Stolen Lust Page 7

  All the more reason to get to work quickly.

  Not having a choice, I knock on Mrs. Steyn’s door and ask to use her phone. She hands it to me through the crack with a scowl on her face, listening to every word as I call the bank and tell the receptionist why I’ll be late.

  “Thank you,” I say, handing her back the phone, but she only scoffs and shuts the door.

  Once inside my apartment, I take care of the most urgent business first. I bundle Ian’s jacket in a trash bag. Then I shower with a speed that doesn’t allow for unwinding under the warm water, dress in my uniform, and dry my hair. My hand shakes as I apply just enough make-up to cover the evidence of the traumatic and almost sleepness night.

  Taking a settling breath, I smooth down the white blouse and navy pencil skirt before grabbing my handbag and the trash bag with Ian’s jacket on the way out.

  It’s only a five-block walk to the bank in the center of town where I work. My ballet flats are comfortable, but my feet ache from walking too fast. I’m eager to get to work and anxious to reach my destination.

  At the back of the building, I look around. Satisfied that the coast is clear, I dump the trash bag in one of the big bins and ring the staff entrance bell.

  Alan gets the door. He offers me a smile. “You’re late.”

  “Problems,” I say, wiping my windblown hair from my face.

  He searches my bag and drags a metal detector over my body before ushering me inside.

  I rush down the hallway with its depressing burgundy carpet tiles past the staff kitchen and swipe my card at the bulletproof glass door that gives access to the teller area.

  My station is empty. My colleague looks up from counting out a stash of cash as I drop my bag by the chair and swing the sign around to read open.

  I quickly boot up my computer. The electronic ticket system beeps and a number pops up on my screen. Just as the client steps forward, my boss knocks on the glass and tilts his head toward his office.

  “In a minute,” I mouth, turning back to smile at the client, but a moment later, Nick is next to me, gripping my shoulder and squeezing with a silent order.

  “Excuse me,” I say to the client who rolls her eyes and curses as I leave my station.

  I follow Nick to his office in the corner. The red light above the door sign comes on when he shuts the door, indicating he’s busy and mustn’t be disturbed.

  “Sit.” He motions at the visitor’s chair and skirts around his desk to take his own.

  Balancing on the edge, I say, “I’m sorry I’m late. I was going to come and see you later, but as there’s a queue, I thought I’d first help out where I was needed most.”

  He flattens the hair he grows on the one side of his head over the bald patch at the top. “I got your message.”

  “Then you know it was out of my control.” I brave a smile. “I’ll work back the hours.”

  “Cas.” His tone stills me. “It’s not your fault you got hijacked.”

  Giving a nervous laugh, I settle a little deeper in the chair. “Thank you for understanding.”

  “Of course.” He clears his throat. “Who wouldn’t?”

  I wring my hands together. “I had to give a statement at the police station. That’s why I’m so late.”

  “I know.”

  The way he leans forward and interlocks his fingers makes me nervous, but it’s the hesitation, as if he’s weighing his words, that makes me panic.

  “Cas.” He clears his throat again. “I’m afraid I don’t have a choice but to let you go.”

  The words ring in my ears. I couldn’t have heard right. It must be a joke. My lips part, but my mind won’t form words.

  He waits.

  I blink.

  “It’s the criminal activities clause.”

  “I…” I swallow away the dryness of my mouth. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “It doesn’t require breaking the law as such.” He gives me a level stare. “It includes the possibility of having been compromised.”

  “Compromised?” I exclaim.

  “The police called this morning. I’m well aware that you’ve been held hostage last night, and as much as it pains me to say, I can’t rule out the fact that you may be a security risk.”

  “You must be joking,” I say with a disbelieving laugh.

  “Sadly, no.” He pushes a stack of stapled papers over the desk. “This is your contract. The terms of your dismissal are stated within.”

  This can’t be happening. The unfairness stiffens my spine. “Explain to me how I’m a security risk.”

  “Your capacity as a bank employee has been compromised. It’s not uncommon for criminals to extract information from bank employees.”

  Information? A suspicion unfurls in a corner of my mind, something that warns me there’s something much larger than a hijacking at play. For now, I push it away. I can only fight one battle at a time. “I’m only a teller.”

  “You were doing filing in the vault, weren’t you?” His look isn’t entirely unfriendly. His tone is almost apologetic when he says, “You have access to the code.”

  “Only the front room.” I wipe my sweaty palms over my skirt. “I’ve never been inside the back room where they keep the money.”

  “The safe deposit boxes are in the front,” he points out with a flick of his eyebrow.

  “I’d never give anyone the code, and even if I did, you can change it.”

  “We already have.” His smile turns professional. Impersonal. “However, you know the schedule and when the guards change shifts. You know the guards, Ms. Joubert, and they’re—How shall I say?—friendly with you.”

  I register in the back of my mind he’s no longer calling me by my first name, a very bad sign.

  Still, I defend my position, praying for a miracle. “I say hi when I clock in and goodbye when I go home.” I can’t help the bite in my tone. “It’s good manners.”

  He brushes the comment away with a wave of his hand. “Yes, well, you have access to information. Unfortunately, no matter how sophisticated our firewalls, the hackers always seem to find a way in.”

  “Alan—” I catch myself lest he thinks being on a first-name basis with the guards is too familiar. “Mr. Stander searched my bag this morning. You can search my person. I’m not carrying any USB flash drives or hacking devices.”

  He looks at me from under his eyebrows. “Maybe not today.”

  I gape at him, feeling like I’m going to be sick, only, my last meal had been before midnight, and my churning stomach is empty. “This is insane.”

  “Not as much as you’d like to believe.” He hands me a pen. Discussion closed.

  I clutch the gold-plated pen with his engraved initials between my fingers. “You can’t. You can’t do this.”

  “I’m acting within protocol and within my rights. You’re welcome to consult with our company lawyer on the matter.”

  Of course he’s already cleared his action with their lawyer.

  “Take it,” he says, waving the contract at me. “Read it over. You’re welcome to let your own lawyer have a look before you sign.”

  The papers scrunch in my hand as I unwillingly take the stapled stack.

  “A security guard will escort you off the premises.” He gets to his feet and waits.

  With no choice, I stand too. Numb and nauseated, I follow his cue as he comes around the desk and holds the door. I walk through it to find Alan already waiting on the other side.

  He shoots me a sympathetic look. “Sorry, Cas. I didn’t know. They just told me.”

  Acting like it doesn’t matter, I gather my bag under the gaping stares of my coworkers. Clients stretch their necks to follow my walk of shame.

  Like a criminal, I’m escorted out of the building. Alan apologizes again before he shuts the door, leaving me standing on the pavement in the sunlight. My only consolation is the perverse satisfaction at knowing Ian’s jacket is in the bin with the bank’s food waste and s
hredded paper. For security reasons, they don’t recycle. Everything gets incinerated.

  Without looking back at the building, I walk down the road and stop on the corner where it hits me like a fist in the stomach. I’m lost. I’m out of options. I’m so deep in the shit, this time, I’m drowning.

  Tears prick at the back of my eyes, but I blink them away. They get stuck in my throat, throbbing with a dull ache. Crying isn’t going to help. I need a plan.

  It takes me a few seconds to make up my mind. Instead of heading home, I turn north and walk the few blocks to the workshop.

  Franck wipes his hands on a cloth when he sees me. A spanner peeks from the front pocket of his overalls. “You okay, Cas?”

  My smile is faint. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He chews on a matchstick in the corner of his mouth, scrutinizing me through one, scrunched-up eye. “Saw the news.”

  “It’s on the news?”

  “Pretty much all the local stations.” He dumps the cloth on the hood of a car. “I hope they catch that son of a bitch.”

  “Yeah.”

  The word comes out half-heartedly, and it shocks me. It shocks me that I don’t want Ian behind bars for what he did. It shocks me that the first thing that comes up in my mind isn’t the wrong he’s done but the way his lips had felt on my body. Heat surges under my skin, traveling up my neck.

  “My car.” I crane my neck to see it still parked in the same spot in the dusty lot out back. “I was wondering how much you’d give me for it.”

  He scrunches both eyes into slits. “You mean you don’t want me to fix it any longer?”

  I suck in my lips and let them go with a pop as I scrounge courage from nowhere to beg for money my car isn’t worth. “I can’t afford the parts.”

  He scratches his head. “I’ll be honest with you. It ain’t worth much.”

  I catch his gaze and hold it. It’s always harder to look away from a direct stare. “How much?”

  Sighing, he shoves his hands in his back pockets. “The best I can do is try to sell the usable parts. It won’t earn you more than a couple of grand.”

  My rent is six grand. I don’t know from where I’m going to get the other four, but every penny is one penny closer to paying my rent and not being homeless. “I’ll take it.”

  He shakes his head as he walks to a petty cash box and pulls out a few bills. “Here,” he says, holding them out to me.

  My cheeks heat as I accept the charity. We both know my rusted old car isn’t worth that much. “Thanks.”

  “You take care now,” he says as I turn on my heel.

  The walk back home gives me time to think. The only lawyer I know is a classmate from school. At the next block, I turn toward the Midtown Mall and go past the German cake house to Mariette’s office on the square.

  “She’s busy,” her secretary says but calls to ask if Mariette can see me.

  After speaking to her boss, she informs me Mariette will meet me at lunchtime in the cake house.

  I’m early, so I take a table next to the window and order a coffee while I wait. I’m starving but unable to stomach food. The caffeine does its magic, settling me somewhat and giving me the boost my tired body and wrung out mind need to not collapse completely.

  When Mariette steps inside, her gaze immediately finds me. The place isn’t busy. Offering me a wry smile, she makes her way over. She’s never forgiven me for being more popular with the boys than her, even if I never asked for the attention. She’s held the grudge against me unfalteringly, using her brain as a weapon against my beauty—her words—at every chance she got.

  “This is a surprise,” she says, taking the chair opposite me.

  I cut to the chase. “I need your professional opinion.”

  She hooks the sling of her bag over the chairback. “Hire me.”

  My smile is tight. “You know I can’t afford you.”

  “Told you to study something useful after school.” She folds her hands on the table. “Being pretty isn’t enough to earn a living.”

  I clench my jaw at the jab. It wasn’t my dad’s fault we lost the farm. She has no idea what it’s like to fight a losing battle against drought.

  A retort is on the tip of my tongue, but I let it slide. I need her. I don’t have a choice. “Nick fired me.”

  She glances at the papers in my hand and reaches over the table. “Let me see.”

  I hand them over with reluctance, even if I’m the one asking for the favor. I hate begging. I hate being in her debt.

  Her gaze scans over the print as she reads. She flicks over the page and carries on, in between ordering a toasted cheese sandwich and apple strudel when the waiter comes to our table.

  After going through the last page, she lifts her head to look at me. Her expression is bland. “They’re within their rights. You signed the clause when you accepted the position, which, may I add, was a dumb move. With this, they can get through any legal loophole.”

  My spirits sink to the bottom of the pit. I’m not sure I’ll be able to claw my way out. “What about compensation?”

  “According to this,” she waves the papers in her hand, “you owe them more interest for the money they advanced on your salary than giving you three months’ worth of layoff pay. I’d advise you to cut your losses. You stand to lose more in a drawn-out court case than you can possibly win.”

  “This is your honest opinion?” I ask with the last hope I manage to scavenge.

  She lifts a brow in silent answer.

  Right. Mariette never gives anything but her honest opinion. I sag back in my chair. “Thanks, I guess.”

  Taking her bag, she zips it open and goes through her wallet.

  “What are you doing?” I ask as she takes out a stack of bills.

  “It’s about six hundred.” She puts it in the middle of the table. “It’s all I have on me.”

  I look from the money to her face. “I didn’t ask.”

  “You don’t have to pay me back.”

  I can’t. I simply can’t take the money under her judgmental stare, because there’s satisfaction in the quirk of her lips. The knowing smile says she’s happy about my misery. A woman like her, too envious to appreciate her own beautiful qualities, will never be happy for my fortune. She needs to push me down into the dirt, just like she’d done with her comments in high school.

  Pushing back my chair, I get to my feet. “Thanks, but no thanks.” Her eyebrows pinch together, but I don’t wait for her to smooth out her face. “Thanks for the advice,” I say, already making my way to the door.

  Outside, I drag in air. My chest aches with every breath. I check the time on the clock in the square. I take my chronic medication twice a day and three times when there’s a need. I shake two pills from the bottle and swallow them dry. Finally, out of options, I head home.

  On the way, I stop at the corner grocer to stock up on salad and fresh fruit but stop when I pass by the wine. I hesitate. Normally, I don’t drink much alcohol with my condition except when I go out for dinner, but I can do with a glass. Not that I can afford the wine right now. On second thought, I grab a bottle of Merlot and my favorite chocolate-coated nuts and pay for the luxuries with Ian’s money.

  At home, I go straight to the bathroom, undressing on the way and discarding my clothes on the living room floor. I run a bath, close the blinds, light a candle, and open the wine.

  Soaking in the tub, I eat all the chocolates and down the bottle. The buzz blissfully dulls my senses, and soon my eyelids droop. I’m so damn tired. I can’t come up with any plans of self-salvation. I’ll think better after a few solid hours of sleep.

  I drain the bath and wrap a towel around myself. Not bothering to wash the bath, I go to my bedroom. All I want is to drop down onto the mattress and lose myself to sleep. In the doorframe, I pause. I’m drunk, but not so much that I don’t register the white box lying on my bed.

  My heart slams into my ribs, my tiredness evaporating in a flash. My pulse
spikes as I look around. My door was locked. No one broke in. I’m alone in the apartment. Still, I fling open every closet and cupboard and check under the bed. I double-check that I’ve locked the door before hurrying back to the room where I stare at the box with the familiar logo.

  I reach out carefully, as if it’s a snake that can bite, and lift the lid. Inside, fitting snugly in the plastic cutout backing, lies a brand new iPhone.

  Chapter 7

  Ian

  My brother barges through the door, letting it slam against the wall. Ruben follows with heavy thuds of his Caterpillars in Leon’s wake.

  I lower the book I’m reading at the kitchen table to acknowledge my sibling’s brooding face as he storms across the floor. He’s younger than me by only eighteen months. When I look at the flex of his jaw and the flash of his eyes, I see myself. That is, minus the lack of control. I’ve always had a better handle on my emotions. We have the same complexion, the same dark hair and eyes, and the same build and height. We’re both as comfortable in leather and jeans as in a power suit. The only difference is my haircut and tattoos. I guess I’ve always been more rebellious, the bad influence who led my brother astray.

  It’s that guilt, that ever-present feeling of responsibility for the course his life has taken, that makes me push back my irritation when he kicks a chair and circles the floor with his face tilted to the ceiling.

  “Fuck,” he says to the sky.

  Ruben hovers at the far end of the room, his thumbs hooked into the loops of his waistband.

  I don’t speak. I let Leon get a grip on his anger, but I give him my full attention by marking the page with a dog ear before closing the book and sliding it over the table. I don’t have to wait long.

  After a second, Leon rolls his shoulders. The denim jacket stretches over his back as he leans his palms on the chair on my right and hangs his head. It takes another second before he lifts his gaze to me.