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Kaz Brekker’s instructions are easy enough.
Pick the lock. Compromise Van Eck’s computer. Get out.
And, as usual, Jesper follows them to the best of his ability.
Picking locks is better suited to Kaz or Inej, but there are some things Jesper can do that Kaz cannot. Brekker may be able to bring the toughest computer system to its knees, trick tourists entering his club into giving away every last cent of their hard earned cash, but he cannot play a convincing cocktail waiter at a billionaire’s party. That role requires a pretty face, and Jesper has a pretty face. One of the prettiest, even.
And Inej has the flu. So, really, Jesper is the best choice.
He crouches outside of Van Eck’s office door with the steel picks, guiding the pins to their proper place. A soft click signals the release of the latch which allows him to ease the door open in Kaz’s given two minute time frame, as expected.
What’s unexpected is a pretty copper-haired boy standing at attention like he’d been caught doing something.
Jesper’s fingers twitch, instincts yelling at him to reach for a gun at his hip. No, drawing a gun would pull too much attention away from the festivities downstairs. Something quiet. He could strangle him. Knock him out. Flirt?
Jesper flashes a grin and loses the stiffness in his spine. “Oh, pardon me, I—”
“Just get in here and lock the door,” the young man says. There’s a terrified rigidity in his shoulders, and his brow has a stubborn furrow Jesper thinks may be permanent. Without another word, he crouches down behind the desk until all Jesper can see is the mop of curls atop his head.
Not wanting to question any luck thrown his typically-unlucky way, Jesper does as he’s told. He grabs the serving tray off the floor outside—can’t leave signs anyone slipped inside Van Eck’s personal study—and steps through the threshold. His eyes linger on the man as he shuts the door quietly behind himself, an easy twist of his fingers setting the lock back in place. He leaves the serving tray propped against a bookcase, lips pursed as he takes surveys the room.
The personal study of Jan Van Eck. The portrait of a man he assumes to be Jan Van Eck’s grandfather, the imposing bookshelves stuffed with leather-bound nonfiction and literary classics. The massive oak desk, surprisingly littered with papers and children’s books. An equally surprising ruddy haired man desperately fussing with Van Eck’s desk drawer.
Jesper puts his hands on his hips, naturally, feeling for the hard metal of his guns in their concealed holsters. His fingers go there first when he’s looking for any semblance of security, and what does he need if not security when he so clearly veers off his intended path? The plan—Kaz Brekker’s genius, infallible plan—crumbles to the ground with this unexpected company.
Whatever thin ice Jesper stands on with Brekker will surely break away when he finds out that someone was with him in the office.
He doesn’t have the appearance of anyone from the criminal underground. No tattoos, no bright textiles, no tired bags under his eyes. He looks like a prince plopped straight from a storybook, hair falling in perfect, glowing curls. His shirt is tailored to fit, with the top two buttons undone and the sleeves cuffed casually below the elbow. There’s a silver ring on one of his fingers. Not a wedding band, Jesper notes. In every sense, he looks like he belongs in the office of one of the richest men on Wall Street.
Jesper takes a few tentative steps closer to the desk. For the job, of course. Definitely not to get a better look at the pretty boy sat on his knees, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he focuses on the lock in front of him.
The man squirms under Jesper’s scrutinizing gaze, shifting his weight from one knee to the other. He breaks the silence without meeting Jesper’s eyes, muttering, “You’d think he’d have tightened security once someone took his DeKappel.”
Jesper smirks and saunters over to the join the man on the other side of the desk. “Oh, you heard about that?”
“Oh, that was you?” he mimics.
Sarcastic, Witty…
Kaz Brekker is going to twist off his balls. Jesper can hear his voice now: Standing around. Making small talk with another criminal. Admitting to nicking the DeKappel. What part of ‘Get out’ do you not understand, Fahey?
“Depends. Were you impressed?” Jesper asks, ignoring any better judgement he might have that evening.
The man ignores his teasing, too focused on his task. It serves as a reminder that Jesper has his own task to do. A task that, in theory, should be simple. One that does not involve flirting with a pretty man already on his knees. He leans, propping up his weight on the desk with one long arm while the other fidgets with the USB inside his pocket. He bends to peer at the hardware, taking stock of Van Eck’s computer and all of its intricacies.
But fuck, the guy is breaking in so badly! Has he never picked a lock before? Not even a challenging lock, at that. Each jostle of the drawer yanks Jesper’s attention back to him. Breaking into Van Eck’s office as a first job is absurd, but doing so without even the most basic of skills is even worse. It’s a suicide mission.
A humiliating suicide mission.
Focus, Fahey. He can almost feel Brekker’s spit splattering on his face as the voice in his mind reminds him he’s not running a charity; he’s running a business.
Jesper crouches and slips the USB into the port.
All he needs to do now is wait and get the hell out.
Without being seen.
Without being seen has already gone out the window.
He hears another rattle of the drawer and a whispered curse. It prompts Jesper to glance over to see the man scrambling to pick up the paperclip he’s crafted into a lock pick from the floor.
“It’s your first time, isn’t it?” Jesper asks, eyes pointed at the keyhole.
The man grimaces. “What makes you say that?” His eyes looked a bit disappointed, but nothing about his expression denies the accurate observation.
“Three things. Because you’ve been trying to pick this lock for who knows how long.” He plucks the paperclip from the other man’s fingers. “You need two of these,” he says, “And you bent this one wrong.” Jesper reaches an arm up around the man and snags a couple of paperclips from the magnetic dish on the desk.
He crouches down behind him, knees bracing on either side of the man’s hips. It’s an intimate position, but Jesper has always been better at showing someone how to do something than giving verbal instructions. If he tried to spell out what to do, the man would learn how to fold an origami crane before he learned how to pick a lock. He shimmies his hips so he can get a little closer, his chest lined with his back. “Here.”
He wraps his arms around the man to demonstrate. “One of them is going to look… Straight, at first.” He caresses the metal, smoothing it out until it’s one long steel wire. “Then, you’ll bend it back on itself, like this.” Jesper runs his thumb over the wire as he hooks it, teasing out each kink.
He fiddles with the other between his middle and forefinger. “This one…” He flips it over in his fingers, playing with it until it looks like a hook. “You just sort of bend part of it like that, yeah?”
The smaller man squirms and nods, shifting his weight from one knee to the other.
Jesper presses his lips together in a tight line to hold back a chuckle. “Getting comfortable?” He doesn’t get an answer, but he doesn’t really expect one. They don’t know one another—don’t even know one another’s names—and Jesper still needs to show him how to properly break into a rich man’s desk.
Jesper carries on with his instructions. “You’ll put that in, like this, and that’s—Think… You know how a lock and key works?”
Ruddy curls brush against his face as the man shakes his head.
Jesper lets out an amused huff. “Well. The bottom part of the key, it… Does something.” He can’t locate the words in his scattered brain, but he can visualize the process he’s describing perfectly. He can do it with his hands in a way words can’t quite explain. He adjusts his grip. “Anyway, this, we’re going to put it in the lock like so.”
He slips the paperclip in the man’s hand and slides his own hand over the back. His hands are soft, not at all calloused like Jesper’s. They look manicured, too, and Jesper wonders if he does go to get them done.
“Bend it.” He guides the man’s hand down, steady, slow. “Just like that,” he murmurs.
Jesper’d think he wasn’t paying attention if it wasn’t for his razor-sharp focus and iron posture. “And then turn.” He twists their hands in unison, a soft squeeze as he does to show him just how his grip should be. “You use it to keep the tension, yeah?”
The man gives a curt nod.
Jesper eases his hands away. “Keep it right there. Yeah, just like that.”
Had lock-picking always sounded so dirty?
The man’s voice wavers as he asks, “Can you be a little faster?”
Jesper huffs. “Sure. Because you were so quick yourself.”
The man goes silent and scoots back on the rug, closer to Jesper. He has to, really, or Jesper can’t see over his shoulder well enough to move quickly. Still, the egotistical part of Jesper really hopes it’s because he wants to feel Jesper’s breath on his neck.
And he definitely does because when he exhales, Jesper swears he feels him shiver.
“The other one. This one, that’s angled? Like a hook?” He eases it into the man’s right hand, draping his own hand over the back just as he had on the left. “You use it to find the pins and push up into them.”
Jesper hears a swallow before a quiet, “Okay.”
“And then you use this to push up into the lock.” He rakes the pick at an angle so it brushes against the pins, aimlessly pushing them into place. Delicate and measured perfection isn’t quite his style.
“What are you stealing anyway?”
“I’m not a criminal,” he insists, but he doesn’t sound too sure.
“Oh, no. No, of course not.” Jesper had that same insistence at first. He argued he was down on his luck, not at all like the others. He’s silent for a moment, focused on the lock. On the cute ginger with his back pressed to his chest. At least one of their hearts is hammering, and it’s surely not Jesper’s. Surely. “What are you not-stealing, then?”
The not-criminal responds with a strangled, “Passport.” It takes everything in his willpower to not laugh as the man clears his throat. Out of the kindness of his heart, he also doesn’t comment on the fact that he can practically feel the man’s hands trembling.
“Van Eck’s passport?” Confiscating one of the richest man on Wall Street’s passport to keep him from leaving the country seems a bit naïve. “Sure it’s in here?”
He nods, controlled and a bit stiff. “Well, yeah,” he says. As if it’s the most obvious fact in the world. As if he’s saying gravity makes things fall. As if saying Jesper Fahey makes him a little hot under the collar, which he definitely does. God, Jesper can feel the heat radiating from his cheeks, only centimeters away. “It’s my passport.”
The stretching silence that follows helps Jesper realize that he doesn’t want to know what kind of messed up shit Van Eck was getting up to in order to have his passport. “Well, let’s get that passport so you can make that grand escape.”
Jesper guides their hands in the same, slow raking motion and listens to the steel scratch against the mechanisms inside. The thick walls muffle out most of the noise from the party, but he can still hear the laughter and chatter, the string quartet, the toasts of champagne.
Clink.
“There,” Jesper sighs.
A breath leaves the other man, and his ears turn a deep red. He pulls his hands from Jesper’s as if they burn, using one to yank the drawer open and the other to rifle through it. He doesn’t say anything, only takes the little blue book and holds it close to his chest. “Thank you,” he says, words more of a prayer thanking God than anything else. He rises to his feet like a foal learning to take his first steps, ducks his head to hide his blush.
So many questions run through his mind about who he is or who he works for or where he’s from, but one feels more pressing than the others. “So how’d you pick the lock to get in here?”
“I didn’t,” the man answers as he walks over to a leather chair in the corner of the room, shoulders hunched. “I live here.”
Jesper blinks, finally seeing the familiar way which the man walks around the office. There’s a tension hanging between his shoulders, but there’s familiarity in his movement when he grabs a satchel from behind the chair and stuffs his passport safely inside.
As if he can feel Jesper’s eyes glued to the back of his neck, watching every move he makes, he turns around and says, “I’m his—”
Jesper scowls. He knew Van Eck was a little fucked up, but he thought it was more than a little fucked to keep his boy-toy, assistant, whatever’s passport locked away.
The man winces. There’s conflict behind his eyes as he braces himself for whatever is on the edge of his lips. “I’m his—” he repeats. Then, he pauses. Corrects himself. “He’s my father.”
That partially explains him being locked away in Van Eck’s office during a party. The scowl on Jesper’s face vanishes, and he lets out a guffaw.
It isn’t every day that Jesper has the opportunity for a private audience with a Wall Street heir—let alone help one commit a crime—and he isn’t sure what to do about it. He must be cashing in on all of that missing luck.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. He should be out of here by now. Shouldn’t be lingering, definitely shouldn’t be lounging back against the desk as if he intends to stay and make himself at home, shouldn’t have a wolfish grin on his face.
But before Jesper can stop himself, he says, “I don’t meet many spoiled brats in my line of business. Didn’t know they could be so cute.”
The young Van Eck blushes, throat bobbing as he swallows. “And what—” He presses his lips tight together, and Jesper sees his eyes trailing over him. “What is your line of business?”
Jesper gives a shake of the head. “Can’t tell you that, Moneybags.”
The bizarre term of endearment earns him a confused, but humored, look. “I’m sorry, did you just call me Moneybags?”
Jesper chuckles. “Well, if you’re really a Van Eck, you’re loaded.”
Much to Jesper’s surprise, Moneybags Van Eck takes a few steps closer to the desk. “I’m Wylan, actually.”
Cute.
“Jesper,” he says, reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind Wylan’s ear.
God, his hand looks naked without his rings.
“Jesper,” Wylan repeats, blush crawling back up his cheeks.
Fuck. He’s used his real name.
And what the actual fuck is he doing? Wylan Van Eck may look like a harmless kitten, but a Van Eck is still a Van Eck. Wylan Van Eck. Son of the man whose computer he just handed over to Kaz Brekker. He’s going to get trapped between his lion jaws, snapped clean in two if he’s lucky. And, if Jesper’s streak on the slot machines is anything to go off, he is actually not a lucky man at the moment, despite what his delusions may say.
But, Jesper thinks, wouldn’t it be quite the story?
He smirks and plucks one of the many papers from the desk. He looks it over, eyeing the strange scribbles of nonsensical almost-letters. Some letters backwards. Some words spelled, partially, he thinks, but misspelled in the way a kindergartner would—
Wylan lurches forward, hand flying to snatch the paper. “You should hurry. He’ll come in here soon, or… Or someone will. A maid or something.” He tosses the paper back to the desk, face-down, and darts his eyes everywhere in the room that is not the very close Jesper Fahey.
But Jesper won’t have any of that. Jesper dives down, angling his torso to get in Wylan’s line of vision, and asks, “Oh, and what will they think when they see Wylan Van Eck locked alone in a room with one of the catering boys from the party?”
Wylan rolls his eyes. “You’re not a catering boy.”
“But I served hors d'oeuvres. Little shrimp ones.”
“You’re a—”
“Dashing rogue?” suggests Jesper. “Handsome devil? Debonair vagabond?”
“A thief,” huffs Wylan.
Hands moving back to rest on his hips, Jesper feels his cheeks begin to ache from how much he’s smiling. “Not tonight, unless I’ve stolen your heart.” He raises his eyebrows briefly at the suggestion.
And much to his delight, Wylan’s cheeks flush a beautiful crimson and a soft, timid smile begins to form on his lips. He shakes his head and says, “You’re impossible.”
But in this unexpected flirtation—with Wylan Van-Fucking-Eck, of all people—anything feels possible.
Yet, the clock keeps ticking. He feels the buzz of his phone once again in his pocket, and it’s undoubtedly Kaz telling him that he’s done a satisfactory job and needs to go.
He can linger some other time, in some other life. But Jesper can’t imagine any other universe where he’s lucky enough to make Wylan Van Eck blush.
“You’re right,” Jesper sighs. “I should get going.” He steps away and retrieves the USB from the computer tower, settling it back in his pocket.
“That’s it?” He points to Jesper’s pocket. There are dirty jokes Jesper readies to make, but before he can, Wylan adds, “You just broke in and put something in the computer? You didn’t—You didn’t even have to do anything?” That stubborn little crease in Wylan’s brow isn’t as permanent as Jesper thought; his eyes are soft and wide with wonder.
Jesper shrugs. He meets Wylan’s curiosity with newfound bashfulness instead of his usual gloat. “Physical access is key… More reliable than anything else, especially with the cybersecurity your Dad’s got.” He buries his hands deeper in his pockets. “And we only really need it for a few seconds.”
“Oh wow.” Wylan’s eyes don’t look away, and Jesper finds himself growing flustered under his burning gaze. “I don’t—I don’t know a whole lot about that kind of thing.”
Jesper blinks. Jan Van Eck’s hands are in every industry, digging his fingers deeper into every niche for profit. Most recently, as Kaz has recounted to him numerous times, Van Eck’s investments flow to artificial intelligence companies. He would have assumed any son of Van Eck’s would be chest-deep in computers and coding.
“No?” asks Jesper. “What do you know about?”
At least he can tell Kaz he’s gathering intel.
A shy smile spreads on Wylan’s face. “Music.” He taps his fingers in a nervous fidget on his thigh, and Jesper wonders if his fingertips are itching for a piano. “Not very useful.”
His last admission has Jesper shaking his head. “It’s very useful.” A smile tugs on the edges of his lips in return. “After all, where would the world be without music?”
Wylan ducks his head to hide his growing flush. “Didn’t you say you needed to be going?” he asks with a teasing lilt to his voice.
He reaches a hand up to scratch behind his ear. Laughs as if something funny is said, when really, he’s just trying to fill the silence with something. Anything so he can stay. Something about Wylan is so earnest, like he sees the good in Jesper. Like he doesn’t see him as a binge-drinking, gambling, failure. Jesper knows it’s because he’s helpful and he’s shiny and he’s something new, and there is substantial humor in him waltzing into his father’s office to destroy his computer.
Both of their heads turn to the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the hall. The jingle of a set of keys outside the door. Jesper’s hand silently drifts to the revolver at his hip.
It’s an easy job. In and out. No mess. No guns.
“Shit,” whispers Wylan.
Before Jesper can say anything, he feels Wylan’s hands on his neck. A brief image flashes in his mind of Wylan strangling him to save himself, but no choking comes. Only lips, soft and gentle against his own. Wylan pulls him close, hands at the base of his neck as he draws him in. Jesper’s hands immediately find Wylan’s waist, dragging his body closer. Wylan loses his footing, stumbling further into him
Brilliant, brilliant, Wylan.
Van Eck’s computer will be the last thing on anyone’s mind when they see the spoiled heir tangled in the arms of a catering boy. If it’s a show Wylan wants to give, Jesper knows how to give ‘em a show.
Jesper feels Wylan’s hands on his neck relax, one sliding down to rest on his chest. It’s followed by a laugh—a genuine laugh—against his lips. It sounds better than the ringing bells when the flaming sevens slide into place on the slot machine. Jesper responds with a hum before deepening the kiss.
He wants to savor this for as long as he can make it last, etching every moment on his memory as thoroughly as he scratched his first curse word into the porch of his father’s farm.
“Wylan!”
The two of them snap apart, hearts pounding and gasping for breath. He catches sight of Wylan’s flush that’s so deep it nearly hides his freckles, his wide eyes, his wet lips. Wylan curls in on himself, shrinking away from Jesper and the man at the door. No longer a kitten or a lion, Wylan seems like nothing more than a startled lamb cowering before a snarling wolf.
Jesper doesn’t have time to check on him or figure out who the big bad wolf is. That wasn’t part of the plan. In and out. He makes a mad dash to the office door, sprinting without sparing another glance back to Wylan or whatever chaos he leaves in his tracks.
Jesper half-expects an arm to stop him on his way out, but it doesn’t come. Van Eck won’t even think to check his computer, either; he’ll be too worried about what’s become of his precious son. He floats down the marble stairs on a cloud of adrenaline, a baffled laugh leaving his lips. He flings himself into the elevator with startled partygoers, and when he turns back as the doors close behind him, his steel eyes catch on a blank wall across the hall that once proudly displayed a DeKappel.
The report back to Kaz won’t diverge too much from the original plan.
Pick the lock. Pick another lock. Compromise Van Eck’s Computer. Compromise Van Eck’s son. Get out.