- OCTOBER 2ND— 3:25 PM -

"Ladies and gentlemen, prepare for a crash landing," the woman in handcuffs said dryly.

"Not now, West," Decker muttered, attempting to look calm and collected, fingers itching to clutch the armrests in a death grip.

"That's what you were thinking," she replied calmly, blue eyes calculating, assessing the plane from every angle before her eyes fell back on him, her smile taking on an amused purse. "You have a tell when you're nervous."

He didn't respond. It was always best to not respond to Amelia West.

The sight of her, blond hair falling down petite shoulders in perfect waves, red-painted lips spreading into a flirtatious smile nearly made Decker forget she was sitting beside him against her will. Even arrested, hands in cuffs, she managed to look completely relaxed, queen of deception.

Every part of her screamed honey-sweet and approachable, but one could catch the truth of who she was in her ocean-blue eyes. While the rest of her hummed for her target's attention, luring people in like a warm fire, once they got close enough, the target had half a second to process their doom before she managed to kill them in five different ways with just her fingers. Her eyes were the key. They were beautiful but shouted deadly.

Decker looked away from Amelia, irritated that those eyes still bewitched him, pulling up a memory he wanted to burn away in a glass of whisky. But he didn't drink on the job. It was on his long list of rules, most of them added after meeting the dangerous blond now sitting next to him on the plane.

CHAPTER ONE

- ONE YEAR EARLIER -

DECKER

Decker had a natural fear of flying. It clearly wasn't unnatural because anyone with any sense wouldn't put themselves into a metal tube and allow themselves to be hurled through the air thousands of feet above the ground.

But when it came to sense, it was secondary to his job. Everything was secondary to Decker's job. And when his job demanded that he spend hours in a metal tube to catch a thief, he got on the plane, fear be damned.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We will be landing at JFK International airport in about two hours. The temperature is a cool fourty five degrees and the local time is 3:25 pm. We should be arriving on time, so sit back and enjoy the rest of your flight."

Downing the rest of his Jack Daniels Whiskey, hoping it would blur the edges of his nerves, Decker forced himself back to the files in his briefcase, fingers pressing against the creases from folding and unfolding the details for the last week. These were files he had memorized, the pages now wrinkled and worn from constantly being analyzed. 

His eyes caught on the thief's alias and his vague known details.

HEIST KING:

Age: Unknown

M.O.: Steals information from highly secure tech companies across the world.

Location: Last job in New Jersey. Believed to be heading to New York City.

Calling Card: A riddle left at the scene with a hint to the next location.

Last Riddle: I am cool, and feathered. To fancy attire I'm always tethered. What am I?

- Heist King

Decker scribbled a set of notes under the riddle. He already knew the answer. That was how he got the job— a coveted position as the lead detective on a team that would lead the charge to track down the most notorious thief currently hacking into every high end security system and snatching away important documents inside of tech companies across the globe.

Whoever the Heist King was, he was good. He never left a trace, everything left exactly the way it had been before his arrival. He was never caught on camera and felt more like a myth than an actual person. The only reason anyone knew he existed at all was because right before leaving a location, the Heist King would stop under a street camera, a block away from the tech company, head tucked under a fedora, offer a wave to the camera, and walk away before the alarm had even gone off in the secure high tech facility he had robbed.

The Heist King's face was never seen, a large black fedora and trench coat, the only indicators of his identity, along with a calling card left at the scenes of the crime.

Decker couldn't help but be impressed. The way he moved, like smoke through the world, untouchable, made the chase feel like an art form. And Decker could hardly wait to land and get started. He was determined to catch this particular shadow. Everyone else before him had failed. And Decker wasn't a man who lost. 

Solving riddles was one of the rare hobbies Decker dabbled in, enjoying the occasional puzzle and riddle, prying them apart until the details were laid bare, ready to be put back together in a new pattern. Riddles were a game that had rules and made sense, unlike so many aspects of life that had a habit of falling apart as far as Decker was concerned.

After downing another whiskey and making it off the plane in one piece, Decker's sights were singular in focus.

Hotel check in, then tech company meeting.

The hotel in question was in a slick high rise in the center of New York City. Decker had protested the extravagance when Bex, his resident hacker and expert travel booker had told him of the accommodations that his mysterious client had booked for him. But she had insisted. 

"The client is paying for it. They want you close to the action. Enjoy the stupidly expensive place. You've been in Motels for too long."

With a huff, Decker climbed out of the cab and walked into the lobby, eyeing the slick marble floors and the large glass chandeliers with trepidation. Expensive places made him itch. Most likely from a life spent scraping by, helping his mother keep a tight budget after his father had run off after gambling away most of their life savings and house payments, and leaving them with a mountain of debt.

To this day, the idea of a deck of cards made Decker's skin crawl.

"Hello Sir. Welcome to the Black Tower," a man said, pulling his eyes up from the check in computer that stood small behind a large marble desk. The man quickly adjusted his tie when he spotted Decker's clean cut suit. Decker dressed specifically for each location, blending in with every world he walked through. Determined not to be remembered. A background fixture that came and went.

"Name, Sir?" the man asked, adjusting his tie again when Decker didn't say a word, instead analyzing everything and everyone with the same skill he had honed over the years, his sharp blue eyes picking the man apart in a millisecond before piecing him back together with all the details he had gathered from a brief, scrutinizing glance.

Receptionist. Nervous, itching for a promotion. Has something to prove.

Decker forced his mind to stop cataloging and offered the man a name. "James. James Dillan."

A fake name. One that would due the trick. No sense in leaving a trail for anyone else to follow. The man's fingers blurred across the keyboard, working quickly, taking Decker's all business tone and moving past all potential friendly banter and directly to work.

Decker was handed his key, a pamphlet for the hotel amenities that included a pool, spa, top floor bar, restaurant, room service, free wifi, and so on. Decker tucked the information away without a glance at the pamphlet or a smile for the receptionist, causing the man to grow more nervous.

After Decker handed the man his ID, real through the government, but fake due to all the lies it layed out as truth, Decker took the glass elevator up to his floor, the glass elevator, and plush carpeting making him itch more profusely as he moved toward his next destination.

Decker was used to working in the world of seedy, unsophisticated. He understood the intentions of the men who worked in shadows. But those who pretended to be better and behaved worse? Not his normal wheel house. It felt him feeling bare in his expensive suit and tie.

When he finally got inside his room, on the twelfth floor, he was instantly drawn to the window, curtains pulled open, the city skyline of New York City like a beacon luring people into the throngs of thrumming energy.

Decker turned from the window, placed his bag on the bed and dialed Bex's number, turning on speaker phone and dropping the phone on the nightstand next to the bed. 

Before it rang once, Bex answered with a—"So, how are the digs?" Her caffeinated fast draw of a greeting was a sharp contrast to Decker's even toned response.

Decker looked around with a furrowed brow, fingers working into his sandy blond hair. "I don't trust this place."

Bex snorted, having grown accustomed to his moods after working with him over the last few months. "You are allergic to the finer things in life, Decker."

"Nothing wrong with practical," he muttered. "What do you have for me." He didn't phrase it like a question. It was a command, one that left little room for argument.

"You mean for the whole five and a half hours you've been offline for a plane ride? Not much. You are far too addicted to your job."

He rolled his eyes. Decker had heard that enough times from enough sources to reduce it to a faint white noise. Loving his job didn't make him a workaholic. There was nothing wrong with being passionate about what he did and he refused to apologize for it.

"Your meeting with the tech contact will be in the hotel bar in an hour. He goes by the name of Marcus Plume, and he's the skittish sort, so you'll have to be nice to this one."

Decker shut his eyes, biting back a swear. He wasn't known for being gentle.

"But he is our best shot at finding the Heist King. He actually saw the guy. First time the Heist King has been spotted in person. Long black trench coat, black hat. You'll have to see what else he saw. He refused to tell me anything else. He's paranoid about anything that isn't a face to face interaction. Something about all information being hackable."

Bex let out a laugh. "Psh. Not if I am in charge of your information, but whatever."

Decker chucked off his suit jacket, and rolled up his dress shirt sleeves, showing a flash of tattoos that etched across his skin like hard earned stories and bad decisions. Each one a reminder of a what he had fought to survive. 

He sat down on the edge of the bed, plucked up the notepad that the hotel had set out and began taking notes. He could hear the irritation in Bex's tone as she continued ranting.

"Heist King may be a renowned hacker, but no one gets through my coding. Marcus needs to learn to chill."

Decker didn't argue with her. She was one of the best he had ever worked with. Odd, but focused. And wasn't put off by his lack of chit chat before getting to the point of each call, email or text.

"How will I know it's him?"

"That is the best part," Bex said, a smile in her voice. "He's going to be carrying a red rose."

"Be serious," Decker said dryly.

"I am. Gotta go boss. My roommate just got home and I promised I'd make dinner and I completely forgot. Bye!" Then she was gone, leaving him wondering how accurate the rose comment was.

...

Decker didn't like that his meeting at the hotel bar felt like a blind date.

Someone else needs to start organizing these meetings, he thought, eyes scanning the room for any sign of a skittish man with a rose. 

The afternoon sun sent the skyscrapers ablaze, orange soaking into the windows and giving the illusion that the city of New York City was on fire through the three hundred and sixty degree view from the hotel bar at the top of the Black Tower hotel.

Decker sat at the bar, nursing a whiskey, eyes on the buildings, watching the world change colors, bending to the sun's will. He had arrived early, settling onto the bar stool and melting into the scene as others around him settled onto two tops, eyes on laptops, books and their drinking partners.

Everyone was focused, leaving Decker with the freedom to assess the room, unnoticed.

No roses.

Decker sighed, his eyes falling on the skyline again. As he took another long sip of his drink, someone sat down on the stool beside him, pulling him back to the room.

The first thing he noticed about her was her long slender fingers as she waved the bartender down. The next was the sound of her voice, velvety and low, like a long jazz note. As she ordered a drink, he took a quick glance at the rest of her.

Long honey blond hair that fell down her shoulders in loose curls, a black dress that hugged her frame, stopping mid thigh, and the highest pair of black open toed heels he'd ever seen on a woman.

She crossed her feet at the ankles as she tucked her legs to one side, settling on the barstool and glancing at Decker, offering him an open smile, her bright red lips a sharp contrast to her pale skin, dark blue eyes steady on his, like she was an open book, comfortable in her own skin.

Decker was momentarily thrown by that smile. The type of smile he hadn't received in a long time. He was gifted scowls on a regular occasion, but smiles. Those were rare.

"Drinking alone?" she asked as the bartender handed her a rum and coke, the charm bracelet on her wrist catching the light and showcasing her slender wrist. 

"No," Decker replied, eyes back on hers. 

Bex, who always had impeccable timing for bad— or good news depending on your perspective— chose that moment to text Decker with an update. 

Bex: The guy flaked. He'll meet you tomorrow. Stupid skittish people. Take the night off and meet a nice girl.

Decker bit back a scowl. Bex had gained a habit of treating Decker as a subordinate, suggesting he take nights off, meet women, and on one strange occasion, take up bowling. Her friendly demeanor wasn't wanted, and he decided in that moment that he would have to chat with her about her work ethic. 

But Bex wasn't entirely wrong. Decker could use a night to unwind. He could feel each muscle taught, like he was ready to snap if the wrong person said something irritating. He would try to relax... for the sake of his job. He would finish his glass of Whiskey, and then he would... well he would research a way to relax. Perhaps the research itself would be enough. He did enjoy research. 

The woman next to him raised her brow. "Stood up?"

"The person I'm meeting is running behind," Decker replied. 

He was filled with a mix of irritation at the time he had wasted at the bar and the strange pull inside of him at the look on the woman's face as her lips quirked up into an amused, knowing smile. She had plucked his lie out of the air as easily as he would have done. And he was both fascinated and irritated by the move.

"Shame. Mine did too. Sounds like you're stuck with me then." She held up her drink in a toast. "To being stood up."

The moment felt like a dangerous decision, her holding her glass toward his like a dare. A challenge. A flash in her eyes challenged him to play.

Take the night off... Bex had insisted. 

Decker didn't want to be rude, so he clinked his glass to hers, taking the dare.

The woman swallowed and he had to pull his eyes away from her neck, somewhat surprised by how taken he could be with someone who's name he didn't even know.

"What brings you to town?" she asked. "Wait, let me guess," she said interrupting her own question. She leaned forward, analyzing his face, his clothes, all of him like she was soaking in a painting, her long blond hair sweeping across her shoulders. "You..." she paused. "You are uncomfortable."

She leaned back, seeming fascinated. "You hate it here?"

Decker let out a laugh, surprised by how shocked she was by her own words. "What gave me away?" he asked, deciding to lean into honesty this time.

She gestured to his hands. "The way you clutch your glass. It's aggressive. Your fingers look like you are going to hurl the glass at the first person that dares to say the word 'caviar' in your direction."

She wasn't wrong. He just hadn't expected to run into a natural at reading body language, facial expressions, or a human lie detector. Especially one who didn't seem to wear those skills like a burden. He had grown used to seeing every lie on a person's face. Able to analyze every aspect of someone before they opened their mouths, and hated the effect it had on his relationships, leading to a solitary existence.

His mouth twitched into an amused expression. "Ah. The hands. A dead giveaway."

The woman shook out her hair as if preparing herself. "Your turn. What do you see? Do I look like a girl who's going to throw a glass against at the wall?"

He tucked his thoughts away at the words, 'throw', 'against the wall,' and leaned back instead of forward, forcing himself to analyze with a bit of space to keep his mind focused. He shouldn't have had those drinks on the plane. Let a lone the one at the bar, not if he was going to try and be objective.

Decker assessed, his mind filling with a tapestry of tells and details that made up the picture of the woman.

Confident. That much is obvious. Comfortable in her own skin. A clear people person. She enjoys striking up conversations with strangers. Middle class. Her hair has a well kept shine, a clear indicator that she cares about appearances. Her perfume is familiar, a honeysuckle that indicates a vibrant personality. Not to mention the fact that it smells fantastic—

He cut himself off mid thought, shutting the door to his analyzations. He didn't humor analytic thoughts that led to personal opinion.

"You take more of a verbal approach when angry. You don't back down from a fight."

She raised a brow. "Spot on." Placing her rum and coke down on the bar top she held out her hand. "I'm Harrow Kells."

Decker took her hand, surprised by the callouses on the fingertips, showcasing that Harrow Kells knew how to get her hands dirty with physical labor. Surprised by the warmth that shot up his arm like a jolt from where their skin touched. Surprised by the fact that she shared her entire name— a sign of trust that he couldn't decide was either naive or from a person who genuinely wanted to be found later. A calling card in a sense.

In the world of social media, a last name was everything for a detective on the hunt.

"I'm James Dillan," Decker said, using his alias. He wouldn't give in to truth. Not when he was on the job. Besides, he knew better than to assume that mere attraction would lead to anything long term. 

"James," she said, her lips forming each sound slowly, like a first, tentative kiss.

The moment she said it, Decker had to once again, slam the door on a thousand thoughts that were far too indecent for their current conversation.

Harrow continued to hold his hand, turning his palm so it was face up, her fingers brushing gently across the lines of his palm, sending another jolt of fire down his arm. "Tell me James..."

She looked up at him from under her lashes. "With both of our meetings cancelled, what ever shall we do with the rest of our evening?"

In that moment, with half a glass of whisky in his system, Harrow's fingers tracing his palm, the way her voice dropped to a husky tone, Decker knew he was in trouble. Before he could process her next move, Harrow leaned forward and gently pressed her lips against his cheek, the touch so light that he could have sworn it didn't happen if it weren't for the way his body reacted, pure fire through his veins.

Her smile turned knowing, her fingers signing her drink receipt, her lips whispering a command in his ear. And before he had fully wrapped his head around his current situation, she was gone, leaving him buzzing with unused energy, her words burning through him like a sirens call.

"Room 1420. Ten minutes."

Decker forced himself to stay seated at the bar, fingers gripping his drink, his death grip now transformed into a slack, watery thing. The reality of this situation hit him hard and fast, sending a strange jolt of anticipation through him.

For all of Decker's handsome qualities—sandy blond hair, striking blue eyes, tattoos tucked away along a physique that was earned through hours spent at the gym working off pent up frustration— he was not one that spent his off hours getting lost in blond glossy hair, red lips, long legs—

Decker waved down the bartender for his check.

No. Decker's focus had always been unflappable. Until six months ago, when a red haired detective had nearly driven him mad before crushing his desires under her combat boots and taking up with a vanilla ice cream cone of a man. 

Decker couldn't truly blame the woman. The man she had chosen was kind, attentive, and put her first. Decker was none of those things. 

As he walked toward the elevator, in a slight daze, his blood pounding, he admitted to himself that he had nearly forgotten what it was like to be desired. To be wanted and to want in return.

Harrow was beautiful, smart, and she had initiated. The idea of it left him feeling lighter. Maybe Bex's suggestion had been a good one. 

He paused, as he reached the elevator, hesitating, something about Bex's words unsettling him, a rare moment of vulnerability shaking up his instincts.

Did Bex put a girl up to this? 

He stared at his reflection in the elevator doors, his mind whirring with the odds of it, his mind striking into overdrive.

She couldn't have planned it that quickly. Not unless the meeting with the man had been canceled far earlier than she told me and that had inspired the idea—

Decker shut his eyes, blocking out the analyzing, a tic he often struggled to control. A curse of life spent inspecting the details to see past secrets to the truth beneath.

Swearing at himself, he hit the elevator button, ignored the button for floor twelve, and pushed the button for floor fourteen.

He reached Harrow's door and knocked at exactly ten minutes after the given command. 

He waited. 

And waited. 

And waited.

No answer.

He knocked again, a knot of emotion settling inside of him with a name and a thousand synonyms, all of which he refused to give a title to. 

And just as Decker was turning to leave, the door was finally answered— by a balding, short man in a hotel bathrobe, who blinked out at him from under a set of bushy eyebrows.

"Errmmm... yes?" the man said, voice groggy.

Decker blinked back, surprised. "Wrong room. Sorry."

The man blinked at him one more time. "Stood up?"

Decker wished that the assumption wasn't a constant from people that evening, but in this particular case, he couldn't argue.

"Women," the man muttered in tired solidarity before closing the door in Decker's face.

Decker refused to give voice to the reality of what just happened. Harrow had obviously changed her mind. It had only taken ten minutes for her to erase him and their encounter from her thoughts, leaving him standing in the hallway.

But as he reached the elevator, he wondered yet again if maybe he was missing something. What if he remembered the room number incorrectly? 

Recalling that she had signed her bill, which would have her room number written on it, he made his way back up to the bar.

"Oh good! You're back," the bartender said by way of greeting before Decker opened his mouth. "The girl you were with put down the wrong room number. Can we put her drink on your room?"

Decker was beginning to think that time off from work was truly overrated. That allowing himself to want anything outside of work was overrated. That spending time in any social setting was overrated.

"Sure." He bit out the one word response before signing a new receipt and was just about to ask the bartender for more information about Harrow when the bartender beat him to it.

"The girl put down a room that didn't exist," the bartender said with a snort. "She probably isn't even staying here."

Dread began to pull inside of him, making him realize that the unsettled feeling from before had a clear source. A deep rooted instinct that he should have never ignored. He reached into his pocket and discovered with little to no surprise, that his room key and wallet were gone.

 "Did anyone turn in a room key, or a wallet?" Decker asked.

The bartender shook his head. "Nope."

After the long trek to the lobby where they issued him a new key, and another long elevator ride back up to his room, Decker quickly discovered to his utter irritation, that his hotel room had been broken into.

The only sign being a note written on his window, in lipstick, in Harrow Kells lipstick color. The sight blaring back at him from the blazing, mocking sunset like a cruel laugh.

The words were bold. A taunt. A call for a chess player to make their move.

"My number will only work once, so make it count. Now try and catch me.

The chase is on— Heist King."

And underneath those words was a phone number. The Heist King's phone number.

Decker stared back at the words for a long moment, torn between anger and another feeling he couldn't quite name. The Heist King had been in his room, had been through his things. And had made it clear that the game Decker had dared to play wouldn't be an easy one. 

---

Thank you for reading chapter one! I hope you are enjoying the story! Or are at least curious to see where it goes! Add this story to your reading list to know when the next chapter drops!

UPDATE DAYS - A NEW CHAPTER EVERY FRIDAY!

What do you think of Decker?

What do you think of Harrow, the girl from the bar?

What do you think of Bex?

If you haven't read "The Detective and Her Bachelor", check out that story for a little of Decker's backstory while you wait for chapter updates! Link in the comments, here! -->

What will Decker do next?

Did the Heist King take anything from Decker's room?

Will Decker tell anyone what happened?

CHAPTER QUESTION - Have you ever asked someone you liked for their number right after meeting them for the first time?