“If it blows up, that’s on you, man.” Gage’s voice is rough, edged with something protective, and it brushes along the inside of my heart in a way I refuse to acknowledge.
I tap the blueprint with two sharp knuckle raps, cutting through the tension like a blade.
“So. Beck and Bishop will be here in the van,” I say, sliding my finger along the alley. “Rafe and I clear the safes and anything we find on this side. Cruz, Gage, and Lola take boards, receivers, controllers, anything of significant value from the storage side.”
Cruz shifts forward, cotton sleeve grazing my bare arm as he taps the prints with his index and middle fingers. The mint from his gum hits me in small puffs with each word. Behind me, the heat from Gage's body radiates against my shoulder blade, andwhen I glance up, his jaw is clenched tight enough that a muscle jumps beneath his stubbled skin.
“We’ve got a thirty-minute window, but twenty-five would be better.” Cruz drags two fingertips across the alley, tracing the line with deliberate pressure. His head remains bent over the blueprint, but his eyes slide to the corner, catching on my wrist, lingering on the pulse point there before climbing slowly up to my face.
“So tomorrow night, meet here at eleven, drive to Bayview in the van you picked up, arrive at Otto’s and park here.” I shift closer to reach the corner of the map, and my hair slips forward.
Before I can tuck it behind my ear, Cruz’s hand lifts and brushes the strand back, fingertips grazing my temple—warm and unexpected. The garage air suddenly feels too thick to breathe.
A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it—half-breath, half-sound.
Cruz's fingertips linger at my temple, warm against my skin. His mouth curves upward at one corner, and he murmurs, “Can't read the plans behind your hair, Bells.”
His eyes never drop to the blueprint. Instead, they flick upward, past me. Beside me, Gage goes rigid, his sleeve suddenly heavy against mine, the cotton of his shirt catching on my bare arm with static electricity.
The air crackles between us. My heartbeat stutters against my ribs, a single betraying thud loud enough I'm certain everyone can hear it.
I clear my throat, fingers pressing into the blueprint's edge. “Right. Anyway. We're in and out. Quick, quiet, easy.”
Everyone shifts closer to the table. Lola's elbow jabs into Gage's side as she wedges herself between us, her breath warm against my shoulder.
“Everyone clear?” Bishop stands up straight, irritation still rolling off him like heat shimmer.
“Crystal.” Cruz flashes his brother grin sharp enough to cut glass.
Rafe's chin dips once, a precise quarter-inch movement, his expression never shifting.
Beckett lifts his donut in salute. “As long as nobody fucks with the pastry luck, we’ll be fine.”
Lola sighs dramatically. “The job gods have been appeased. Barely.”
I shake my head, but a smile tugs anyway. Then my gaze snags on the lone donut left in the box—the one I bought for Coco. I close the lid gently and slide it toward Cruz. “Make sure your mom gets this.”
“I will,” Cruz murmurs.
The room shifts around us. Not quiet, not loud, justcharged.
I want to trust them.I don't.
I need to trust them.I can't.
My pulse hammers against this impossible contradiction as six pairs of eyes reflect the same war. A thread pulled taut through seven people who are about to gamble their freedom on a bet none of us is sure we want to win.
I straighten, stack the plans under my arm, and force my breath steady. “Okay. We’ll see you all tomorrow.”
Cruz lifts his chin, one corner of his mouth hitching up as his gaze travels from my eyes to my lips and back again. Rafe's jaw unclenches a fraction, the hard line of his mouth softening for exactly one heartbeat before returning to granite.
“Don’t be late.” Bishop doesn’t look at me when he says it, which tells me more than if he had.
Gage says nothing at first. His eyes catch mine, hold them, dark lashes lowering slightly as his gaze travels across my facelike fingertips. My spine straightens involuntarily, something liquid and warm pooling beneath my sternum, sliding lower.
“Night, Bells,” he finally murmurs, the nickname vibrating in the small space between us, his voice pitched just below the others' conversations.
The two syllables slip past my defenses and settle somewhere dangerous, somewhere I thought I'd locked years ago.
