I shrug. “Yeah. I’m not the idea guy, remember?”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. He drags a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his beard like he’s trying to physically hold his temper in place. He turns to Cruz. “What about you?”
Cruz scratches the back of his neck, expression maddeningly loose. “I’ve got something,” he says. “It’s not cooked yet. I need more time with it.”
Bishop throws his head back and lets out a sharp, humorless breath, hands planting on his hips. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” He looks between us like the room itself personally betrayed him. “It’s been three weeks since the yacht. Three. We need money. We need something on the books.” He jabs a finger toward the floor. “I tell you we need ideas and you show up withnothing?—”
“And what about you?” I cut in. “What’s your big idea?”
His eyes snap to mine. For a second that familiar pressure builds in my chest—the silent standoff instinct, the part of me that enjoys seeing how far I can push before something breaks. But I stay leaned back, casual, waiting.
Bishop presses his tongue into his cheek, then shrugs like it’s obvious. “There’s a new jewelry shop two towns over. Soft targets, weak security, small staff. We go in late, smash cases, grab what we can. In and out.”
I purse my lips and exhale a slow, flat note between my teeth, eyebrows raised in mock awe as I examine my fingernails. “Wow. Revolutionary.”
Gage’s head tips to the side, a humorless smirk cutting across his face. “So we knock over some no-name jewelry store in the middle of nowhere, pray a fence takes the pieces, sit on them for a month, and maybe clear a grand each?” He clicks his tongue. “That’s your big move?”
“At least it’s guaranteed,” Bishop bites back, fists clenching at his sides.
“Yeah,” Gage says. “Guaranteed waste of our fucking time. This isn’t ten years ago.”
Bishop laughs, but it’s all incredulity and no humor. “And the music store isn’t?”
Gage stares at him like he’s lost his damn mind. “Jesus, do you hear yourself? It’s not a music store.” He pushes off the workbench, stepping toward the center of the room, like he’s a ringmaster. “We’re talking mid six figures. Easy.”
Cruz’s brows jump. My own attention sharpens, that familiar hum curling tighter.
Bishop crosses his arms, weight shifting back on his heels, posture screamingprove it.
“The two floors above Otto’s Music in Bayview are Highlight Entertainment’s offices. You know who they are?” Gage asks.
I do. I’ve seen their logo on passes, stage scrims, barricades. I’ve been to half a dozen festivals they’ve put on. Those weekends bleed money.
“They handle production for Coastal Fire, Sundown Fest, that desert thing out by Mesa Springs. Plus every mid-size venue from here to Ridgeview.”
Cruz whistles low. “No shit.”
Bishop’s face shifts, but he’s not backing down. “And I’m supposed to give a fuck about some entertainment company above a music store why?”
“Because,” Gage says, dragging the word out like he’s talking to an unruly toddler. “They run all the cash through there. Vendor payouts, settlement envelopes, walk-up tickets, last-minute upgrades. It all bottlenecks upstairs before it moves again.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, studying Gage's face like I'm seeing something new there—the sharp calculation behind his eyes that's usually Cruz's territory, the confident stance that Bishop normally claims. My brother's lips quirk up at one corner when he catches me staring, and I raise my Coke in a silent toast that makes his smirk widen into something almost dangerous.
Gage ticks it off on his fingers. “Soundboards, generators, lighting rigs, merch stock, riders. And at least seventy-five grand in cash every other week. There’s a festival next month—Highlight’s already moving shit in and out.” He pauses, letting the moment swell. “Bellamy and Lola were camped down the block for hours today. They’ve been watching it.”
A low laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. Of course she is. Not enough she beat us to the yacht, now she’s lining up a mid-six-figure pull while we’re in here arguing about a jewelry store.
“Then we take it from under them,” Bishop says.
Gage’s head snaps toward him. “No.”
Bishop straightens, eyes narrowing on our brother. “No?”
Gage steps closer. “We don’t poach it from them. We workwiththem.” His gaze cuts to each of us. “We bring Bellamy’s crew in.”
13
GAGE
