Finders Keepers

♙ || тwo

♙ || ❝cool and collecтed.❞

♙ neхт υpdaтe - [ jυne тнιrтιeтн - тwenтy ғoυrтeen ] 

♖ⓑⓡⓞⓞⓚⓛⓨⓝ P.O.V

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Carmen had asked earlier this morning when we we’d both woken up early. In our wake we’d left our bed with disheveled off-white sheets, displaced pillows, and a crumpled comforter at the foot of our twin bed.

We were sharing a bed in the temporary apartment Pierre had stationed us in. And not because there weren’t enough beds in the room, either.

The night of heist was always the most difficult for Carmen. I knew it, and she knew it. What we did – correction: what we still do messes with her head. She could never fall asleep the same night of a heist. Not alone, at least.

She’d crawled into bed with me last night, incoherently mumbling some excuse about the moonlight getting into her eyes. But I knew the truth. And she didn’t need an excuse or a lie for me anymore, but she gave one anyway.

Why? Because we were trained to. Lie, manipulate, whatever it took to stay off the grid, get our money, and get out. I could never sleep either, and so every time we planned a heist, sleeping together that same night became routine. We’d huddle into each other for warmth, say our goodnights, and pray that karma wouldn’t sneak in through the window and slit our throats at night.

I think it was the way it made you feel when you finally left the people you’d just stolen from and lied to. It made you feel dirty, bloody, compromised, even. As if you’d just been raped of all your morals.

The money never made it okay, though. It just made it … easy for a while, until you realized the sum you’d stolen wasn’t going to cut it, and that you needed more and that you needed a new target. And then we were off again, all three of us. For three different reasons we were too scared to admit to one another.

The secrecy is what bonded us. Either that or the money.

Currently, we were both in the living room, with the furniture: coffee table, sofa, and flat screen television – pushed into the far corner of the room. There were fifty-dollar bills all over the floor, and we were bathing in it. We’d always wanted to do it. Roll around in money, and smell like we’d showered in it.

“This is a lot more fun than I thought it would be.” I conceded, tilting my head to the side with a smirk.

 Rolling toward me, Carmen whispered into my ear, as if it were some sort of secret. “I’m addicted.”

“To the rolling --” I began, also whispering as I attempted to qualify her addiction. But she interrupted me.

“No to the money.”  She whispered in that tragic voice of hers. The voice she used when she remembered something she hadn’t meant to, the one she used when I had asked if she wanted to be part of this “robber-baron-network” her whole life.

“It scares me, I think...” She glanced at me sideways, and from her periphery I know she sees me as I nod my head.

“It should.”

Silence settled between us for a minute or two before we heard none other than the Grinch who stole just about everything except Christmas – yes, I am referring to Blair.

She walked into the living room with her hair frizzy, and eyelids half-closed. 

“You look stunning, darling.” Carmen lied, trying to hold in a giggle as Blair lied down on the other side of me. No questions asked.