☆

OUT OF 8 MILLION PEOPLE in the city, Blue chose the eight of them. They were one one millionth of New York City—crammed into the boiler room of a seedy venue in Bushwick. It felt like urban decay, the slow death of punk music and acid trips, gracing them with the perfect run-down location to meet discreetly.

A construction of cobwebs descended down the corners of the wall like wiry frames, glittering in the light of a single flickering bulb; they fluttered with each slight motion or word or breath. Somehow, the webs didn't break, but simply vibrated, cascading daintily over a collection of charcoal black pipes that clanked and sputtered beneath the thundering bass of a punk show above them. All the sounds bled together, unraveling into the late night... and drowned out by the upbeat lyrics of Jingle Bell Rock.

Her head was throbbing.

"Why the fuck are you playing Jingle Bell Rock?"

"Becauuuuse I knew everyone would hate it."

"Turn it off."

"Aw, come on, it's a Christmas classic!"

"Now."

"No."

Each sharp response ricocheted off her as she sat silently, caught between the endless argument of six strangers. Her eyes screwed shut; her teeth ground together impatiently. Where the fuck was Blue? At least she could tolerate him. These assholes were impossible. If they weren't staring blankly at her, they were bickering like a bunch of ten-year-olds. How in the hell was she supposed to survive the next three weeks?

"Here."

Slowly, so fucking slowly, she opened her eyes and twisted, only to find ink roping around tan skin—tattoos tracing a path to long fingers... holding a slow-burning joint.

When she took it, her gaze wandered down his body, silently appreciating the way his lean muscles stretched the fabric of his dark band tee. Something about him screamed punk, and briefly, she wondered if Blue had picked him out of the crowd upstairs right before this fucking meeting. But then she lingered on the scuffed, torn skater shoes. Vans.

A grin tugged at her lips. He was how she was going to survive the next three weeks. "Thanks."

"I don't know if it will help," he rasped, tearing her gaze to his sheepish expression as he tugged the grey beanie off his head. "But it's something."

They were all something. That was the tragedy of it.

"It's a great song!"

"No, it isn't."

"Haven't you seen Mean Girls?"

Frustration clogged her throat. "Just turn it off," she interrupted them, "so everyone will be fucking quiet."

"What a bright time, it's the right time..."

That asshole across the room smirked at her, and she knew in that moment... that they were going to have a problem.

"...to rock the night away."

One inhale, one inch, one exhale.

With a defiant glare, she tipped her chin up to take in the baggy clothes and the clunky headphones hanging around his neck. Dark brown eyes clashed with hers. "If you don't turn it off, I will kill you."

His brows rose with barely concealed annoyance. Fuck him.

Cocking her head to the side, she extended the joint to him in an unspoken offer—a deceptively calculated surrender. Maybe she didn't know him, but she knew herself well enough to remember that violence had never gotten her very far in life. It was silence that scared people.

Hesitantly, he strode across the room and snatched the joint from her to take a hit. Smoke danced from his lips as he held her gaze. "Now... was that a threat or a promise, beautiful?"

Silence chased the simple taunt.

Six sets of eyes burned into her. If it was a threat, there wouldn't be a question. This was more like a long-standing warning for the next three weeks. "I think you know."

The song puttered out, but it bled into the next track seamlessly. Because this motherfucker had decided to set the small radio in the corner of the room on a Christmas channel.

"Santa baby, slip a sable under the tree... for me," Eartha Kit crooned quietly, and the lyrics dug into her skin. A scowl twisted at her lips. "Been an awful good girl. Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight."

"I don't know, baby." Mischief glinted in his hazy eyes. As he leaned closer, still twisting the joint between his fingers, she toyed with the tempting idea of choking him. "Have you been a good girl this year?"

Her jaw clenched. "Fuck off."

"Mmm. Language," he tutted with a coy smile. "I knew you were a bad girl."

"Think of all the fun I've missed..."

A sweet smile flirted at her lips.

"...think of all the fellas that I haven't kissed."

"Mhmm," she hummed, brushing her fingers against his as she reached for the joint. "Do you wanna know how bad I am?"

Surprise crossed his expression, but it was fleeting, quickly replaced with a lazy challenge. "Oh, I know y—"

In a blur, she wrapped a hand around his throat and surged forward. They both hit the opposite wall harshly, and he hissed when her nails carved into his skin. "Actually," she clipped out coolly. The joint inched closer to his face, burning, burning, burning. "You don't know. You don't know me."

"I don—"

The door cracked, and suddenly, the lyrics of Santa Baby felt too loud in the quiet room, pulsing with sickeningly sweet words of sexual undertones. Fuck, her head hurt.

When the man in front of her twisted, she followed his gaze to find him stepping inside quietly—a cool indifference masking any emotion.

Blue spared them one look before his lips curled into a loose smile. "I see you're all getting along."

"Just getting to know each other," the man rasped, reaching up to wrap a hand around her wrist gently. His eyes flashed. "Now that I know you like it rough, beautiful, you can let go."

Blue snickered. "Let him go, Star."

Silently, she released him. Blue flirted around them slowly, snagging the joint and putting it to his lips, before kneeling to shut off the radio.

"Okay, guys," he exhaled, wisps of smoke dancing into the dimly lit room with a soft order. Somehow, Blue made casual words into commands, and it was infuriatingly sexy. "This is it. We're it."

They were it—eight people reeled in for a crazy fucking plan that could end in chaos.

Blue spoke smoothly, confidently, quietly, and as he captured them with intricate words and promises, Star watched closely... decoding and deciphering their actions, memorizing the little things that exposed them to her.

They were distinct in their nature, idiosyncrasies distinguished by each subtle motion, flaws and fears willingly bared to a world of mistrust and mistakes.

It would always be the little things that made them vulnerable.

Impatience. Flicking long, colored hair over her shoulder, dark eyes skating over them with disdain. Perfect fucking nails traced to a dagger-like sharpness, etching into the wall quicker and quicker as the night wore on. Claws.

Suspicion. Leaning against the concrete wall, legs crossed, arms crossed. Fluttering lashes revealing an acute glare that blazed, narrowing in on anyone who glanced at her. Atom.

Amusement. Slouching against a pipe with a lazy grin, those headphones slung around his neck. A mischievous glint in his eyes, glittering beneath the dim light as he stole secretive glances at all of them. Bang.

Detachment. Crossing inked arms over his broad chest, built like a bodyguard with a trimmed beard and mustache. Unwavering charcoal eyes, unforgiving and hard, only offering her an apathetic shrug. Vegas.

Determination. Cracking knuckles quietly, grease and paint burned into his jeans. A firm dedication written in his stoic stare, drilling each word uttered to memory. Cadillac.

Approval. Balancing on a worn skateboard, inching closer and closer and closer to her with hazy, high eyes. Something devilish in his grin, widening into a teasing excitement. Vans.

Those piercing azure eyes. Blue.

Somehow, it was just them. They were it.

"I heard it had 3 million crystals," Vans snickered, glancing down at her with a teasing look. "How much is that star worth?"

"A rough estimate?" Claws spared him a sarcastic smile, still fiddling with those razor-sharp nails. "Over 3 million dollars."

Bang whistled. "3 million dollars."

Claws pinned him with a hard look. "Is it worth it?"

"Mmm." Meeting her gaze, Vans leaned forward to pluck a strand of hair from her shoulder. When his lips met her ear, he grinned. "More like... is it possible?"

With a cool snicker, Star shook her head. "Anything is possible during the Christmas season."

A roguish grin captured Blue's lips... that same grin that had drawn her in several nights ago. "That's the holiday spirit, baby."

Vans hummed, twisting to give her a small smile. "Is that it, Star? It's possible because it's la temporada navideña?"

"It's possible if we make it possible," she hissed, running a hand through her hair in frustration. "¿Entiendes?"

"Sí, estrellita." His eyes darkened. "You got some Spanish in you?"

"No," she lied.

"We could change that."

"Fuck you."

With a soft laugh, Vans backed off, waving his hands in surrender. "Okay, I get it. Don't fuck each other."

Blue nodded. "Don't get too close. No real names. No addresses. No phone numbers. Nothing."

Only the fake fucking names that Blue gave them, only the burner phones that he gave them, only the plan. Nothing else.

No one spoke.

Blue had the last word. Always.

"Okay," he rasped, bringing everyone back to him. Like a fucking leader. The air around them shifted, a sultry heat stifling the string of nasty curses fumbling to her lips. "This is it."

And that's when she knew him.

When he reached behind the radio, unrolling and pinning a faded sheet of paper to the concrete wall, that's when she found it. His flaw.

Calculated. Pointing at the beautifully articulate drawing of the star, emphasizing floor plans and measurements and every little detail that could bring them down. A dark warning lit like black fire in a trench, threatening to consume her with a single glance. Blue.

A satisfied smile seized her.

"It weighs 900 pounds," he said, his gaze drifting to Vegas... and then Cadillac. Meaningfully. "900 fucking pounds. 70 spikes."

Star narrowed her eyes.

Blue met them defiantly. "3 million crystals."

☆

**AHHH YES. We've introduced the eight of them a little better now. *laughs evilly*

ALSO. I just hate that the leader in heist movies is ALWAYS a man. Unless it's an all-girl crew, which is even more insulting. Like... wtf, why can't a woman be in charge of a group of men AND women??

/rant

hehe love you guys 🌟