Fuck.
My.
Life.
Chapter Eleven
JOSEPHINE
Tuesday morning dawnsclear and bright.
I blink awake six minutes before my alarm. Kicking off my duvet, I practically vault out of bed and race for the bathroom. I speed through my shower, leaving my damp hair to dry naturally. No time for blow dryers, today.
I throw on my uniform — pleated green and black plaid skirt, coordinating blazer, crisp white shirt. My stockings have a tear, which delays me a bit rummaging around for fresh ones, but a glance at the slim silver watch on my wrist shows I’m still on track.
With a heavy stack of textbooks pressed to my chest, I creep down the grand staircase, grimacing at every creaky step.
Historic houses make sneaking around a varsity sport.
At the bottom, I pause, straining to hear any sign of Flora in the kitchen — faint humming, the clatter of pans, a refrigerator clicking shut. But there’s nothing.
All clear.
I step off the landing, round the atrium corner, and slink down the hall to my father’s study. Inside, it smells of old leather-bound books and fresh furniture polish. I find it odd that there’s no dust; that the imposing mahogany desk shines brightly even in its neglected state. I suppose Flora still cleans in here, even if my father isn’t around to appreciate it.
The top desk drawer isn’t even locked. And the key fobs are exactly where I thought they’d be — in plain view, nestled in a small box. Mine for the taking.
I grab one at random, caring less about my mode of escape than the act of it. My thumb traces the design engraved on the fob’s surface: a pair of wings inset with the letter B. As I pocket it, a fissure of exhilaration quakes my rule-oriented foundations.
I’ve never stolen a thing in my life. Not a pack of chewing gum, not a hotel bathrobe, not an apple from the produce aisle. Certainly not a car.
How many years in the slammer do you get for grand theft auto?
Today, I’m willing to risk it.
Backtracking my steps, I find my way to the side door off the atrium that leads to the garage. The fleet sits there, tucked beneath satin dust covers like thoroughbreds left to wither in their stalls. A shameful waste of horsepower.
I sort them by their distinct shapes — the low-slung Porsche, the stately Rolls Royce, the angular Aston Martin, the sharp-edged Tesla. And, at the far end, my destination: the boxy Bentley.
My father has more automobiles than any one man requires — especially a man that’s rarely even on this continent enough to get behind the wheel. I suppose that works in my favor, though. It would be much harder to steal one of his cars if he were actually home to notice.
I yank the dust-cover off the Bentley and pile it in a corner. Clicking the fob, I grin as the headlights flash in response and reach for the door handle.
“I wouldn’t take it if I were you,” a voice says casually.
I jump about a mile into the air. The fob clatters to my feet, then skitters beneath the chassis. Whirling around, I come face to face with Miguel. I didn’t even notice him crouched down by the front of the Porsche, a tire-pressure gauge in his hand.
“I—I’m not—I wasn’t—”
“Stealing your father’s Bentley? Sure you were.” Miguel chuckles. When he does, his caramel eyes crinkle up at the corners — just like his son’s. Looking at him is like staring into the future. He’s Archer in thirty years. Salt and pepper hair, a few wrinkles gathered around his temples. Still handsome in that roguish way that makes women on the street turn their heads.
“You’d make a pretty lousy criminal, JoJo,” Miguel tells me cheerfully.
“I’m sorry. I just…” I trail off. I have no reasonable explanation to offer him. I chew my lip as I wait for the axe to fall. Miguel never gets angry — not that I’ve seen, at least. But his quiet disappointment is infinitely worse than any raised voices or raging words.
“What was the plan? Sneak in here and steal a car to avoid riding with Archer?”
I blink, stunned. “How did you—”