Andmy other brother, I guess.
What the fuck is going on?
I don’t say anything. What is there to say?
He takes another drag from his joint and releases it with a shake of his head. “Fuck you, man.”
I step into his space again, plucking the joint and flicking it further into the parking lot. “No, fuck you, Cruz. We’re running a job in less than an hour and you’re getting fucked up? After that shit inside?”
We’re not even ten seconds into this standoff and I already want to put Cruz’s head through the windshield.
He doesn’t even blink—just tilts his chin up, that infuriating little twitch at the corner of his mouth like he’s two steps ahead and already knows how I’m going to play this. He’s always been like this—never met a boundary he wouldn’t stick a knife in, just to see if it’d bleed.
The motel door opens.
“Everything okay out here?” Bellamy’s voice tempers the tension brewing between us.
“We’re good, baby girl.” Cruz tips his chin up and smirks. “Ain’t that right, brother?”
I drag my glare from my brother to my girl. “Yeah. We’re good.”
She arches a brow. “You sure? Because you guys should tell your faces that.” She circles her index finger in the air, toward us.
No one says anything for a minute.
She huffs and rolls her eyes. “Okay, well if you two think you can get over whatever this is, do it. We’ve got a job to do. Otherwise, let’s go home.”
TWENTY-FOUR
BELLAMY
We crossthe street without speaking. A layer of emotion that I refuse to call awkwardness settles over all of us, tethering us together. I’m not sure if it’s because I just messed around with both of them or because we were all in the same bed when I did that. Or because there wasn’t really a discussion about it.
God, I feel fucking wrung out. I’ve never had so many orgasms so close together like that. I don’t even know how many it was by the end, they just started rolling into one another.
Pleasure zips along my spine as my body still feels the lingering affects of the Calloway men.
But I shove it all down and ignore everything but the job.
It feels reckless and indulgent, something I’m doing just becauseIwant to. And I just fucking hope that it pays off.
The road stretches empty in both directions. The laundromat is the only lit storefront in the strip center—the others dark behind their grates, no way to tell if they’ve been closed for a week or a year. A low mechanical hum bleeds through the glass doors, steady and indifferent.
I shift the duffel higher on my shoulder as we cut across the last stretch of pavement, gravel shifting softly under our shoes.Something metallic rides underneath the detergent smell, sharp enough to catch at the back of my throat.
The doors slide open.
Warm, heavy air folds around me—damp fabric and something underneath it. The fluorescent lights buzz at a frequency that lives just behind the eyes.
Gage’s duffel carries Rafe’s safe kit. Cruz has the tools. Mine is empty.
I let the door close behind us.
Four in the morning. Three people who have no business being here. Twenty thousand dollars sitting in machines that don’t know any better.
I roll my shoulder once and start moving.
Rows of machines line both walls, their metal fronts catching the light. A center island runs the length of the room, the countertop gouged and dented, a graveyard of forgotten dryer sheets and single socks. Gage peels off toward the back wall, stopping in front of the washing machine closest to the office door, Cruz falling in half a step behind him.
