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Chapter Two: To Steal A Heart – Step One
Note to self, James thought, do not get caught stealing ever again.
It was one of the hardest things he'd done in his life, honestly, just walking out of the station without saying anything snappy, without shaking a finger and a few choice words in that snobby policeman's face. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, tasting the iron tang of blood from where he had chomped down on it, holding all the angry responses in. It had taken some phenomenal willpower.
But luckily, his normally frayed self-control had decided to recede while he sat in that hard metal chair, the overly bright light shining in his face, and let Mature James take over.
Luckily.
He stuffed another chip into his mouth and sighed, Bach humming in the back of his brain. Right now, he was simply trying not to relive the painful questioning session. "Painful" meaning "acting like he was actually twenty-two instead of fourteen". The officer's squeaky, pompous, we-just-need-to-ask-you-a-few-questions voice, and the way James had had to dig his fingernails into his palms to keep himself from making some retorts that were way overdue – that had been pure torture. It was just a few caramels, for God's sake! He had been (had been? He still was) hungry!
Finally, he managed to form the words that summed up the entire experience:
"Thank the freaking Lord that's over."
James was reclining on a bench by the bus stop, iPod headphones in once more and chip bag open in his lap. Already about a fourth of them were gone, and his fingers were covered in the delicious barbecue-y powder. He licked them, relishing the taste, and crunched down on another chip. Police questionings made him hungry. Storing that fact away, he kept eating.
His hunger was finally quenched when both the chips and the gummy worms were gone. He had been forced to return the caramels, but the police had been feeling nice and let him keep the other stuff he'd bought. James tapped the side of the Coke bottle with his fingernails a few times – a trick he'd learned from Remus to keep it from fizzing over once it was opened – and twisted the cap. It foamed, but none of the bubbles came close to spilling onto his hand. Tilting his head back, he drank down half the soda, then adjusted his headphones in his ears just as one of Haydn's sonatas began to play.
Speaking of Remus, he wouldn't be too happy with James, the boy mused, crossing his legs. Sirius would probably laugh, saying that he could've gotten out of there with the caramels, no problem. Peter would no doubt be in awe that James hadn't received at least a night in jail. Luckily, the police had known nothing of James' previous track record when it came to stealing. The five boxes of popcorn, three candy bars, four sets of silverware, and five pairs of scissors, among others, had been more successfully hidden in his jean pockets and jacket sleeves. And that wasn't even the worst of it – thanks to James, seven people in this world were missing at least thirty bucks, Sirius, Peter, and himself owned nice headphones, and they all had a way to charge their various iPods.
But Remus had refused the gifts. He would be angry, no doubt. James still remembered the last time he had stolen something – it was the headphones that now spewed Brahms into his own ears…
His watch read six-oh-three when he pushed open the door to the apartment. Sirius' shift at Abercrombie ended at five, Remus and Peter would have been home since five-thirty. So James was the last one home. This was surprising, as he was usually first, but today had been special…
The smell of pizza was strong, and as the black-haired boy entered the living room that split off into a kitchen, he saw the three boxes open on the table alongside a 2-liter bottle of Dr. Pepper. Sirius was sprawled across the couch, a slice of cheese in hand, watching a Stanford women's soccer game on the old TV with interest. Peter was munching pepperoni and flipping through a book of receipts, muttering to himself. And Remus was leaning against the table, reading, and thoughtfully chewing ham-and-pineapple.
"Save any for me?" James joked, reaching past Remus and taking a swig from the soda, before picking up a piece of pepperoni. Sirius reached for the Dr. Pepper and James gave it to him.
"Hey, James," chorused Sirius and Peter, while the remaining boy looked up at the spectacled youth and frowned.
"James, why are you so late?"
James stuffed half the pizza in his mouth to avoid replying, knowing of his friend's hatred to what he had been doing that had made him late. His hands automatically pushed their way into his pockets. Around the food, he mumbled, "Lost track of time." It was a poor excuse, and Remus' eyes narrowed.
"You have a watch, James."
The black-haired boy shrugged nonchalantly. "What can I say? I'm a forgetful person." His fingers struck something in his pocket and without thinking, he pulled it out and set it on the table.
Remus followed the movement, stared at the iPod. James bit into garlic crust, chewed, then found himself looking at his music player as well, the thoughts registering in his brain a second too late.
He lunged to grab it and stuff it back into his pocket, but Remus was quick, and managed to yank the headphones out of the headphone jack before James could do anything.
"James, what are these?" The earbuds, shiny, new, and a complete giveaway, dangled in front of hazel eyes, which were half-crossed, trying to keep both angry face and newly attained item in sight. Quickly, without thinking, James reached up and grabbed them out of his friend's fist, then immediately regretted it. Remus, especially when he was in this mood, was nothing to take lightly.
"Um… headphones?" They dangled from James' fingers.
The silence hurt his ears. Remus set his book down, very deliberately, as if trying not to break it. The muted thud it made on the table was deafening.
Peter stopped talking to himself, instead closing the receipt book with a barely audible rustle and shrinking back. Sirius, who had been loudly munching away, closed his mouth, swallowed, and reached for the remote, pressing the volume button.
"SHE WHIPS PAST THE LAST DEFENDER AND SCORES…!"
Neither James nor Remus paid any attention to the suddenly blaring television set.
Instead, the sandy-haired boy took a very deep breath, and closed his eyes briefly, a sign of intense frustration. "James…"
"Look, Remus, they're just a pair of headphones. What's the big deal?" The words slipped out before he knew it, and James resisted the urge to clap his hand over his mouth and groan as Remus glared at him, eyes stony.
"What's the big deal?" His voice was very quiet. Quiet was dangerous. James recoiled about two inches.
In the background: Sirius gestured wildly at the TV. "Hey look, Peter, it's that hot chick!"
"What's the big deal, James?" Remus took a half step forward. James cursed himself. Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad.
Then Remus exploded.
"The big DEAL, as you so eloquently put it, is that you are STEALING. Did you know, JAMES POTTER, that stealing is a CRIME? As in, you could get put in JAIL if you got CAUGHT? Look, I dealt with the silverware, and the scissors, and the money, because we needed them at the time, but ENOUGH is ENOUGH." He leaned forward so his face was barely an inch away from James' own. "All the rest of us have JOBS, James. We're working hard – hell, even SIRIUS has managed to keep his job for more than a fucking MONTH…"
"Hey!" protested Sirius weakly. The glare that Remus shot him was ice. Sirius turned back to the TV, where Peter said quickly and loudly: "She IS rather hot, Sirius…"
But the hotness of the soccer player was lost on the furious boy in front of James. "We are ALL working to stay in this apartment, to pay the fucking RENT for God's sake, and there YOU are, walking around, STEALING THINGS. I KNOW you came from a rich family, James, and Lord knows you could get a job if you actually WANTED one, so how about you just TRY, for ONE FUCKING SECOND, to see this from OUR perspective? I don't CARE if you really wanted these headphones, I don't CARE if you got some for Sirius and Peter before you stole them for YOURSELF. What I CARE about, James, is that EVERY SINGLE TIME you walk past a display for something you WANT, you can't control yourself enough to not just TAKE IT. What I CARE about is that one day you are going to get CAUGHT, and then you're gonna get put in JAIL, and guess who's gonna have to work to bail you out? YES. THAT'S RIGHT. WE are. THAT is what I care about, you little…"
Remus trailed off, and it seemed like his anger faded a little then, and the weariness showed on his young face even as he stepped back a pace and sighed, more out of disappointment than anything. James stuffed his hands in his pockets, the wire of the headphones hanging out of the corner, and dropped his gaze.
When Remus spoke once more, his voice was soft.
"No more stealing, James. Please."
James swallowed, glanced up at his friend's pleading face. The expression on it was so full of worry that he felt all the guilt inside of him swell up and burst, like a bubble. He nodded.
"All right, Remus. No more stealing."
Now, the guilt was back, drumming at his brain.
The other boys might have jobs, but this is the way I make my living, he told himself stolidly, chugging some more Coke. The pang that the thought sent to his chest was ignored, like always.
Instead, he turned his head to study the schedule pasted on the side of the dingy glass half-box that constituted the bus stop. The bus at twelve twenty-seven would take him within a quarter mile of his apartment. Good. At least he didn't have to walk. James leaned back on the bench, crossing his legs, and closed his eyes, facing his head up towards the sky. The sun painted red on the backs of his lids, and the sonata closed with a powerful chord in D major.
The twelve-sixteen bus pulled up to the curb with a screech, and the group of people that had been slowly accumulating around him filed onto the steps. James stood up, crumpled the empty snack bags into a ball, and tossed them at the nearest trashcan. They bounced against the edge and tipped into the metal container with a rustling sound.
He pulled his iPod out of his pocket and put on Scott Joplin's "Entertainer". He wanted something happier and peppier to help him pass the time.
Lily had classes starting at two and it was eleven forty-five. Two hours. Two hours to finish all her errands. She shifted one of her grocery bags onto the other arm to balance herself out more evenly and pinged open the door to the dry-cleaners', entering with an ungainly amount of crinkling. She winced as the people in line turned to look at her, their eyes curious.
Dryly, she thought to herself, Thank God there's a line, as she allowed herself a brief moment of rest, putting down the bags and rubbing at the red marks they had pushed into her skin. That's me, finding the good in everything.
With a quick scan of the hangers and the plastic-covered clothing dangling from them – there was her super-nice blue dress, right in the corner – she took her wallet out from her purse and searched through it for a second before pulling out the paper that told the man behind the desk which article of clothing was hers. Lily gave it a brief once-over. She could barely discern what it said. How could people read that scrawl? It was beyond messy.
It's like the prescriptions you get at the doctor's office, was her absentminded response to her own question. Even though that was the logical answer, Lily amused herself by pretending it was a secret code, known only to those who could write equally as horrible as the person sending the message. Nothing better to do to pass the time. She hated lines.
She lugged her bags two feet forward when the customer in front departed carrying about six hanger-fuls of suits and pressed shirts. Dropping them heavily once everyone else stopped moving, she studied her palms, which the thick-paper handles had already cut into, with some regret. God, how much could some groceries weigh? Her poor hands were being mutilated all because she hadn't had any strawberries for her smoothie. Not that her need for the drink had evaporated. She still wanted it. A lot.
After about ten more minutes of waiting and coming up with stories about the people in front of her – the old woman with about sixty bangles around her wrist was an enchantress, and the jangly bracelets the source of her power, and the teenager bouncing up on the balls of her feet, glancing every so often out the door where a car was surely idling, was collecting lingerie for her secret late-night escapades with her lover – Lily found herself at the front of the line, groceries planted at her feet. Finally.
The man at the counter was mildly handsome with a pierced ear and short blonde hair, and he smiled at her before taking the paper she held out to him. Lily rolled her eyes as he turned his back. Stupid flirts.
She found herself rolling them again when he handed the hanger to her and held on a little longer than necessary, flashing white teeth in what was obviously supposed to be an alluring grin. The redhead, unable to pry the garment from his grasping fingers, decided to go offensive with an inner groan. She tilted her head to the side and gave him her best dazzling smile, which did what it was intended to: the man gaped, his grip loosened, and she tugged the dress free.
"Thank you!" she exclaimed, all fake pep, and slung her grocery bags heavily onto her arms, marching out of the store.
Stupid flirts.
The bus stop was a block away, a distance she really didn't feel like walking. But despite her mental protesting, she found herself teetering her way towards it. Her whole upper body literally felt like it was dying. The grocery bags were fucking heavy!
She was trying to find a way to safely fold up the Saran-wrapped dress without wrinkling the fabric, and was so preoccupied that she nearly ran into the dirty-glassed side of the bus stop. Blushing, she glanced around to make sure no one had seen her clumsiness. Luckily, no one seemed to be watching. Lily backed up, tucking her garment under her arm and securing it to her side using sheer elbow force. There. That would have to work.
The schedule read: Stanford – 12:27. Lily checked her watch. It was noon now. Twenty- seven minutes to kill. She wasn't particularly good at killing time, especially since she was the type of girl who always needed to have something to do, whether it was errands or essays or even just going out with friends to a movie. Lily wasn't practiced in the art of being bored, simply because she never was. So she opted not to sit on the bench beside the curb and lounge like others were doing.
Instead, she headed for the small coffee shop just beyond the stop, thinking to buy something to drink. She knew Marlene, whose classes ended at one today, would appreciate a latte. And she would rather wait twenty-seven minutes in the air conditioning, where she could put her groceries down and be sure that the chocolate cake wouldn't melt.
The prospect of allowing her poor arms some rest was enough to propel her quickly towards the café.
The bell over the shop's door jingled as she pushed it open with her shoulder and headed inside, the smell of muffins and coffee blending together pleasantly. She headed for a lone table hiding in the corner and sunk down gratefully in the hard chair, shoving her bags onto the table with a sigh. Stretching her arms to make sure they weren't permanently damaged (they weren't), she leaned back against the wall, letting herself relax, her eyelids sinking closed. Just a bus ride, and then she'd be back at the dorm. Thank God.
She opened her eyes. Call it coincidence, but the first thing she saw was a poster in the window proclaiming: New Strawberry-Banana Shake! Only $3.99!
Lily just wanted to go home so she could make her own goddamn strawberry-banana-kiwi smoothie. It was better than anything this Starbucks wannabee could cook up.
But with a sigh, feeling the need to be a good friend, and because Marlene's Lit class often tired the crap out of the brunette, Lily headed for the counter, scanning the menu: one large latte, coming right up.
The bus lurched forward abruptly, and Lily, who was already loaded down with the groceries, plus her dry-cleaning and the latte she'd bought for Marlene and her purse, couldn't help it.
She fell.
Unfortunately for her, all the helpful little poles that everyone had hung on to when the bus started moving were occupied, and although she scrabbled to grasp something, anything, she found herself unbalanced and unsteady thanks to the shitload of stuff she was carrying.
She was helpless to the laws of gravity. Fuck Newton, she thought wildly as she spun her arms, attempting to regain balance.
She managed to let out a little "Ah!" of surprise, but everyone around her was too busy either checking their iPhones or gazing out the window to even think about turning towards her.
It wasn't even a graceful fall, either. It was more of a "let's-watch-this-crazy-redhead-who's-carrying-way-too-much-stuff-fall-over-and-not-help-her" fall. Lily supposed that the people on the bus didn't have an obligation to help her. It wasn't like she would have volunteered to be the one to break her own fall, had she been watching. All of this ran through her head in the span of about three-quarters of a second, from the time when the bus sprang forward in a haze of gray exhaust to when she stumbled over her own feet and tumbled backwards.
Somehow, though, in the next half second before she hit the ground, luck was on her side.
Hands came around her waist, gripping her firmly. The fingers – all she could see of this person – were masculine, making her think that it was a guy who was supporting her. They pushed her back up into a reasonably upright position, and then brushed against all her bags, realigning them on her arms, before withdrawing quickly.
Lily rotated as quickly as she could given the amount of space she had and the bus's zigzagging route, staggering but keeping her balance.
The man who had helped her to her feet – well, at least she thought it was him – had turned completely away, staring out the back window. From what she could see, he had messy black hair, tanned skin, and was tall, much taller than she was, wearing jeans and a dark blue T-shirt. Tucked under his left elbow was a half-empty Coke, and she could see the headphones snaking from his ears to disappear in front of him.
"Thanks," she said, pitching her voice louder, since he was listening to music.
He didn't seem to have heard her, only shrugged his hands into his pockets.
"Excuse me?" Lily would have tapped his shoulder, except her arms were so weighed down by all her stuff that she couldn't find the energy to. "Um, sir?"
The man stayed where he was.
"Thank you," Lily said loudly. The old lady sitting in the seat (lucky bitch) by her left hip shot her a dirty look that read obviously, Shut up please.
A little bemused, the redhead turned away, and when the man hopped off the steps of the bus and walked the other way down the sidewalk two stops later, she did not notice.
James hopped up the steps of the bus, his iPod now playing Schumann, and glanced around half-heartedly for a seat. The small space was so stuffed with people that he didn't exactly expect to find one, so instead he squirmed through the crowd and managed to find a place where he could breathe. Kind of.
It was a moment later that the bus spewed out a load of smoke, exhaled like an old man who'd had a few too many cigarettes – he could hear it through his music – and then leapt out onto the street. James was an expert at these types of transportation, and swayed with the movement of the wheels, staying on his feet. A few people around him pinwheeled their arms and managed to keep themselves upright.
Except one.
A petite redhead who was laden with bags, facing away from James, staggered backwards a step, threw out her arms for balance, and found herself thrown off by the unequal weights dangling from the crooks of her elbows. Her mouth opened, letting out a yelp of surprise that was inaudible due to the piano that James was currently listening to, tripped onto her heels, and began to fall.
James watched for a second, not really intending on doing anything, and then he glimpsed the wallet poking halfway out of her purse.
Okay, so maybe the temptation was a little too much.
He tucked the Coke he had been holding under his left arm and was behind her in a step, reaching out to grab her cardiganed waist, his large hands holding her up easily. With the smooth moves of a professional (although he didn't really call himself one) he pushed her up so she was standing on those two boot-clad feet and then slipped his right hand deftly into her purse, pulling out the wallet with a quick, practiced movement and sliding it into his pocket. Then he ran his fingers over her bags, acting like he was simply straightening all the handles, but actually hiding any sign of his pickpocketing. Covering all his tracks.
Like an expert.
He pivoted on his heel quickly, the music loud in his ears. He had learned that, to avoid suspicion, you had to have as little contact as possible from the person you had just stolen from. He would look like any other guy on the street from the back – jeans, black hair, blue shirt. And the headphones would provide an excuse for him to possibly not hear her, in case she was the clingy type and wanted to say thank-you about a million times.
He heard a differently-pitched tone from that of the violin that was crooning from his iPod, possibly her voice, but did not turn around. Instead, he continued to pretend he was staring intently at something out the back window of the bus, put his hands in his pockets, and balanced the wallet in his palm. It was soft leather, with a zipper and some sort of design embossed on the front. His finger traced the surface, learning its shape – long and rectangular, very feminine – and its size – small enough to fit in his palm, but large enough to hold a good amount of money and credit cards. A small grin traced his face. After that police questioning and unwanted flashback, it was his lucky day.
Two stops later, James climbed off the bus and turned towards his apartment building, chugging the last of the Coke and tossing it into an empty trash bin. He hummed along to Beethoven and sauntered down the sidewalk.
James was a practiced actor. The spring in his step was as genuine as any. But just as most wouldn't know that he was listening to classical instead of heavy metal, none would realize that his casualness was completely and utterly forced.
The guilt in his chest was a thousand-pound weight holding him down to the scratchy sidewalk.
Don't worry, Remus will never know, he consoled himself.
About what, you stupid asshole? The caramels or the wallet?
Beethoven's ninth symphony ended. Tchaikovsky's "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy" began to play.
Both.
James tried to match his walk to the lightness of the song, but his heart was heavy, and it dragged, countering his bouncy manner.
No more stealing, James. Please.
All right, Remus. No more stealing.
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