Chapter 1
Harper
“Yes! Yes! Yes! I’m coming!” I cry out, over embellishing every twitch, tremble and whimper that escapes me as I fake my orgasm on top of this guy.
“Ah fuck, yes!” He shouts as he follows. His body thrusts up one last time and he stills as he makes a funny face blowing his load into the condom. I dramatically collapse onto his graying, hairy chest.
“Oh my god, David. You’re the best I’ve ever had!” I lie emphatically. He chuckles as his hands run up and down my back.
“Yeah?” He asks proudly through his panting breaths as his dick falls out of me.
“Mmhmm. God, you took it right out of me, would you be mad if I spent the night? I don’t think I could possibly make it home after you did that to me.” I say sweetly, stroking his ego. I slide off him onto the bed beside him and he removes the condom, tosses it in the trash bin and wraps his arm around me.
“You most certainly can, I definitely want a go with you again in the morning.” I smile all doe eyed at him. These older guys can never go two rounds in a row.
“Mmm that sounds like an amazing plan.” I practically purr. He kisses my forehead and we begin to snuggle. I look at the clock that reads midnight and lie here waiting for his breathing to pick up.
About an hour later he is fast asleep and snoring, it’s time for me to make my move.
I slink out of the sheets and quietly maneuver to my articles of clothing strewn about the massive master bedroom, keeping my eyes on him the entire time. I slip into my red dress, and move over to his dresser. I open up his jewelry box slowly to find five designer watches, from Gucci to Patek Philippe. I collect them and throw them into my bag.
I pull open the next drawer and take out Prada sunglasses and then I move to his wallet and find his money clip with a wad of cash in there, I throw that in my bag too.
He’s still snoring as I exit his bedroom and quietly close the door behind me. I tiptoe down the hall and make my way towards the living space, stopping along the way at the linen closet to grab plush Egyptian cotton towels with like a million thread count. All these rich fucks have them, a little something extra for me, and a trick of the trade. I grab my collapsible bag from my purse and open it and throw the towels in it.
I move into the living room and grab the items I eyed out when we entered the condo. The crystal candy bowl and gold serving utensils, a gold clock and small crystal decorative vase. I grab whatever this stupid bag can hold and toss the second plush towel over the contents, wrapping them up to hide and protect them. The towels also help muffle the sound of the stuff moving around.
I grab my shoes off the floor and smile to myself as I stealthily make my way out of his penthouse condo and down the stairwell quickly barefoot. Heels in hand with my coat hood up and head down to avoid looking at the cameras. He was too busy sucking my face when we came in that it’s highly unlikely the cameras caught a full photo of my face. Plus, you do this enough times, you learn the typical layout of condo buildings and where they usually put their security cameras and alarms and make sure your back is always facing them.
Not that these arrogant rich pricks would report a small theft like this anyway. Admitting they’d been had is far too embarrassing for the likes of them.
Forty fucking flights later I exit the building into an alley and let out a huff of air. I put on my shoes, and adjust my bag on my shoulder ready to make my way to the train station. The train leaves in less than an hour which is perfect.
My name is Harper Stewart and if you haven’t guessed already, my side hustle is robbing rich guys. Unlike other girls, I don't have to drug men to steal their money, that’s not what we do at all.
My body and my sharp wit are my weapons.
Not only do I target unsuspecting men looking to get laid, I’m a scammer. I love sleight of hand or scheming someone into giving me money. Any way I can get my hands on a little bit of extra cash to get by, I’ll do it.
Me and my three girlfriends got into this gig about seven years ago. All of us were homeless teens who met in the shelter system. Ava’s House was a reprieve for at-risk youth girls to give us a safe space to sleep, eat, bathe and had resources to help get us off the streets.
Jane O’Hara was a young woman who grew up on the streets like us and managed to work her way into success by becoming a world renowned recycled fashion designer. She bought clothes from thrift shops and would alter them to her style and made a career out of it. She is a leader in the fashion industry and is worth millions. She donated tons of money into this program to help other girls like her achieve their fullest potential. Girls like myself are so grateful for the program.
With their help, we finished school, got jobs and ended up moving to The Shores in order to save money on cheap rent and a fresh start in another impoverished community.
Not only that, it’s the perfect place for girls of our caliber to go unnoticed and make new names for ourselves.
My best friend Taylor and I met at a young age at a foster home before we ran away, happier to live on the streets than in our shitty placement. We learned how to pickpocket together and quickly worked our way to pulling off numerous scams in order to rob people or manipulate them into giving us money.
The advantages of being a smart, beautiful, sweet looking girl. Sympathy. When we were sleeping on the street, people gave us money more frequently than the older rough looking men who were also begging for spare change. And that hustle evolved over time.
My main job is working on the line at a factory for a large food brand producing cookies and crackers, but at minimum wage, it’s hard to get through life. So, that’s why I rob guys on the side.
Guys like David who have so much money they could burn it, and they do, on shit like fucking crystal candy dishes. I mean who needs gold fucking utensils? I get my shit from the thrift or dollar store. I guess I take peace in knowing that everything I do is to fuck over the rich guys who fuck over people like myself every single day.
Every Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and sometimes Sunday nights on a slow week, the girls and I hit the clubs in search of our next victims, then the next morning we meet at the diner to tell stories and go over our winnings before we take them to the pawn shops or other buyers and get our cash for our living expenses.
Considering what goes down in this fucking suburb, I think what we do to get by is rather tame in comparison.
I get on the train and take a seat with my collapsible bag of goodies. I lean my head up against the window and I close my eyes to take an hour nap as I make my way back home.
I get a few hours of sleep before I get up for breakfast and go to work on the line. It’s not the most desirable life, but this is the way that I’ve chosen to survive in The Shores.
