Late night strolls had never been one of Greysonâs favourite past times, not unless he was up to no good and those days had been put to rest ever since heâd settled into a certain degree of domesticity that heâd once been known to sneer at. That domestic routine had come tumbling down over the past few weeks though after his first break up with Rhodes. When theyâd patched things up as best as Greyson and Rhodes could, the foundations of their relationship were still shaky at best so it didnât take long for the most minute occurrence to knock it off-kilter and send everything crashing down again.
Now, he was left trailing the street at ass oâclock, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth as he tried and failed to make sense of everything going on over the last month or so of his life.
A hand pushed its way through his sandy hair, tufty and short after his recent haircut. Heâd only ever let it grow long because Rhodes liked running his hands through it and Autumn liked forcing him to sit on the ground while she perched on the sofa and braided the blonde strands. Now, he didnât need to worry about that and had quickly set to work chopping the overgrown locks and fashioning it back into the style heâd sported before Rhodes even came on the scene, and he told himself that he felt all the better for it.
Still the breeze on the back of his bare neck made him shiver and he reached up to pop the collar of his leather jacket, something else heâd foregone for Rhodesâ baggy gym sweatshirt over the past year. Jamming his hands into the pockets, one hand wrapped itself around his inhaler while the other one gripped his lighter, a habitual tick heâd developed ever since heâd taken up smoking. Why he found such a comfort in the complete juxtaposition of both items, he didnât know, but he allowed himself the small tell anyway as he marched along the street.
He felt like his old self, the one that didnât need to feel secure in a relationship he realised he had no right being in. He didnât need the approval of blue-eyed boxers anymore to make him happy, just the streets of New York and a packet of smokes to make him comfortable. The confidence heâd drilled into himself lately was shaky sometimes, but tonight he felt like he was untouched by the memory of his break up and of the weak and spineless and insecure bastard heâd been in the days leading up to its deterioration. Up until he heard a nearby clatter that was.
The cigarette fell from his lips at once and he cursed, stubbing it out with his shoe. His nerves now shattered, he pressed himself against a wall as his nostrils drew at the cold March air in an attempt to clear his head. No one was chasing him, not tonight, and even if they were, he wasnât sluggish from alcohol this time. He was alert and on guard and could take any one who tried to start on him.
The readiness to fight was swiftly proved unnecessary when he located the source of the noise after creeping along the sidewalk and spotting a lithe figure that he thankfully had a few inches on. The younger guy didnât seem to have spotted him yet, evidently too engrossed in his own task of⌠was he really? Yep, he was. And was that really? Yep, he was holding a crowbar.
Before the guy could try and jimmy open the door with the tool in question, Greyson sneakily bounded forward and wrapped his hand around the metal bar, tugging it from the grip of the shorter guy and holding it hostage atop his own shoulder.
âCrowbar wonât do yâany fuckinâ favours, kid,â he reasoned with a low whistle. The sight before him was so familiar that it actually brought a grin to his face. âI learned that the hard way.â
Hot wiring cars was something Spencer had, eventually, grown accustomed to. Unlocking the aforementioned vehicles? Yeah, okay, not so much. And that was sort of where his problem lay, y'know, along with the fact that he spent his days hopping from building to building, squatting where he could, and not actually having any place to live. Not to mention the fact that when you had no place to live, it also meant you had very few personal belongings, and no personal belongings also meant no nifty little tools for breaking into cars that didn't belong to you.
So, all in all, Spencer was in a bit of a fucking rut. With nothing but a half empty packet of cigs in his back pocket, an iPhone 4with the screen cracked in about 7 different places, and the jacket on his back, he had shit all to get unlock the piece of junk that was in front of him. Of course, it wasn't actually a piece of junk, hence why he wanted to open the bastard up, but he wasn't having any luck, and gone with his luck was his patience.
Cursing under his breath, Spencer kicked the tire angrily when he realised that old rich man McGee, or whoever the fuck owned the Lambo in front of him, wasn't gonna make this easy on him. He wasn't so bad at picking locks, in all honesty. He'd managed to weasel his way out of his cuffs a few times â earning him a look of dismay from his tiny blonde frenemy at the station, as well as finding himself on the receiving end of several tones of anguish from Officer Leicester and his posho partner â and he sure as shit knew how to jimmy open a lock or two to gain him a place to lay his head down for the night, but Lamborghini's were not his area of experetise.
Knowing that he'd need something small, like a hairclip or a fuckin' needle to at least make some headway, he let out a loud groan of annoyance before deciding he'd have no luck with the car, and that maybe he should just give up. When he'd just been about to walk away, however, his eyes landed on a motorcyle that was parked up nearby. While the bike itself looked like a hunk of crap, he did notice the sheet that was lazily slung over the seat of it, with what looked like a wrench, a crowbar, and a screwdriver abandoned at the wheel. Perking up, he scurried over and weighed out his options before eventually snatching up the crowbar and getting to work.
As he tried to get a good hold on the tool, hooking it in whereever he could find a gap in the door, he pulled down hard, grunting and groaning as he tried to make at least some sort of impact. He had no luck, however, and he swore to himself when the door didn't budge. Still, there was no sense in quitting now, and he found himself huffing and puffing, putting all of his might into trying to prise the shitty door open, but to no avail.
Angrily, Spencer stared down at the ground, sweat dripping from his struggle, and kicked out a foot, booting a stray rock across the pavement in frustration. The rock bounced off of the body of the car, and Spencer winced as he spied the tiny scratch it left in its wake as it continued to rattle its way down the street.
Turning back to the car, he figured he might as well give it one last try now that he'd gone and left his mark, only to find a hand clamping down on the crowbar that he still had a grip on. He stared down at the hand, eyes wide as a shiver went down his spine. He daren't look up, certain he'd either find a furious looking suit, or an exhausted French officer who'd had it up to her eyeballs with his hijinks.
As he pondered over whether or not he could just release his hold and straight up bolt, the crowbar was pulled from his hand before he could even make a move, and the voice of another man met his ears.
Staring up, an eyebrow arched as the other man's words finally registered with him, a slow smirk begun to work its way onto Spencer's lips.
âYeah? That so?â he mused, staring up at the older guy with a look of bemusement on his face.
He didn't know this dude for shit, and he had no idea why he'd waltz on over and attempt to help Spencer steal a car, but he figured he'd entertain the situation for now. It seemed like a better option than upsetting him and having him call the cops on his ass.
âAlright, my man. How about you show me how it's done, huh?âÂ
