Bria's POV
I took a long, lazy drag of my cigarette, letting it swirl in my lungs and my throat before letting it escape into the air. I snapped my fingers and my guard of nearly three years, Henri Hergé, turned on the lights. I dropped the cigarette to the ground and crushed it with my foot, clad with a holographic heel.
I didn't believe Hergé when he told me that Harry was seen in the building—let alone that he was sitting in the second row with a female accomplice—but here he was, a little dazed, completely confused, and groaning on the ground, clutching his ribs from the impact of his fall.
"Aidez-le, Hergé," I instructed. Hergé bent down and extended his arm towards Harry, but he swatted his hand away. Hergé's hand, out of reflex, curled up into a fist, but before he could strike, I said, "Arrêtez."
"Mais Madame—"
"Hergé, fermez votre bouche," I snapped. He pursed his lips and silenced himself.
"What the fuck, Bria?" Harry growled, picking himself up and staggering to his feet. I crossed my arms and watched him—my old flame—as he scowled and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
"That's not the hello I was expecting," I frowned.
"Neither was this," he spat. "Look, I don't want anything to do with you anymore."
"Is that why you broke out of jail?" I challenged with a thick tone of sarcasm. "Because you don't want anything to do with me?"
"I...well things have changed. Circumstances have changed and I'm not just going to sit around and watch you run away from me again."
I could hear the hurt in his voice. His eyebrows knit into a grimace, his eyes darting around to observe his surroundings before raining them on me. It came back to me in technicolour—the image of him and me, aged twenty-two and twenty-three, on the run again after a very successful con in Salem, when he got down on one knee, his hands slightly shaking, his lips parched and his vocal chords trembling, and pulled out a very impressive diamond ring and asked me what every girl wanted to hear.
Well, almost every girl.
There was no way I could stop and settle. This was who I was. I wasn't going to just give it up for Harry regardless of how much I cared about him.
"I still love you, Harry. I've thought about you every single day since I left."
He kept quiet. I didn't feel angry as much as I felt jealous. We were the mightiest lovers, bearing a likeness to Antony and Cleopatra, Bonnie and Clyde, Rose and Jack—he was my Casanova—but now it seemed that the tables had turned, and I was no longer his Henriette. Harry's featured softened and gave me a bit of sympathy.
"I care about you," he replied, his head hanging slightly, "I really do. I've missed you a lot."
"But you don't...you only care?"
"Things have changed, Bria. You can't run away from someone after they propose to you, with no reason at all, and expect them to be the same person," he sighed and explained calmly. I always liked that about him; he was always so collected and rarely lost his temper. "I...I kept the ring. Didn't return it or sell it or anything. It's...well it's at the prison, but—"
"Would you propose to me again?" I asked.
He paused for a moment, deciding upon truth or honesty, then let out a feeble, "I don't know."
I felt my anger boil in my stomach. Harry could hold his composure; I could not.
"Cherchez-le," I demanded. Hergé pushed Harry into the door and felt around his body for a gun, a wire—anything that could be of use—until he retrieved his cellphone and wallet.
"Don't take my fucking things!" Harry stipulated. I snapped my fingers and Hergé held him against the door by his neck. He clawed at Hergé's hand, kicking and grunting and cursing at me, but Hergé still ended up tossing Harry's belongings into my hands. "Bria, whatever it is you want of mine—the money, our safe house, anything—you can have it, okay?"
"I don't want material things, Harry. I need you," I said, choosing to look through his wallet first. It was the same one he had used the last time I saw him—soft, brown leather faded over time and use—and I opened it to see very familiar cards: driver's licence, multiple credit cards, and a membership to the frozen yogurt stall at Pioneer Square*, all of which were registered under the name Trevor Paxon. I always liked that identity, but I hadn't seen it in action until now.
Then, in a small compartment used to carry coins, a bulge signalled my attention. I opened it only to pull out a condom (typical of him, never going anywhere without protection against women in case he had to sleep with someone to make the con run smoothly) and folded photograph of a girl with messy, shoulder-length blonde hair, perfectly winged eyeliner, petite frame and dressed in a white shirt and overalls. She looked like she was fourteen. She seemed almost virginal in the picture, sitting on a swing under the heat of the sun, scrunching up her pixie nose and giggling at the person that took the photo. The date at the bottom corner of the picture read MAY 07, 2009.
"Who's this?" I asked, holding it up for Harry to look at.
"Just a girl I conned," he responded much too quickly, which raised my suspicion even further. "Get this asshole off of me."
"Why do you have a picture of her then?" I pressed on.
"It's none of your concern."
I sighed and nudged my head at Hergé, who tightened his grip around Harry's neck. I took a look at his phone (no password lock on it either, that idiot) to find pictures of him and the same girl making stupid faces and kissing in what looked like London.
She was the same girl sitting beside him at the show.
"So she's your girlfriend?"
"She's not."
"Well she's clearly not some slut you picked up off the street. Don't lie to me," I shoved the phone in his face and scrolled for him, picture upon picture, "the way you look at her is the same way you used to look at me!"
"What do you want?" he snarled, wrestling to break away from Hergé but failing miserably.
"I want you to help me. And I want you to forget about your little friend..." I broke off to scroll through his contacts until I came across the name "...Clarine Sperling? Is that her name?"
I scrolled through more photos and memorized her face.
"I need you to hack a couple of government files. We're doing a bit of money laundering and we want to make sure we can do business in other countries, so—"
"I'm not helping you do that. We con artists—we're not murderers, we're not money launderers—"
"You aren't a money launderer, but I am."
"Bria, when the fuck did you lose your compassion?" he demanded to know, straining against Hergé. I figured the least I could do was tell him.
"I got in too deep. All I needed was more money and I got it, but Phoenix sucked me in. Gave me the top position because I was the best. They taught me a couple tricks, and I was going to wait until you finished your sentence to come and find you but it seems you beat me to it, huh?"
"This isn't you—" he tried to reason, but I stopped him in his tracks.
"This is absolutely me. And I need your help."
"Fuck you," he spat, jerking away from Hergé's grip. Hergé let his fist plow into Harry's stomach, and I watched as he doubled over and dropped to the ground in pain. "Y-you can forget about—about me helping you. I conned people—I didn't put their lives in danger."
"Well I'm afraid that this is where your words contradict each other," I began, pulling a pistol from my bag, "because if you don't help me, I'll find Clarine and kill her. So technically yes, you're putting her life in danger."
"You're sick," he trembled, trying to find the strength to make it to his feet. Hergé kicked him and he was once again on the ground, coughing for breath.
"Marque-le," I instructed. Hergé pulled a large needle from his side bag and gripped Harry's arm, pulling it up and shoving the tip into his vein, injecting him with a tracker. He groaned and kicked Hergé away, wincing at his arm. "That's our latest weapon—well, tracking device, but also a weapon. See, tiny little microchips inject into your bloodstream so you can't pull them out or anything, they're too small for metal detectors to pick up, they're awfully expensive, they pick up sound, and best of all, they can produce an electric shock that can stop the human heart! Isn't that just amazing? You're our first test subject."
"Bria, stop. Just stop. Don't I mean anything to you? We were partners. I'll hack the systems for you, just please don't hurt anybody—"
I cocked the gun and pointed it straight at his head. He stared up at me with glossy eyes and a pale face.
"Let me tell you your conditions before you accept my offer—and believe me, you will accept—" I started. I had no time for love or any of the little games we used to play. This was no longer about Harry and me.
"Madame?" Hergé called. He held out his phone to me. I took it and looked at the screen.
Full Name: Clarine Yvonne Sperling
D.O.B: June 15, 1993
P.O.B: Portland, Oregon
Hometown: South Portland, Oregon
Parents/Guardians: Quentin Sperling, Felicity Johnson (deceased; Sierra Leone 2005)
Siblings: Hyacinth Gavrielle Sperling (m. Alexa Jane Kipling 2012; Mabel Ophelia Kipling conceived via sperm donor Scott Wallace 2011)
Children: N/A
Marital Status: N/A
Education: Thurston High School; Portland Police Academy
Occupation: Police officer, Portland Police Department
"She's a police officer?" I gasped, lowering my gun, "My, my, my, Harry, you've certainly developed a bit of a taste since me, haven't you?"
"Don't you fucking touch her or I swear—"
"What did you do? Form a little...coalescence? Two unlikely souls teaming up? Did she know you were using her to get to me?"
"I didn't use her—"
"Then why else would you go after a single, pretty police officer? Did you do it so she could throw you back in jail?"
He stayed quiet. He may not have realized it, but I knew him like the back of my hand.
"I can just imagine the story right now: Harry Styles, successful con artist, breaks out of jail to team up with a desperate, willing—"
"She's not desperate—"
"—Police officer because hey, maybe she could get something out of it. Little did she know that the con man was just performing another one of his cons with an infamous tactic: get close, then take everything and run. Did I get it spot on?"
Harry was far too weak to get up, and I assumed his ego had been shattered. He hung his head—I knew I had gotten the story correct. I kept scrolling through her file.
"She's got family—all alive, that's good...except for her mother—and she lives in south Portland. She went to Thurston High—"
"What the fuck do you want from me, Bria? Cut to the chase."
"I want you to cut all of your ties with this girl. If she comes looking for you, I'll kill her and her family. If you so much as signal to her about anything, I'll kill her—wait, no...I'll kill her family first, and then her. If you get arrested, we'll break you out. And, might I add, that if you try to run, or hide, or anything of the sort, I'll kill her, and then I'll kill you. I'll give you until five in the morning tomorrow to do so just in case you want to use up this condom"—I threw it onto the section of flooring in front of him—"and don't forget: we know your exact location."
"I'll do whatever you want, just don't touch her—"
"It's a little late for chivalry, isn't it Harry? I don't care how you break it off with her, just be sure to do it. We can't have a cop running around in search of you, it's far too dangerous. Really, the best way to keep her safe is to kill her—"
"Why are you doing this to me?" he pleaded. "Bria, we used to—"
"Well you wouldn't hack for me without me threatening your girlfriend and you won't stay unless she's at risk, so you could say I'm going this for my own benefit," I cut him off. I wasn't interested in what he had to say; the only thing useful about him was his massive brain and his massive...well, it's not like his ability to perform in bed mattered anymore. He was far too emotional to do what I did.
"You fucking power-hungry bitch—" he began, but, with a press of a button on Hergé's phone, Harry crippled to the ground again, his body being overtaken by twenty milliamps of electricity—about half of which could kill somebody.
"You're mistaken," I began. "Everything is about sex except sex; sex is about power. I'm not power hungry at all. At the end of the day, I still have someone to report to. Similarly, you will report to me."
He choked on his breaths, trying to push himself up and failing.
"Allons-y, Hergé," I said. My guard opened the door, letting the hallway light pour into the room. "Don't worry, Harry—I'm not going after your girlfriend just yet. I'll be contacting you soon. And think about Clarine before you try anything smart."
I set his belongings on the floor beside him, making my way out without another word. The last thing I heard before the door slammed shut was sniffling—perhaps even a muffled weeping.
Pathetic.
This was the start of something great. Harry just didn't know it yet.
***
* = Pioneer Square is a shopping center located in downtown Portland omg it's great (idk if they actually have a froyo place) ((w/e this is fiction i can do whatever i want))
frick man this is short but it fucked me up (((this was basically just to establish bria's updated persona and harry's past oooooh)))
dedicated to @HarryandBANdANAs for helping me with some of the french translations bc i suck at french oops (tysm babe ily)
and the whole sex is power quote? you can thank oscar wilde for that (i'm trash. i'm not that clever)