Free King of Forgotten Clubs by Jennifer Recchio Page B

the boardwalk, pockets full of notecards. I’d always preferred the boardwalk to the park. The boardwalk never felt more than half real, as if all the people swarming over it had agreed to pretend we were all part of some brilliant movie where no one had to do anything besides lounge on the beach and have passionate affairs. Women ran down to the beach in string bikinis, vendors hawked slushies and ice cream, and surfers carried their boards on their backs as they pretended to be gods.
    I took a breath and forced my thoughts back to the job at hand. This was supposed to be a two-man operation. I’d finished planning it with Annabelle a few days ago, but I couldn’t ask her for help. I couldn’t claim to be an expert on the rules of breaking up, but I was pretty sure calling your ex the day after a breakup and asking for help with a covert op was not allowed. And anyone else would just want to talk about where Annabelle was, a conversation I wasn’t ready for yet.
    A server in a white apron stepped out of the back door of the sushi place, trash bag in hand. That was my cue. I took a deep breath. I wasn’t even sure I cared anymore. But I had to see it through because it had seemed like a good idea two weeks ago.
    It occurred to me that life decisions weren’t my strong suit.
    I strode up to the door.
    “Excuse me, sir?” the server asked. He was tall in a gangly way, with a shadow of stubble on his chin. “The entrance is around the corner.”
    I froze. I couldn’t remember my line. I fought the urge to pull out a notecard and check. I didn’t even want to be there, and I looked like an absolute idiot.
    “He’s with me.” Annabelle strolled over as if she owned the sidewalk and everything that dared border it. A clunky purse framed her shoulder. Her aviators hid her eyes.
    The server shook his head but stepped out of our way as we swept in through the back door.
    “What are you doing?” I whispered.
    “I don’t know,” she whispered back.
    Did she mean she didn’t know what her plan was, or that she didn’t know why she’d showed up at all? It might have helped if I knew which one I had been asking. I did know the answer I wanted, the answer she’d never give me: I missed you .
    Inside, the restaurant was all chrome and black, with small circular tables scattered around in faux casualness. A few diners talked quietly over their meals. The place was like a high-end clothing shop where they only put out a few pieces to show how fancy and expensive the place was. On the back wall was the famous fish tank, lit with flashing colors.
    We were going to steal the piranha.
    I pulled my black polo shirt straight and stepped onto the marble floor, Annabelle close beside me. One of the diners looked up, and our eyes met. I missed a step.
    Dark eyes framed by darker lashes framed by bleached blond hair met my gaze. The piercing on her nose winked at me. We stared at each other, neither of us so much as blinking.
    “Pak,” Annabelle hissed in my ear.
    I shook off my daze and refocused. Piranha. Running girl. Piranha.
    I couldn’t stop wondering what her nose piercing was. I followed Annabelle across the floor, chancing a casual glance at the girl as we walked past. It was a small red stud. I’d expected something more dramatic from a girl on the run from the law, like a motorcycle or a really angry butterfly. Maybe she was trying to blend in.
    We reached the tank. I watched a shimmering beta fish flit by. I could almost catch a glimpse of the girl’s reflection in the glass.
    Fish, I was supposed to be focusing on the fish. “Do you see it?” I asked.
    Annabelle shook her head. I looked back at the girl. She was staring across the room at someone else. I shouldn’t have been bothered by that, but I was.
    “Who’s that?” Annabelle whispered in my ear.
    Did she see who I was looking at? Could she follow my gaze to the black ruffles of the girl’s dress, the sleek line of her blond hair? I needed to look