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Schultz is an idiot.
There’s nothing wrong with the smell of gasoline and oil.
What stinks is his breath, under the cover of that spearmint gum.
16
NERO
I’m planning the robbery of the Alliance vault.
If I were to make a to-do list, it would have about eight thousand items on it.
A robbery succeeds or fails in the planning stage. Dante used to do all the planning for the armored truck heists. My big brother is smart. But I’m smarter.
Yeah, that’s right. I’m not just a pretty face. I’m a fucking Moriarty underneath. So this robbery is going to be planned down to the tiniest detail, with contingencies, and contingencies for contingencies. In the end, I’ll walk out of that bank with eight figures of loot and zero evidence left behind. And I hope to do it all without firing a single shot.
I’m not opposed to violence. Actually, I rather enjoy it. But there’s no elegance in a smash-and-grab. Not to mention way too much chance of catching a bullet yourself.
I want to rob Raymond so cleanly that he has no idea who took the money, or where it went.
This kind of strategizing requires a clear mind. I’ve laid off the drinking and smoking. I’m even sleeping eight hours a night.
And yet . . . I’m not experiencing that mental clarity I need.
For one reason alone: Camille.
I’ve known this girl most of my life. I never thought about her at all, unless she was standing right in front of me. So why in the fuck is she popping into my head twenty times a day?
Every time I’m sitting still, poring over stolen blueprints from the bank, or trying to make up a list of supplies, there’s her face, swimming in front of my eyes.
Every time I pick up my phone to call one of my soon-to-be-accomplices, I get the itch to call her instead.
I keep thinking about her hands, touching my face so gently as I came back to consciousness. I think about those huge dark eyes that seem to speak directly to me even when she’s not saying a word.
I never thought she was pretty before.
Now I wonder how I could have been so blind.
Everything about her is lovely, when you look close enough. The shell-pink beds of her fingernails. Her small, round ears peeking out from all those wild curls. The little line between her eyebrows when she frowns. The natural glow of her skin, without makeup or glitter dusted all over it. The slight pink flush under her brown cheeks. Those expressive eyes, so dark and yet so brilliant. Sometimes looking at me with fury or disdain. Sometimes amused, even though she doesn’t want to be. And sometimes, sometimes letting slip something more . . . Sadness. Fear. Worry. Or longing . . .
You have to look close to see any of those things.
But once you do, it makes other girls seem flashy and overblown by comparison. Even at the bank yesterday, Bella was dolled up to the nines, in an outfit that probably cost five figures. And all I could think was that she looked cheap and fake next to Camille. The lacquered nails, the pushed-up cleavage, the bleached hair, the shiny new purse the size of an atlas . . . it was all too much. I just wanted to look at the single curl falling down over Camille’s forehead, and the way she brushed it back with one slim little hand.
Jesus, I sound like a lunatic.
I don’t know what’s happening to me.
Camille doesn’t even like me. Why should she? I’ve been a total ass to her. Nothing personal—I was just being myself. But I’m not a good guy. Not boyfriend material. I’ve always known that. I’m selfish. Impulsive. Easily offended. Chasing after whatever I want and then hating it as soon as I get it.
I don’t think people can change. And I don’t know how to be any other way.
And yet . . .
For once in my life, I wish I were different.
When I laid next to Camille and kissed her, I actually felt happy for a second. I felt connected to her. I felt like she opened up her shell just the tiniest bit, and so did I, without worrying that the other person was going to stab us in our most vulnerable place.
