The Shoplifter's Deal

You've worked night security at Halloran's for two years, and the last ten minutes before closing are always dead. Lights dimming section by section. Register girls counting drawers. You do one final loop of the second floor, past lingerie, because that's where the shrinkage happens.

That's where you find her.

Brunette, maybe twenty-six, cherry-red lipstick, denim jacket over a black dress that cost more than your week's pay. She's holding a bra up to the light like she's appraising a diamond, and you already saw her slip the other one into her jacket in the mirror behind the display.

"Ma'am. Jacket, please."

She turns around slow, like she's been caught by better men than you and enjoyed it. "Ma'am? God, you're adorable. Do you practice that in the mirror?"

You walk her to the back office, one hand hovering near her elbow like she might bolt. She doesn't. She strolls. She checks out the employee break room as you pass it, the sad vending machine, the wall of schedules.

"Cozy," she says. "Very interrogation-chic. Is there a good-cop bad-cop thing, or is it just you?"

"Just me."

She pouts. "Shame. I look great in handcuffs."

You flick the light on. One desk, two chairs, a camera in the corner she notices immediately and rolls her eyes at. You hold out your hand, and she sighs like you've asked her to donate a kidney, then pulls the bra out of her jacket. Black lace, expensive, tags still on.

"And the lipstick," you say.

Her eyebrows go up. "Ooh, thorough." She produces it from her sock, which requires lifting one heel onto the chair, and takes her sweet time about it. "Anything else you want to search? Full body pat-down? I know how you people love your protocol."

"Sit down, Lola."

She freezes halfway into the chair. "You know my name?"

"Loyalty app. You scanned it at the register last Tuesday. Bought a scarf, stole a bottle of perfume."

She sits back, chewing her lip, studying you differently now. "So you've been watching me. That's either creepy or the nicest thing that's happened to me this month."

"Store policy is I call the police for repeat offenders."

"But you haven't."

"But I haven't," you agree. "You can pay for this stuff, or put it back and walk out. Door's right there."

She doesn't look at the door. She looks at you, and her smile changes. Less brat, more interested. "Huh. You could've had me arrested and you're offering me an exit. Most guys would milk that."

"Milk what?"

"The power thing. The 'what are you going to do for me, Lola' thing." She leans forward, elbows on her knees. "I've seen how this goes, security guy. Guys love catching me."

"I'm not most guys," you say. "Pay, put it back, or the cops. Pick one."

"Counteroffer." She stands up and walks her fingers across the desk toward you. "I make it worth your while, you delete the footage, everyone wins. I'm very good at worth-your-while."

"No."

Her mouth actually drops open. "No?"

"No deal. I'm not trading anything for sex, Lola. That's not—"

"Oh my God, you're serious." She laughs, delighted and rattled at once. "You're actually a decent human being. Do you have any idea how rare that is? I had a whole plan."

"What plan?"

She catches herself. "Nothing. Forget I said plan."

But you're already doing the math. Three weeks of small stuff, always Tuesdays, always ten minutes before close. Always your shift.

"Say the plan," you say quietly.

She looks at the camera in the corner, then back at you, and something in her shoulders gives up. "Fine. Okay? Fine. There's no thrill in it for me anymore, the stealing. I have money. I have a stupid amount of money. What I don't have is—" she gestures at you, frustrated, like the sentence is embarrassing "—is anyone who doesn't turn into a lapdog the second I smile at them.

And then some big, boring, competent guy grabs my arm in the lingerie section and doesn't even blink at me. Do you know how long it's been since someone didn't blink at me?"

"Weeks," you say. "Every Tuesday."

"Every Tuesday," she admits, going pink. "I got caught on purpose, you gorgeous idiot. Three weeks of perfume and lipsticks, waiting for you to catch me. And you kept not catching me, and it was driving me insane."

You sit down on the edge of the desk, and she steps between your knees before you've decided to let her. First move, all hers.

"So here's my real counteroffer," she says, softer now, her hands landing on your chest. "No deal. No trade. Just—me, wanting you. Because I do. Stupidly. Ask anyone who's watched me leave this store every Tuesday and sit in my car for ten minutes."

"You want me."

"I want you to shut up and let me be into you for once without negotiating it." She slides her hands up to your shoulders. "Can I kiss you, or do I have to steal that too?"

"Ask nicely."

"Loser," she breathes, and kisses you anyway, and it's aggressive for exactly three seconds before it turns into something hungry and honest, her fingers curling into your shirt like she's finally letting herself want it.

You pull back just enough to look at her. "The camera."

"Is that a problem for you?" she says, already reaching for the door to lock it. "Because it's doing a lot for me."

You cross the room and angle the lens at the ceiling, and when you turn around she's unzipping her dress with her eyes on you, no tease in it now, just intent. The dress pools at her feet. Black lace bra, the twin of the one she stole, and nothing else but her heels and her confidence.

"Steal the bra," you say.

She grins, reaches behind her, and tosses it at you. "Evidence. Bag it, officer."

She backs you into the chair and goes to her knees like she's been rehearsing it, dragging your belt open with a look on her face that's pure triumph. "Three weeks," she mutters, pulling you out. "Three weeks I've been wondering about you."

She takes you in her mouth and it's greedy and loud and completely unapologetic, her eyes flicking up to yours, gauging, adjusting, learning exactly what makes your jaw drop and then doing it again. Her hand works what her mouth can't, and she hums around you like she's won something.

"Fuck," you manage.

She pulls off with a wet pop, grinning, lipstick wrecked. "Language. There are cameras in here." She dives back down before you can answer.

You pull her up by the arm because if you don't, this ends in her mouth and she'll never let you forget who won. She reads the look on your face and shivers, actually shivers, the brat falling away.

"Tell me what you want," she says. "Nobody ever tells me what they want. They just let me run everything."

"Bed's too far. Desk. Now."

"Yes. God, yes." She bends over it, braced on her forearms, looking back at you over her shoulder, and you drag your shirt off and grab a condom from your jacket—she sees it and laughs. "You carry condoms at work?"

"I'm prepared. You're the one who commits crimes on a schedule."

You push into her slow and she stops talking for the first time all night. Her forehead drops to the desk, her back arches, and the sound she makes is ragged and grateful.

"Don't stop," she whispers. "Don't you dare stop."

You don't. You fuck her with her hands pinned flat against the desk and her heels skidding on the tile, and she pushes back into every thrust, giving as good as she gets, cursing you in filth that would make the security footage priceless. "There—fuck—right there, keep—" Her voice cracks on it. "God, you feel better than I imagined, and I imagined this a lot."

You feel her getting close in the way her legs shake, so you slide a hand around her hip and press your fingers to her clit, and she comes apart with a startled shout like she wasn't expecting to lose control that fast. Her pussy clenches around you so hard you can't hold on; you bury yourself deep and groan her name into her shoulder blade.

She stays bent over the desk, panting, and starts laughing into the wood.

"What?"

"I stole a bra to get railed over a loss-prevention desk. My therapist is going to have the best month."

Afterward she sits on the edge of the desk in your jacket, eating crackers from your drawer like she owns the place, watching you get dressed.

"So," she says. "The stuff I still owe you for. I could come back next Tuesday and pay it off."

"You could just pay for it now."

"Where's the fun in that?" She hooks a finger in your belt loop and pulls you close, kissing you slow, tasting herself on your mouth and not caring at all. "I'll pay. Everything. But I'm keeping the bra. Consider it my collar."

You walk her to the doors after close, past the dark perfume counters, and she takes your hand like it's nothing, like she's done it a hundred times. At the exit she stops, turns, and taps you on the chest.

"For the record," she says, "I don't do this. The getting-caught thing. You're a one-off. A very tall, very annoying one-off who said no to me, and I've decided that's the sexiest thing that's ever happened in a Halloran's." She steps out into the night, then leans back in. "Tuesday. Ten minutes before close. Wear the belt I like."

"You like a belt?"

"I like taking it off. Learn the difference." She winks and disappears toward her car, and you stand in the doorway of an empty department store realizing you're already counting the days.