ma'am. Just got caught up in the view. I don't get up here much-"
"Whatever. My guests are thirsty, get your ass to work. If I have to talk to you once more I'll make sure-"
Oh my God, she's actually going to say 'I"ll make sure you never work in this town again.'
"-you never work in this town again. Am I understood?"
"Of course, ma'am."
I hurry on, and mentally pat myself on the back for not looking at her tits. She has amazing tits. Fakes so good you can't tell they're not real, and she's not shy about showing off the goods, parading around in a skintight off the shoulder dress covered in blue sequins, so she looks like a voluptuous, stormy sea every time she moves. If it were any tighter it would explode when she sits down, and move the slit in her skirt two inches to the right and she'd be putting on a show when she sits down. As it is, every time she takes a step one long creamy leg sweeps the air, a matching blue pump clacking on the floor. If it wasn't for the attitude I'd be won over by her looks.
If it wasn't for the attitude.
Time to work.
The creme-de-la-creme is here. The net worth of this room must be in the billions. I feel like a kid in a candy store. Watches, bracelets, necklaces, you name it, it's all here. I spot an iPhone with a diamond case that retails for $500,000, other gadgets equally blinged out. I consider myself a connoisseur of the finer things but I will never get my head around a diamond-encrusted phone.
Just seems excessive, really.
The job here is simple. Right now, I'm killing time. I wander around with a tray of champagne flutes. When they've all be snatched away and my tray is covered with empties, I go back and get more. If I was on the payroll I'd be making minimum wage plus very generous tips. Right now I'm just making tips. It would look out of place if I turned them down and hey, free money. Along the way I help myself to some goodies. My stupid crushed velvet tux has an extra dozen pockets sewn inside and by the time I make my first pass, half of them are full. A few wallets, mostly, and a watch.
Yeah, I'm good.
I've been learning this trade since I was nine years old. That's when my father took me in, after I lost my mother. I've been refining my skills ever since.
The party is jumping. There's a bacchanal atmosphere, the heart of a carnivale that never stops, only takes breaks for daylight. Smoke machines, lights, a DJ on the stage, you name it. Veronica has the top three floors of the hotel to herself, a massive suite with its own dancing hall slash orgy room. The dancing here is not very polite, and the hostess is not wearing underwear, as I see very clearly when she sits down on a leather couch that costs as much as a car and makes a show of crossing her legs. She looks not at me but through me. I'm like one of the ferns planted in a pot by the door to her.
I need more booze. I thread through the crowd, gathering empties as I go, through a service entrance and into the warren of hallways that serves the hotel. The suite doesn't have one door, it has twenty. When you're dropping a year's pay for a good job every night for your stay, servants come as part of the package. I deposit my tray on a cart and grab another, hoisting it to my shoulder all professional like. Carrying a tray of stuff like this takes practice. My knack for balance comes from walking tightropes and practicing kicks and punches standing on poles.
My partner's comes from practice. She gives me a look as she passes by, and the most subtle of nods.