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"YOUR EYES ARE LIKE STARLIGHT NOW."

It's that fucking song.

Every nerve in her body ignites, frustration filling her veins. Her fingers tighten around the burner phone instinctively, and it almost gives her the satisfying sensation of choking him. Blue.

The lyrics are muffled, but soft, and something about it leaves her cold.

Baby, it's fucking cold outside.

Maybe there was a reason Blue and her found some fucked up attachment to that song. It's in that subtle power dynamic, lacing the words together into a challenge, a struggle, a fight—a temptingly dangerous decision to stay with someone instead of bracing a winter storm. Fuck. The irony. That i—

"You know you have to answer that," Cadillac says quietly.

A curse unravels in her throat; she grinds it back with a curt nod, silent and stoic, wishing that the conversation was over already. Fuck him. Fuck both of them. She didn't have to do anything. Not for them. Not for anyone.

Cadillac draws a sharp breath, seeming to sense the way her thoughts derailed into a tense refusal. The space between them thickens. If anyone knows how she feels about authority, about being told what to do... about Blue, it's Cadillac. "Star." A warning  spikes that fucking fake name. "You kn—"

"That's not my name." Beneath the soft, sensual lyrics, Dean Martin and Marilyn Maxwell battling for dominance, her words puncture the air like ice. "That's not my fucking name."

They jerk to the left, swerving around a parked car, and everything skews into a shadowy spiral. Her stomach lurches, her head spins, her vision sharpens.

A dazzling white-hot flutter of light flickers in and out of the darkness.

The Star.

An object.

That's what it was always about. Ownership.

"I fucking hate that he gave me that name," she rasps between a dry laugh, her thumb smoothing over the screen that tells her Blue is calling, Blue is waiting, Blue is... there.

Your eyes are like starlight now.

Three weeks ago, that bastard had told her it was a compliment, that it was because of the wild glint in her eyes, that it was beautiful and deadly. Three weeks ago, Blue lied to her, told her that it was because of those stars in her fucking eyes, but tonight... tonight, as all those moments of reckless planning rose from the ashes of the city streets, tangled in mistakes and mistrust, she knew that there were 3 million reasons why Blue named her Star.

Cadillac shrugs, shooting her a sideways glance. It lasts a millisecond, a fraction of a millisecond, but those dark eyes meet hers. "I always liked it."

And then his heavy gaze is gone, and she's warm.

A ripple of heat chases away the last trace of icy hesitation, flooding her veins, attacking her cheeks, drawing her lips into a small smile. There was always something about Cadillac that made her warm.

"Baby, it's cold outside."

It's like fucking whiplash.

A flutter of anxiety pulses; a wild jolt of rage spikes; a frustrated growl threatens to break. Her gaze falls to the phone. 22:35.

As always, Blue is down to the fucking minute.

Punctual. Prompt. Not fucking late.

That nasty knot of jealousy tightens in her chest. They drift through the intersection, hazy streaks of moonlight ricocheting off the crystals in glittering shards to paint the empty, darkened high rises on the corner of 49th and 7th.

Cadillac knew where to go.

When she presses the phone to her ear, there's no hesitation. "22:35, Star."

There's an unmistakable warning between the words, between the fucking numbers, perfectly packaged into an unspoken threat. His specialty. In the past three weeks, decoding and destroying those little intimations had saved her.

The silence sits, simmers, separates them for a moment.

They're five minutes late, and she knows it, but she also knows that nothing pisses off Blue more than not getting answers. Silence.

"Star."

Fuck. She did love the way he could grind out that fake name like glass, ice, crystals, crunching between his teeth—sharp and cold and painful. Maybe she always wanted to hurt him.

A smile curls at her lips. "Blue."

"Vegas called."

Her heart skips, and her throat tightens, and her spine stiffens. Dread churns low in her chest, twisting the cool challenge into the brutal truth of who she was really fucking with.

Blue didn't just know her weaknesses; Blue knew her secrets.

Vegas.

"Okay," she says, feigning indifference and fucking wincing when her voice cracks. Cadillac hisses, jerking them to the side haphazardly, and like a wrecking ball between a million unlit billboards on Broadway and 49th, the star swings.

A kaleidoscope of light scatters around them.

It's almost beautiful.

One deep inhale.

Steady. Solid. Strong.

All lies need a sturdy foundation.

"Blue, we're good." An edge cuts through her soft words, and she pauses, lowering her voice, knowing exactly what he wants to hear. "Bang grabbed Vegas and Vans at 51st."

He laughs. "Yeah?"

There it is again. One word, and yet... a million things beneath it, like he's always one step ahead of her, like he always knows more. Her blood runs cold. Suddenly, the sound of sirens still floating in the distance, in some void, some tunnel of a black city, is deafening.

Did Bang grab Vegas and Vans?

Fuck, she hadn't heard anything from either of them. They were in the fucking dark. Numbly, she shakes her head. "I..."

"You're late," he cuts her off, knocking her back into a frantic fumble for the time, for the plan, for... "Where are you?"

Her teeth grind together. "Headed for you."

"I'm ready, baby."

"By 22:55."

Blue snickers. "From 8th and 49th? Be here by 22:45, Star."

Dizzily, she blinks.

Wait.

Headlights dance across the cut silhouettes, vehicles and buildings and cold concrete, but in the darkness, caught in slivers and shards, a million shiny glimpses reflect back at her.

And it's there for a fleeting second, in a shimmering green, in fractured white letters.

8th Av

W 49th St

They were off route because of the police, and... she didn't tell him where they were.

Did they just fuck up everything?

A frustrated sound bubbles up her throat, but she bites it back viciously, forcing a sugary-sweet hum. "I'll be there, baby."

And then she hangs up, rolls her window down, and throws the phone out into the fucking darkness.

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**YEYEYEYEYEYEEYEYEY I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY RIGHT NOW—