Shimmy Bang Sparkle(53)

As the road curved in front of me in the dusk light, the two ways this could play out unfolded on either side of me. To my right was empty high desert. No lights. No people. No chaos. No temptation, no risk. To the left was the city, bright and vast. In the sprawl was chaos and trouble. I’d lived my whole life in the sprawl. I had no fucking idea how to live anywhere else. Jail was a fresh memory. I could still smell the fucking place, like cleaning solvents, sweat, and cafeteria food. Fucking miserable. And I had no desire to ever go back.

And yet, Stella was still the sprawl herself. She was trying to get out—and trying to get everybody out with her. Crabs in the bucket; the oldest motive that there was.

The risk, for me, was fucking enormous. If I got caught, it would be my second strike—my second felony. With my past conviction, a robbery charge would land me in jail for dozens of years. My debt would compound with every tally on the cinder block cell wall. And I’d have lost Stella before I even really had her.

On the flip side, the payoff would be huge. If we got our hands on the North Star, it meant a fresh start. It would mean I’d never have to pick another lock or fence another jewel for as long as I lived. The reward would be freedom. Period.

Looking after myself was important. But way out in the distance, where there was no debt, where life was a little easier, I could just about see us together. It was possible. Anything was possible. But not if I didn’t help her—and protect her—when she needed it most.

I was pretty sure I had my answer. Now I just needed her to ask.



I could tell she was nervous when I walked in. In the microwave spun a plate of leftovers. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and rushed around the kitchen like a little tornado, grabbing up utensils and plates. She flung open the fridge and gathered up all the cold leftovers she could carry, then dumped them on the coffee table before rushing back to the kitchen again. I let the tornado spin. I hung my helmet on the peg by the door above her purse and locked the door behind me.

On the kitchen counter sat my broken pick. When she caught me staring at it, she froze. She said, “Sorry. I tried and it snapped.”

As I dropped it in the garbage, I told her, “I broke a dozen of them before I got the hang of it for real.”

“And I think you’re going to have to take the hinges off my door,” she said, making a knot out of the tie of her apron.

“I had to do that a time or two too.” Actually, I hadn’t. But no point in rubbing her nose in it.

She clutched the plates to her chest and looked up at me, glancing from left to right like she wasn’t sure which of my eyes to settle on.

C’mon, I thought. Do it. Ask me. Fucking ask me.

The microwave dinged, and she spun away. While she bustled around, I calmly filled two glasses of water and opened the bottle of wine from last night. I rinsed out the glasses we’d used, dried them, and brought them over to the table with the bottle. I noticed that on her right middle finger, she wore a Band-Aid.

“That from earlier?” I asked.

She nodded and stuck down the slightly frayed edge. Even her breathing sounded nervous—strained and quick. She looked up at me again, and I pulled her closer, one hand on each shoulder. “You OK?”

This time she settled on my left eye, and her stare never wavered. “OK. I have to just do this. I have to just . . . OK.” She drew back her shoulders and blinked at me once, then again. “Do you think . . .” She stopped herself. “Are you . . . would you . . .”

It was actually kind of adorable, all her nerves and stutters. But I didn’t want to put her through the wringer. “You want me to ask?”

She swallowed hard. “Do you know what I’m going to say? Because honestly, I don’t need a knight in shining armor. I just need . . .”

Jesus Christ, she was killing me with all this. If ever there was a moment for comic relief, this was it. I didn’t want her flustered. I wanted her happy and laughing and not so fucking wound up over a question I’d already asked and answered in my head. I could think of one surefire way to make her laugh, right then and there, and so I grabbed my chance. A knock-knock joke wasn’t going to cut it. It was time for the big guns.

So I dropped down on one knee, took her hands in mine, looked her in the eye, and I said, “Marry me.”

She exploded in nervous, wonderful giggles. “Nick!”

“Oh wait,” I said. “That wasn’t the question?”

Her eyes shimmered with tears of laughter, relief, and all the things I wanted to give her. I got back up off my knee, groaning a little. Forty wasn’t the new thirty—didn’t matter what anybody said. I took her in my arms and held her close. “So ask me.”

“I just wanted to know if you’d like to help me. Next week. With . . . the thing. At . . . the place.”

Boom. There it was. In that moment, she wasn’t a badass. She wasn’t a superhero. She wasn’t the head of a super-secret heist crew. She was just a beautiful woman, stumbling over her words and doing me the huge honor of asking for my help.

One last time, I asked myself if the risks were worth it. If she was worth it. If the feeling in my gut was worth it.

But the answer was clear. Looking at her made me feel like I was looking at a pair of sixes, a winning horse, a royal flush. Fuck yeah, she was worth it. I’d have bet on her no matter the odds.