22
BELLAMY
Six pairsof eyes track me as I drag my fingertip across the plans. Bishop's jaw tightens, Lola's fingers drum once against her thigh, and Cruz's head tilts a fraction to the right. Gage stands motionless, arms crossed. The air in the room seems to thin, making each breath shallow. A single bead of sweat forms between my shoulder blades, tracing a cold path down my spine as I step into the job mindset.
I flatten my palm on the edge of the worktable and lean over the spread of plans—city maps layered beneath old renovation permits Beckett pulled earlier this week. The paper crinkles beneath my fingertips, releasing a scent of toner and dust that fills my lungs. My racing pulse steadies, my shoulders drop a half-inch, and the room's edges sharpen into focus.
My knuckles tap against the blueprint's upper-left quadrant with a hollow sound that draws everyone's eyes. “Lola and I take this room.” The paper crinkles as my fingernail traces Beck's red line along what should be a false wall, stopping at the faint X he's marked. My voice drops instinctively. “Assuming Highlight hasn’t changed their setup since they pulled permits for renovations, the safe will be along one of these walls. Beckfound receipts for their eight-hundred-pound TL-fifteen, so we need to hit it from the top or the side, and ideally, have twenty solid minutes in there. Twenty-five would be better.”
To my right, Cruz’s sleeve brushes mine, cotton against cotton. On my left, Gage’s shadow falls across the corner of the blueprint. I force my eyes down to the map, blinking twice to bring the lines back into focus.
“You four hit this room,” I continue, shifting to the opposite side of the blueprint where the paper has worn thin from handling. “That’s where everything else is. Most of it should be in their transport cases, just waiting for us to grab it. That’s where the money is.”
The digital mixing consoles could easily bring us four-hundred grand if we get them all. Plus ten wireless mic receivers and a handful of big lighting controllers, if the festival specs match last year.
I slide my hand to the alley route sketched beneath the plans on the city map. “Beck will be in the van here.” My fingertip leaves a pressed indent on the paper.
“Absolutely not.” Bishop splays his palm down flat beside my hand, leaning over and into my space.
I inhale slowly, schooling every twitch off my face. “Okay, which part?—”
His jaw tightens. “Every single part of that plan,” he says, voice dropping to a dangerous octave. “You expect me to trust some teenager”—he flicks a dismissive hand toward Beckett without breaking eye contact with me—”with my freedom? With whether I spend the next decade in prison? Not happening.”
To my left, Lola goes statue-still. Her jaw ticks once, biting back what Iknowshe wants to say because I asked her to play nice. The small, fierce swell of gratitude I feel for her nearly cracks my composure.
“I’m twenty, asshole,” Beck mumbles.
I exhale through my nose and press on. “The soundboards are heavy, especially in their transport cases. You need two people minimum to carry one. Four boards alone clear us almost half a million. That’s two trips if the four of you hit this side.”
Bishop's eyes narrowed to slits. “You expect us to leave a Hale alone with the van?” His voice dropped to a growl. “With our entire take sitting right there for the taking? Not a chance in hell.”
Lola lets out a sharp laugh. “Trust goes both ways, Bishop. It’s not like you’re inspiring confidence when it comes to guarding the take.”
Cruz's mouth curls at one corner, there and gone like a match struck in wind. Gage shifts his weight, the leather of his jacket creaking as his shoulders pull back a quarter-inch. Across the table, Rafe's hands hang at his sides, but his eyes narrow to obsidian points, tracking every movement between us.
Bishop stares at me from under lowered lashes. “I wouldn’t leave my family behind.”
My spine lengthens by instinct. “But we’re not family, are we, Bishop?” The calm in my voice has an edge sharp enough to draw blood. Another ripple of tension rolls through in the room, thickening like humidity before lightning. “Trust works both ways,” I repeat, holding his stare.
Bishop's eyes narrow a fraction, his jaw flexing beneath stubble as he swallows. The silence stretches between us like a rubber band pulled too tight.
“Fine,” he bites out. “The kid and I will both drive.”
Before I can respond, Gage cuts in, his voice a controlled rumble that settles over the tension. “Me, Cruz, and Rafe can handle the storage room.”
My breath catches mid-inhale. I keep my eyes on the blueprint as the room subtly rearranges itself into us versus them. His cologne mingles with the paper dust as he shiftshis weight toward me, barely perceptible but unmistakable. My pulse skips once, then races to catch up.
“No.” Bishop’s voice drops an octave, the single syllable vibrating through the table. He drags his fingertip across the office with the safe, the sound like sandpaper against the silence. “You and Rafe. This side.” His eyes lock onto mine, jaw muscle twitching beneath stubble. Then he pivots, finger jabbing toward the other room. “Gage, Cruz, Lola. That one.”
Irritation straightens my spine another notch. “Your plan is inefficient. And your inability to trust us will cost us?—”
“Literally,” Lola snaps.
Bishop’s head swings to her, brow arching in a slow, taunting curve. “Not strong enough to hang with us, Hale?”
Lola bares her teeth in a feral sort of smile. “Try me, tall, dark, and insufferable.”
I slice my hand through the air between them. “Fine. We’ll do it your way.” My jaw tightens around what comes next, but I force it out anyway. “This time.”
