The Note by Natalie Wrye (urban books to read .TXT) 📗

the female neighbor—a tight-skirted business exec with a tiny waist and an even tinier dog, casting her a warmer look.

“Thanks for the newspaper, Julia.” He picks it off the table in the lobby, handing it to her. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem, Noah.”

It’s not “Mr. Quinn” to her, apparently. The blonde in the tight skirt smiles, her red lips widening in appreciation at the man made of stone, and I resist the urge to suck my teeth.

He turns back to me. “So are we good to go?” He asks.

“I don’t know.” I shrug, lifting one shoulder, before letting it drop. “You tell me; you’re the one who seems to be having all the fun in my building.”

I hear his soft laughter behind me. And I want to scream.

I hail a taxi outside, quieting the noise inside my mind.

The ride uptown in the yellow taxi is quiet, full of tension.

Noah’s back straightens beside me in the frayed cab seat, those broad shoulders of his pulling taut. He stares directly out of the windshield, his eyes seemingly making a mental note of everything but me, and fifteen minutes later we pull up to Al’s Pawnshop, the dim lighting inside almost warning away customers.

But I know different.

I’d been to Al’s enough as a child.

Pawning away valuables was a way of life when you lived with little. It was either sell that expensive vase in Aunt Roberta’s living room. Or eat.

Your choice.

If life were a fairytale like the ones my beloved aunt used to tell me, a pawnshop would be the place where you picked up the magic beans. Only this time? The magic beans were money.

I try not to imagine her kind, creased face as I pull the front door open, just ahead of Noah. He follows closely behind, his cedar-vanilla smell flooding me and I tamper down the need to inhale, my arms wide as I greet Al behind the counter.

“Al!” I call out.

“Sophiaaaa…” The man with the big belly and even bigger personality exclaims behind the wide glass countertops. “What are you doing here so early? I just opened up. Back so soon?”

His eyes flit between Noah and me, a question in his dark brown eyes. I clear my throat.

“Yeah, so we’ve got sort of a problem.”

“Problem?” Al’s bushy eyebrows furrow.

“Uh, kinda.” I resist the urge to wring my perpetually-painted stained fingers. “You know that watch I sold you the other day?”

“Of course.”

“Well, the thing is…the watch…” And suddenly nerves are crawling out of my ass, making it impossible to speak. My tough Bronx upbringing never prepared me for this. Never prepared me for a man like Noah, and instantly, the sharp tongue that I’m known for goes dull, incapable of forming complete sentences.

The tip of that tongue turns even duller as I continue tripping and falling over my words, just as another voice sounds behind mine, this one much deeper, much more sultry, much more suited for the task at hand.

Noah speaks over my shoulder.

“Hi. Al, is it?” I watch Al nod. “Miss Somer—I mean, Sophia told me all about the watch she sold to you. And I decided that I just had to have it.” The air stills. “I’d love to buy it from you, if you still have it.”

I backpedal away from the glass counters, recognizing the look on Al’s face. I point towards the back of the store, one finger in the air as Noah’s question hangs.

“Bathroom still back there, Al?”

His curious eyes bounce back to me from Noah. “Sure, Soph. Help yourself.”

But that’s exactly what I intend to do.

The “magic bean store” as I liked to think of it has much more than magic beans, and I need to get my hands on it. As I disappear behind the curtain hiding the back of the shop from onlookers, I find myself bypassing the bathroom to head towards the back office, where the security camera setups sit.

Remnant of my old life come rushing back to me in that moment, and the tingle I’d become used to at the innocent age of ten is back in my fingers, signaling the onset that I know is coming.

I may be out of practice. But stealing was a lot like riding a bike.

You never forget.

My blood is rushing, heart racing as I stare around the dark room which gives me a birds-eye view of Al and Noah out front.

I don’t even have to hear the conversation. I know what’s being said.

Al doesn’t have the watch. Al doesn’t have what we need.

Al sold it.

I saw it in his eyes the second I mentioned it.

My black heels scrape lightly against the carpet as my stare peruses over the cameras and tapes lined along the walls of Al’s little security room. Denoted by dates, one tape stands out to me in particular. And I grab it, slipping it down the back of my skirt and shirt where I loosen the fabric only to tuck it back in again.

I slap a smile on my face, emerging from the back only to find Noah’s dark brows furrowed in frustration, his large hand splayed against the counter. I walk up to him, placing my hand on one.

At last, he looks at me. “No watch, huh?”

“No.” He glares. “Al here sold it.” The phrase is accusatory, but Noah’s face barely moves, his jaw set. A subtle anger works inside his assessing eyes, and when he sees the look in my pleading eyes, he blinks, his face fully relaxing. He pulls his back straight, looking as regal as ever and as haughty as I remember.

Al shrugs, his meaty shoulders rising to his chin and dropping. “I wish there were something I could do, pal,” he counters in his thick Bronx-accent, his face showing anything but remorse.

“That’s alright, Al,” I interject. “I’ll make sure Noah gets what he needs…” I let a hidden subtext play beneath my words, and with little left to say, we leave Al’s with me walking fast and Noah falling in step.

Almost a block away on the