The bus drops me off at the edge of Davensport like it's eager to spit me out. I step off, drag my suitcase onto the pavement, and stare down the town's glittering throat.
Same white beach curling along the left, same line of overpriced hotels and chrome-trimmed casinos standing like smug old money to the right. Even draped in tacky Christmas lights, the place hasn't changed. Not the glossy sidewalks, not the palm trees lined like pageant girls, not the scent of ocean and opportunity. And not the rich bastards practically begging to have their wallets lifted.
I grit my teeth and tilt my head to the sky. Flashing neon reflects off the clouds like a bad omen. It reminds me of the jackpot screen on a slot machine. Ding, ding, ding. Game on.
Three years since I left, and it still crawls under my skin. Davensport. I thought the distance, the fear, the mess I left in Atlantic City would've dulled the pull. But standing here now, I feel its claws sink right back into me, dragging out the part of me I swore I buried. The liar. The thief. The girl with a knack for finding suckers and shaking them dry with a smile.
But that girl's supposed to be dead.
I made a promise when I left Jersey behind in a cloud of burned bridges and bounced checks: No more cons. No more lies.
Kira Michaels is going straight.
Just… not tonight.
I shuffle over to the cracked bus shelter, eyeing the faded timetable someone defaced with gum. Davensport—the closest thing I have to home—doesn't have a ride out for another hour. Of course not. This town wasn't built for people without cars or black cards.
I groan and drop onto the cold bench, spine curling under exhaustion. Sixty-something hours on buses, hitching with a trucker who stared at my thighs more than the road, and barely a full night's sleep in a week. All for what? To be stranded in a place I vowed never to step foot in again.
I want a shower. Clean underwear. Food that wasn't vacuum-sealed three states ago. And a bed. God, I want a bed.
But reality's colder than the December air slicing through my coat. I pull it tighter around me and dig into my pocket out of reflex, even though I already know what I'll find—nothing. No cash. No coins. Not even lint. Just a four-leaf clover pendant hanging from my neck that used to mean something.
Used to mean luck.
I stroke it once. Then again. Then stop myself. There's nothing magic about a charm when you're hungry, broke, and barely see staying ahead of whatever fallout's waiting back east.
That's when it hits me. I'm waiting for a bus I can't even afford.
A slow, bitter laugh scratches up my throat. Typical. I had exactly $174.83 when I left Jersey. The last of what I stashed in the floorboards, gone on tickets and vending machine dinners. Not a cent left. No backup plan. No one to call.
So, I do what I've always done when the world slams a door in my face—I find another one to pry open.
One last job, I tell myself, dragging my suitcase across the street. Just enough to get by. Just enough to get home.
I wish I could say I hated the idea. That it made my stomach twist, that I felt disgusted by what I was about to do.
But the truth is, the thought of pulling another con makes my heart pound. Makes my blood buzz. It's the kind of hunger that's never really gone away.
Davensport glimmers like a mirage, all glass storefronts and velvet ropes. My boots echo on the polished promenade as I move past upscale lounges and overpriced restaurants, the kind where a glass of wine costs more than my entire wardrobe.
And then I catch my reflection. Oof.
My coat's seen better days, and under it? Ripped jeans, an old sweater, and combat boots that scream I don't belong. My hair's a mess—like, actual bird's nest territory—and I've been wearing the same underwear since Tuesday. If I tried walking into one of these places now, they'd call security before I made it to the bar.
I stop in front of a boutique window, staring at mannequins in silky dresses and heels that probably cost rent money. And just like that, a plan forms.
Inside, a girl barely older than me gives me a once-over and a bored "Let me know if you need anything," before going back to scrolling through her phone. Perfect. She doesn't recognize me. She doesn't care.
The shop has the kind of layout that screams minimalism and money—maybe four dresses per rack, all in tiny sizes, all without price tags. I run my fingers over satin, feign interest, and duck into a fitting room with a bottle-green number that might fit if I suck in my ribs.
Ten minutes later, I'm heading for the exit, jeans and sweater crammed into my purse, coat fastened over the stolen dress.
That's when the alarm screams.
Shit.
"Hey!" the girl shouts behind me.
I bolt. Not gracefully—I'm dragging a suitcase and wearing heels two sizes too tight—but adrenaline makes up the difference. I glance back and see her stumbling after me in designer heels, yelling into her phone.
One sharp turn, one lucky door—
I throw myself inside and slam it shut behind me.
Panting, heart racing, I press my back to the cool wall and laugh. I can't help it. That thrill is still alive and well inside me, and it makes me feel almost human again.
Almost.
"You planning to loiter there all night?"
The voice snaps me straight. Deep. Sharp. Unimpressed.
I turn and find myself staring at a man built like a nightclub bouncer and dressed like a banker. His face is all jawline and judgment. He looks me up and down like I'm something stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
I bristle.
"This is a bar?" I ask, glancing around the dim foyer.
"Does the Pope wear white?"
I blink.
"Was that a yes?" I snap, already pushing past him.
He doesn't respond. Just watches me descend the stairs like I'm a stray dog that wandered in.
"Asshole," I mutter.
It's not like I'm unfamiliar with guys like him. Men who think they own the air they breathe. Who think sneering at you is their God-given right. My mother used to eat men like that for breakfast—when she was sober, anyway.
Me? I've just learned how to play them.
I reach the bottom step and freeze.