Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“Can I ask you something?” He looks over and doesn’t say no. “You taught your sister some thieving stuff, right?”
“Not too much.”
“But you know how to teach someone?”
He sits back, coffee in both hands. “In theory, I could.”
“Well, you and me are working together now, right?”
“In theory, yes.”
“If you say in theory again, I’m going to dump the rest of your coffee on your face. We are working together, and it’d be nice if I knew a few things so I can actually help you.”
His mouth flattens into a straight line. “What if I don’t want that?”
“You don't want me involved at all, but you might as well get some benefit from the arrangement.”
“I’m benefiting enough already.” His eyes rake down my body and end up on his plate. “Fantastic breakfast, by the way.”
I fight back the heat rising in my cheeks. “Teach me something simple. Start small. I might never have to use it—“
“You won’t.”
“But it would be good to know anyway.”
“Do you want me to turn you into a master thief?” He stands, bringing his plate into the kitchen. I go to take it, but he slips around me gracefully, opening the dishwasher and clearing his own mess. “You want to learn how to break into a bank vault?”
“I was thinking maybe we could start with lock picking. That’s something you could teach, right?”
“You won’t need that.”
“Says who? Look, I get it, I know what you were doing at that bar. You were using me like a distraction. You wanted to see if I could hold that bartender’s attention.”
His expression darkens at the memory. “You did well. A little too well.”
“And you already punished me enough.”
“I don’t know. Maybe not.”
“Show me something. Come on, what else are you doing today?”
He glances over toward the backpack. It’s quick but noticeable and he immediately pretends like he hadn’t. I’m about to ask what he’s got in there when he bumps into me as he walks past.
“There’s nothing I can teach you.”
“Don’t be a dick,” I say, rubbing my arm. “You don’t need to be a jerk.”
“You think that’s all I am?” He turns and holds something up. I take a second to realize it’s my phone.
“How the hell!” I check my pocket. Sure enough, empty. “You robbed me.”
“I pulled off a classic bump. Pickpockets learn that shit when they’re children.” He holds the phone out but snatches it back before I can take it. “I’ll teach you something simple, because you’re right, you might be more useful if you have some skills to fall back on.”
“Great. Now give me my phone.”
“No.” He slips it into the pocket of his sweats. “Take it from me.”
“How?”
“Walk past. The bump is the distraction. You want me paying more attention to your shoulder than to your hand. You knock me slightly, and the physical contact masks your fingers sliding into my pocket. Think you can do that?”
“I’ll give it a try, but you know it’s coming.”
“Doesn’t matter. Come on, bump me.”
That sounds oddly erotic, but this is what I wanted, right? It’s a training exercise with real world applications. I walk over, trying to stay confident, but already feeling my heart begin to race.
It’s awkward when I ram into him. I try to snatch my fingers into his hip pocket, but I hit too hard and go careening to the side with a curse. His smirk is infuriating.
“You’re not trying to check me into the boards like we’re playing hockey. Just a bump. Go again.”
“Can’t we do something else?”
“No. Again.”
His attitude annoys me. It’s like he’s trying to teach a child. I gather myself, steady my breathing, and stride toward him. This time, when our shoulders collide, I manage to get my fingers near the pocket, although I don’t manage to get inside. He twists and snatches my wrist, holding it tight.
“Miss, are you trying to rob me? Police! Help!”
“Let go, you dick.” I swat at him.
“Thief! Thief! And now you go straight to jail. Sorry.”
“Hilarious.” I twist from his grip. “Again?”
“Again.”
I try several more times. Each one is uniquely terrible. Once I touch the phone, but can’t get it in my fingers. Another time I straight up trip and fall on my face. He picks me up, pats my ass, and tells me to keep going.
“This is useless.” I flop on the couch, frustrated. “Can’t we do something else?”
“All things considered, you’re doing well.” He pulls over a chair and sits on it backward. “You know what thieves and magicians have in common?”
“Bad hats.”
“Misdirection.” He flutters his fingers to the left. When he snaps his right fingers, he’s holding a flower.
“How the—“
“Misdirection,” he says again, twirling the flower, and snaps. “Check your pocket.”
I pat my sweats—and there it is. I slip my phone back out. “When? How?!”
“Stealing is easy. Any idiot can grab something and run away. Getting away with it is the hardest part. That’s where misdirection comes into play. When you bump me, you’re not trying to hurt me. You’re trying to annoy me, just long enough to make me focus on you instead of on your fingers robbing me. So try it again, and this time, be annoying.”