Damon leaned against the counter, beer in hand, watching Blake on his hands and knees setting floor tiles. "You're gonna have a gap up here." He pointed to the intersection of the corner of the lower cabinets and the floor.

Blake shot him a "no shit" glare and placed another tile. "Old houses. Good luck finding a straight line."

"You think maybe you shoulda gone darker? To match the counter better?" He took a drink.

"Probably gonna replace the countertops. Plus, these were on sale. So..."

"Christ, you're gonna give yourself a brain tumor." Damon winced. "Aren't you supposed to be working in a well-ventilated area with that tile adhesive? Or at least wear one of those respirators?"

"Open that window behind you."

Damon squinted into the afternoon sun filtering through the kitchen window, set down his beer on the counter, then muscled open the swollen wooden window. "You gotta fan?"

"Might be a box fan in the basement."

Damon interpreted the comment to mean somebody else would go downstairs and get the fan. "Okay. So anyway." He sipped his beer. "Nobody's said shit. You did it when?"

"Wednesday."

"Woulda for sure heard something Thursday or Friday. Definitely."

"They don't know?"

"How would they even know? There's no security down there."

"You're positive?"

"Dude, you know what a spaz McQuaid is. If he knew somebody opened that garage door, he'd be losing his shit."

Blake laid the next tile then set the spacers.

"Remember when those cars up on the lot got egged last Halloween?"

Blake nodded.

"Holy Christ! McQuaid bitched and moaned about it for months. Somebody takes the last cup of coffee and doesn't make a new pot, he fuckin' goes ape shit. So believe me, if he knew that door was opened, there'd be major drama. Guar-an-teed."

Blake slid another tile out of the box then placed it against the wall.

"Dude. You got the green light. All systems go. While he's up at the diner, you open the door, grab the money, and you're gone before he's halfway through his meatloaf. You're in and out in ten minutes. Fifteen maybe if you stop to tie your shoe."

"So why don't you do it?"

Damon lowered his beer, his face scrunched tight.

"Grab the money yourself." Blake scored a tile and snapped it.

"You don't think every guy in the shop's thought about that every time one of those mules comes walking through with a backpack full of cash?"

Blake set the cut tile into place, satisfied with the fit.

"Who do you think they're gonna be looking at when the money gets lifted, huh? Us guys in the shop." He gulped his beer. "I'm totally fine taking my cut and staying the fuck out of the way. You're in the clear. Nobody's gonna be looking at you. Plus, you MacGyvered your way in there. Me and my little parakeet brain woulda had zero chance of hacking that door." He turned his head when Rachel lumbered in, struggling with a box of tile.

"Hey." Damon grinned.

"Ooof." She dropped the box on the counter. "Little early in the day for a beer, don't you think?"

"Game comes on at four. I'm gettin' primed."

"There's another box in the trunk. You mind?"

"Yeah, sure." He finished his beer, set the bottle down, and exited.

She tapped her hand on the box she'd carried in. "Got the subway tile."

"Awesome," Blake replied.

"Floor looks good, Babe."

"It's getting there. Things are coming together."

"Oh?"

########

Monday afternoon, Blake was pleasantly surprised when an attractive thirty-something woman in a pencil skirt, heels, and a tight sweater got out of an Audi and walked directly to the Lexus that had been sitting on the lot for months. She slipped behind the wheel and, without haggling over the price, said, "I'll take it."

Up close, Blake recognized her as one of those women so fearful of advancing age that the needle had removed every hint of authentic human expression from her pretty face.

"Not interested in a test drive?" he asked.

She looked him up and down. "Is that a proposition?" She swiveled, affording him a view of her long legs.

"Uh," he fumbled for words, his face flushed. "I was... uh, talking about the car."

"Shame," she said with a salacious wink.

After work, Blake celebrated his sale at Booty's with a special bourbon cocktail Rachel created just for the occasion. The celebration continued at home when Rachel instigated a vigorous lovemaking session that started on the couch, migrated to the coffee table, and concluded in a sweaty tangle of limbs on the floor. He went to bed that evening wearing a satisfied grin, enjoying his run of good fortune.

Tuesday, however, was another matter. Before Rachel dropped him off at work, Blake couldn't hold creeping anxiety at bay. To pass the time, he busied himself with mundane tasks and went so far as to do a load of laundry.

Mrs. Caputo shook her head when he carried the basketful of clean clothes past her on the way up the stairs from the laundry room. "Now she got you doing the housework." She guffawed.

He suffered through a typically stagnant afternoon shift at Simon's. Without customers on the lot, he had far too much time to marinate in his thoughts. Over and over again he weighed his misgivings. Would he feel remorse for stealing the money, or with each new bill piling up at home, would his regret be greater for having decided against it? And, of course, his ego factored into the equation. If the heist went as easily as he suspected, he would return home the conquering hero with a bag stuffed with cash. Would Rachel think less of him if he wimped out? Despite his bravado and his ingenuity in hacking the garage door, he would be exposed for what he truly was. How long would Rachel be satisfied living her life with a penniless coward?

On his lunch break, McQuaid broke the monotony when he drove up from the garage to the office. "Nice job unloading that Lexus," he said, clapping Blake's shoulder. "Told you things were gonna pick up. You're on a roll, kid."

Blake returned a feeble grin.

After work, he felt Rachel's eyes on him, assessing whether he was up to the task. They made nervous small talk over leftover pizza, his stomach doing flip-flops. He checked his phone over and over again frustrated that it had been 7:15 for what seemed like the past two hours. This was more than a test of patience, it was an endurance experiment to see how much more pressure was required before his pounding heart burst through his chest right onto the table.

Counting down the minutes before driving Rachel to Booty's, he watched her pull the tight umpire-striped polo shirt over her head and squeeze into those spandex shorts that got the customers at Booty's stiffer than arthritis.

"Did this thing shrink?" She tugged at her shirt, standing in front of the mirror. "I know I'm damn sure not putting on any extra pounds."

"You look amazing."

"So get this. Lou's got Teagan and Jade talked into going braless."

"Jesus. So I'm sure he--"

"Never gonna happen." She scowled, brushing her hair. "I gotta get outta there. It's beyond toxic." Turning away from the mirror she said, "You gonna be okay?"

"I'm fine," he said with all the conviction he could muster.

She ran a dab of lip gloss across her bottom lip.

He went to the window. "We're not getting snow tonight, right?"

"Snow?"

"I was thinking about tire tracks," he said softly, the smile gone from his face.

She checked her phone. "No snow. Maybe a light drizzle."

The way he leaned against the window frame was unsettling, arms crossed, his head tilted, looking up at the dark, heavy sky resisting the transition to winter.

Rachel asked, "You in the right headspace for this?"

"Absolutely."

She drew closer and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Promise me. If anything looks sketchy, or if you get a bad vibe about something, you'll walk away. Just like you said."

"No. No. I'm feeling good."

"Promise me."

"Sure. I promise." There wasn't an ounce of confidence in his voice.

She pulled him close and nibbled at his earlobe.