The Infamous Frankie Lorde 1 Read online

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  Book 2: GOING WILD

  Text copyright © 2020 by Brittany Geragotelis

  All rights reserved

  Pixel+Ink is a division of TGM Development Corp.

  Cover and interior design by Steve Scott

  www.pixelandinkbooks.com

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020938107

  Hardcover ISBN 9781645950264

  Ebook ISBN 9781645950431

  First Edition

  a_prh_5.6.0_c0_r0

  To my boys.

  In life, it’s okay to be Robin Hood and not the king.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Entry One

  Entry Two

  Entry Three

  Entry Four

  Entry Five

  Entry Six

  Entry Seven

  Entry Eight

  Entry Nine

  Entry Ten

  Entry Eleven

  Entry Twelve

  Entry Thirteen

  Entry Fourteen

  Entry Fifteen

  Entry Sixteen

  Entry Seventeen

  Entry Eighteen

  Entry Nineteen

  Entry Twenty

  Entry Twenty-One

  Entry Twenty-Two

  Entry Twenty-Three

  Entry Twenty-Four

  Entry Twenty-Five

  Entry Twenty-Six

  Entry Twenty-Seven

  Entry Twenty-Eight

  Entry Twenty-Nine

  Entry Thirty

  Entry Thirty-One

  Entry Thirty-Two

  Entry Thirty-Three

  Entry Thirty-Four

  Entry Thirty-Five

  Entry Thirty-Six

  Entry Thirty-Seven

  Acknowledgments

  Entry One

  People say writing in journals can be therapeutic. Well, at least that’s what my therapist says. I just think it’s an easy way for other people to find out all your secrets.

  And seriously, who wants that?

  But alas, my therapist, Dr. Janine Deerchuck—yep, that’s really her name—thinks it would be “beneficial” to me if I kept one, so here we are.

  She’s suggested that I use this journal to write down all my hopes, and dreams, and fears, and blah, blah, blah…I figure if I’m going to do this, I’ll use it as a record of every awesome thing I’ve ever done. And when I’m finished filling up every last lined page in this black-and-white notebook, I’ll send it to my dad to let him know what I’ve been up to since he went away.

  And that’s what brings us to Dr. Deerchuck and this journal in the first place:

  Dear old Dad.

  Don’t get me wrong, my dad is awesome. He’s one of the smartest, coolest, greatest dads on the planet. He’s practically raised me all on his own, and has taken me to places that other kids don’t even know exist—like Tanzania and Cat Island. He lets me stay up late, his favorite food is pancakes, and he doesn’t even care if I occasionally sneak-watch Game of Thrones.

  He should be in the Hall of Fame of dads, right?

  In reality? Not so much.

  But he is famous. Just not for his mad dad skills.

  Let me draw you a picture of my life with Dad. This is what happened during our last daddy/daughter outing:

  Dad and I were in Paris, hanging out at a hip local spot, drinking café crèmes—a fancy term for milky coffee, in case you didn’t know—and people-watching. It’s one of our favorite things to do. We take turns coming up with backgrounds and stories for strangers who walk by.

  Trust me, it’s a lot more entertaining than it sounds.

  I’d just dug into the most delicious chocolate croissant when Dad discreetly pointed to a lady crossing the street. She was wearing a smart-looking trench coat and sporting a short, boyish haircut.

  “So, Frankie, what’s her deal?” Dad asked me.

  I studied her like she was a work of art, noting her appearance and the way she moved and then taking in any other details she was giving away. If you know what to look for, it’s easy to tell exactly who a person is within the first fifteen seconds of meeting them.

  And who taught me this cool superpower? My dad.

  See, I told you he’s awesome.

  “She’s American. That’s obvious. Look at her shoes,” I said, gesturing at the boringly practical black flats the woman was wearing. “She’s trying to act like she’s not in a rush, but she is. And she’s nervous about something. Maybe she’s meeting someone for the first time? Her trench coat isn’t a fashion statement. It’s there to hide what’s underneath, which appears to be…”

  I squinted in the midmorning sun in an attempt to see better.

  “…very unstylish and poorly fitting pants,” I finished. “She’s a professional of some kind, though her appearance doesn’t seem to be a concern of hers, so I’d guess she’s not in media or entertainment, or any field where she has to sell things to people, for that matter.”

  The woman’s eyes flitted from side to side furtively as if she was looking for someone. And that’s when it happened.

  Her gaze fell on me and we locked eyes.

  It was only for a few seconds, but there was a recognition there that I could see right away. Almost immediately, she was lifting her hand up to her ear, and I watched as her lips moved soundlessly.

  “She’s a cop,” I said bluntly, realizing I should’ve figured it out earlier. My dad probably had her pegged when he first picked her out of the crowd. He’d just been testing me.

  And I’d failed.

  “Dad—” I started.

  “Play it cool, Frankie,” my dad said calmly as he picked up his still-steaming café crème and took a long sip.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked almost immediately, having played out this scenario a million times in my head.

  I looked around the square to try to suss out all possible escape routes. Within a few seconds I already knew of five different ways we could get out of there before the trench coat lady even reached us.

  “I’ll spill my drink, you go inside to get napkins,” I said, thinking out loud. “Head out the back and down the alley and I’ll meet you at our rendezvous point—”

  “It’s over, Frankie,” my dad said, smiling at me.

  “It’s not,” I said, confused. “She won’t even get here for another ten seconds.”

  “She’s the last one to the party,” Dad said, gesturing over his shoulder to the table directly behind us. “There’s nothing to do.”

  I swiveled my gaze without moving my head and immediately saw what he was talking about. Two serious-looking guys in suits sat at a tiny round table nearby, staring straight at us. Cups of coffee sat in front of them, but there was no steam, which meant the coffee had long since gone cold. Or possibly, there hadn’t been anything in there to begin with.

  Another detail I’d missed earlier. Man, I was off my game.

  But Dad wasn’t. Per usual, he knew everything that was going on around him.

  And now he was telling me the jig was up.

  “But, Dad,” I argued, my voice coming out all squeaky and high like I hated. “You said there’s always a plan B.”

  “There is,” he answered, patting my hand reassuring
ly. “We’re just not using it today.”

  An arm reached in between us then and I looked up to see one of the men from the next table helping Dad to his feet and pulling his arms behind his back.

  Trench Coat Lady finally reached us, slightly out of breath from her walk but prickling with excitement.

  “Tom Lorde, you’re under arrest for fraud, forgery, swindling, grand larceny…,” she began as she listed off all his offenses from memory. I wondered how long she’d been practicing the speech. Hours? Days? Years?

  And without another word to me, she swept Dad away and into a waiting car.

  Entry Two

  So, yeah. My dad’s sort of a thief.

  Well, not just any thief. I believe after his arrest and subsequent trial, the papers called him “the most infamous international thief in modern history.” Which, of course, made me roll my eyes, but I was also secretly a little proud. I knew Dad was good. I just hadn’t realized he was infamous good.

  After that day, my life turned completely upside down. This is the reason I have to see Dr. Deerchuck and write in this stupid journal.

  Make more sense now?

  Anyway, the journal is kind of the least of my worries currently. Because now that my dad is living out his infamy in a prison in Virginia and the law says I have to have an adult watching my every move, I’m being sent to live with my uncle Scotty.

  Uncle Scotty is my dad’s brother. He’s younger than my dad by, well, a lot, and I haven’t seen him in more than five years. Since before Dad decided to take our show on the road and travel the world.

  I don’t remember a lot about him, but from what I do recall, he’s not all that bad. Whenever we visited, he’d always order pizza or Chinese takeout for dinner and tell me embarrassing stories about my dad when he was a kid.

  And my dad liked Uncle Scotty, too. Once he confessed that as far as younger brothers went, Uncle Scotty wasn’t all that annoying. And for someone like my dad, who didn’t actually like all that many people—and trusted even fewer—that was high praise.

  But as cool as Uncle Scotty may be, there’s still one big, glaring, red-alert problem with going to live with him.

  He’s a cop.

  And as you can probably guess…thieves and cops don’t exactly mix.

  Entry Three

  So you can see my dilemma, right?

  Recently caught thief going to live with the right hand of the law? The whole situation could practically be a Shakespearean play. In fact, I’m not entirely sure it isn’t. Dad and I only made it through half of Willy’s work before my studies were cut short by the FBI.

  What I’m trying to say is that me going to live with my cop uncle is definitely a recipe for disaster.

  Not everyone agrees with me, though.

  “I really think this will be good for you, Frankie,” Dr. Deerchuck said as we sat on the commuter train headed north.

  I’d been in New York City the past week, participating in daily mandatory intensive therapy with Dr. Deerchuck, meant to prepare me for my new life with Uncle Scotty.

  But how were you supposed to prepare for something like that?

  Well, apparently it involved a lot of talking. And then more talking. And yep, more talking.

  Now all I wanted to do on our trip up to Connecticut was not talk.

  Dr. Deerchuck, however, hadn’t stopped talking since we’d sat down.

  “Frankie? Are you listening to me?” she asked, forcing her face in front of mine so I’d have to make eye contact with her. “I do think this will be good for you.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” I said under my breath as I evaded her gaze, looking around the rest of the train car instead.

  “What was that?” Dr. Deerchuck asked, not quite hearing what I’d said.

  I forced myself to brighten. “I said, ‘I should think so.’ ”

  Dr. Deerchuck beamed, seeming happy to have gotten through to another one of her patients.

  “Now, I understand you and your uncle haven’t seen each other in quite some time, so things might not click into place right away,” she continued. “But I promise, if you just keep an open mind and are willing to adapt to your new situation, things will get back to normal in no time.”

  I nodded as I looked out the window at the buildings and houses we were zipping by. I knew this was what she wanted from me and the sooner I complied, the sooner the torture would be over.

  “And of course, if anything comes up, you always have this….,” she said, handing over my journal.

  I frowned as I saw the familiar black-and-white cover.

  I’d hidden the journal under my mattress in New York, hoping to leave it behind, along with Dr. Deerchuck’s other useless suggestions. But it looked like someone had gone mattress diving earlier that day.

  “Oh, good,” I said, unenthused. “You found it.”

  “You should find a better hiding spot next time,” Dr. Deerchuck said, and winked at me conspiratorially.

  “I’ll definitely be doing that,” I responded, shoving the journal into my backpack and going back to staring out the window.

  Thankfully, Dr. Deerchuck got a phone call from some other hysterical patient just then and spent the rest of the ride trying to calm them down. Which meant that for the first time in over a week, I had some time to just think.

  Think about how messed up my life had become.

  How bizarre it was going to be to live with Uncle Scotty.

  How much I missed my dad and our old life.

  “Next stop, Greenwich, Connecticut,” a man’s voice called out dully over the loudspeaker.

  “That’s us!” Dr. Deerchuck said, clapping her hands down onto her lap enthusiastically.

  I stood up on shaky legs, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. As I followed Dr. Deerchuck to the exit, I reached up and played with my bangs nervously.

  In preparation for trying to fit in to my new hometown, I’d dyed my previously platinum-blond hair a flat brown and had it cut it into a bob with short bangs.

  I’ve never had bangs before. At least on my real hair. I’ve had wigs with bangs, but I’ve only ever worn them until the end of a con. I haven’t had to live with the actual unpredictability of shorn locks. And I pretty much regretted the decision immediately following that first snip. The hairdresser had cut them so short, I now had nothing to hide behind, which made me feel even more noticeable than before.

  The whole decision had been pretty much one big, epic fail.

  At least it seemed to match my life at the moment.

  “Do you think you’ll recognize your uncle?” Dr. Deerchuck asked as we stepped off the train and into the midafternoon sun.

  The station looked like one of those old-school train stops. Sort of like the one at Disneyland. All bright and shiny and happy. Like you were stepping off into a completely different world.

  Which, well, we sort of were.

  “Well, hello, ma’am.” A middle-aged man with light blue eyes stopped us as the train pulled away behind us. “May I help you and your…daughter get a ride into town?”

  I frowned. People don’t do something for nothing. This guy wanted something, and I wasn’t going to fall for it just because he was flashing a perfect set of teeth and kind eyes.

  I started to tell him to shove off, but Dr. Deerchuck cut in.

  “Well, that’s very kind of you, but we’re meeting someone,” she responded politely.

  “Of course,” the man replied. “Well, let me know if you need any help with anything.”

  As the man walked away, Dr. Deerchuck looked sideways at me. “I know it’s hard given your past, but not everyone is out to con you,” she said to me, gently. “This is a nice town. Full of nice people. My hope is that you’ll be able to let your guard down eventually, Frankie.”

  When I didn’t
respond, Dr. Deerchuck adjusted her purse back onto her shoulder and started to look around.

  “So do you recognize anyone?” she asked, sounding hopeful.

  I scanned the platform and then looked beyond it to the parking lot. There were around thirty people bustling around, which seemed busy for a small town in the middle of the day, but what did I know about this place?

  Still, I picked Uncle Scotty out almost immediately.

  I couldn’t see his features from so far away, but my instincts told me it was him. He was the only person standing still, and he was leaning back against an enormous red Ford truck. And his slouch was exactly like Dad’s.

  And mine.

  So I guess we had something in common.

  He was wearing fitted jeans and what appeared to be a suit jacket, even though it was in the mid-seventies in September. His sunglasses reflected the sun and nearly blinded me as he turned to look in our direction.

  As soon as he saw me, he lifted his hand in hello, and I did the same.

  “Ah, is that your uncle then?” Dr. Deerchuck asked, squinting as she tried to get a better look at the guy who would be taking care of me for the foreseeable future. “He’s not quite what I expected, I must admit.”

  I nodded.

  “Funny, none of this is what I expected, either,” I said, and started off toward Uncle Scotty.

  Entry Four

  Standing there in front of Uncle Scotty was surreal.

  It was like looking at a younger, fitter, darker-haired version of my dad. Like what I imagined Dad looked like when he first met my mom. Before he realized that in his line of work, it was better to go unnoticed than to stand out. People remember good-looking.

  They do not remember unremarkable.

  At least, that’s what Dad told me whenever I’d make fun of the fact that his gut was starting to hang out over his pants and his disheveled blond hair made him look like Justin Bieber during his breakdown.

  “It doesn’t pay to be handsome, Frankie,” he said once. Then he patted his slightly doughy stomach and ran his hands through his hair. “Don’t underestimate the power of plain.”