Page 37 of The One-Night Heist

And why the hell would he agree?

The worst part was I knew exactly why I’d said it, and it wasn’t just because of the control it gave me over him. I didn’t like the idea of Giano whimpering in someone else’s bed—couldn’t stand the thought of him on his knees elsewhere, “completion” or not—but, even more shamefully, I didn’t want him laughing for anyone else either.

Jesus CHRIST, I need a real drink.

“Uh-oh… I know that look…” one of the mailroom guys—Albert? Alan?—sidled up to me in the bar we’d all decided to stop in before the concert. “Is one of your girlfriends giving you trouble?”

Girlfriends?

I wasn’t offended by the question—since I sampled from all sides of the buffet table—but it always fascinated me when the default was to assume someone was straight.

How boring.

“Not a girlfriend,” I replied, when I should have just kept my trap shut. The last thing I wanted—even less than whatever dick-drunk exclusivity pact I’d made with Giano—was for my pretend work friends to get invested in my love life.

“My bad, man,” Alfred apologized, earning points in my book that he immediately lost when he then slapped me on the shoulder. “Is someone trying to ‘take the relationship to the next level’ too soon?”

Yeah.

This guy right here.

“Something like that…” I muttered, pulling my phone out of my pocket to check the time, only to stuff it away again when I saw a new message notification from Giano. “Shouldn’t we get going soon to, uh, claim our spots near the stage?”

“Oh, good call.” Alvin turned to face the others, shouting above the Friday night bar crowd noise. “All right, party people—let’s roll out!”

Ew.

I slid another one of Giano’s fifties across the bar before following the “party people” out onto the sidewalk and across the street to Bryant Park. The show tonight was some kind of live-music samba dance party, and for one sappy moment I wished I could just kick back and enjoy myself like a normal person, instead of hustling 24/7.

Maybe in another life.

As we maneuvered through the gathering crowd, I peeked at my phone again, physically unable to resist seeing what nonsense a certain someone felt compelled to message me on the night of our goddamn heist.

Moneybags

Have fun tonight.

What the hell is his angle?!

Now I had the absolutely insane urge to take a cab to wherever Giano’s fancy gala was happening to make him explain himself, because if that man was actually implying I would be enjoying myself—while sober—at an outdoor concert with a bunch of work bros I barely knew…

Wait.

Does he mean have fun on the heist?

If that was the case, I couldn’t even be mad about it. Because, yes, I was going to enjoy myself tonight—more than I’d enjoyed myself in years, if you didn’t count my recent ride on billionaire dick.

Fuck, he has such a nice dick…

Angrily shoving the phone back into my pocket, I refocused on blending in with my inebriated alibis, shaking my ass to a few songs before shouting in Alex’s face that I’d just spotted an old roommate from Brooklyn, so I’d catch them all later.

Or not.

After confirming from a distance that no one seemed concerned by my whereabouts, I slipped away, tucking my hair beneath the brimmed beanie I’d stuffed in my jacket pocket and briskly walking the few blocks to where I’d parked an unmarked cargo van with a few sets of clean plates.

Securing the vehicle, and the contents within, had taken up most of my week outside of pesky working hours at the field office. My first contact hung up on me—no doubt assuming I was part of an FBI sting—and it took a lot of convincing for the second to finally believe I was back in the game.

I am so back, baby.