"This is bollocks," Froy uttered, pacing the floors of Dayne's penthouse. His place was a mere six blocks away from last night's scene, making it their blatant take to refuge.
"What is?" Dayne replied, slumped low in his spotless IKEA leather white four-seater, a martini glass in the balance of his fragile fingers. It didn't matter that it was still late in the morn, he drank whenever in he felt like.
"A flight from here to Dubai is no more than 13 hours. They should have arrived this morning, why haven't any of them called?" He fretted. The next phase was his, and he didn't want to miss his cue.
Little did he know that everything was already spun too far off for him to even receive his cue, which would have supposedly come from Tom.
"Maybe they forgot," Dayne offered, indifferent to his brother's panic because he knew what was happening - he merely took pleasure in watching Froy become restless.
"GAH!" Froy exclaimed as his slender, stick legs continued bouncing around nervously. Dayne let out a soft chuckle, which made Froy spin on his heels and glare at him.
"What is so funny, brother?" he spat at Dayne's joy. He was extensively dismayed, and beyond furious at Dayne for being endlessly apathetic.
"Check your work email," Dayne coached, his eyes remaining fixated on the bobbing green olive, growing strangely irritated at it.
Froy spared a second to shoot him a look of utter dismay before rushing in the direction of Dayne's neat work desk.
Listening to the sound of Froy's fingers dash away upon the keyboard a minute later, Dayne began to wonder how he'd figured out his password. "Hey, Froy?" he called, the confusion in his voice crystal clear.
"I know you, that's how," he simply replied, causing Dayne's expression to contort into one of complete disorientation.
Dayne then took to his nimble feet, perching his martini glass upon the his white lacquered metal high-table as he sped past it. His Oxfords made low thumps on the hardwood flooring. He refused to even get out of last night's shoes.
He stood over Froy in the leather swivel chair as he skimmed through the email, his jaw dropping a little more with every coming development.
"Hah," Dayne mocked, walking away from Froy at the desk.
"You knew," Froy shot at him, upset that Dayne had had the audacity to sit around and watch him fret the entire morning.
"Of course I knew, dumbass," Dayne retaliated. "Relax. The rephasing was settled quick enough for nothing to have roughed out too much, just be on call."
"What if I need to take a shit?" Froy squealed, being the prissy bitch he was.
"Then you go and fucking take a shit unless your fucking phone rings," Dayne snapped, fed up with Froy's antics.
Froy then let out an exhausted sigh.
Their luck was utterly unbelievable. The phasing had been perfect until the flights were pushed back, and the lot of them had to lay low for another whole 24, which, being who they were, was sort of very fucking impossible.
"Shall we get to it then?" Froy then turned to ask his brother, who stood at the furthest end of the flat, looking out the spotless ceiling-to-floor windows at the city that unfolded beneath them and the skyline that spread out ahead of them.
They needed to get to their New York meeting spot, their safe place. Gray Lane.
"What you gonna take, a cab? We can't leave, Froy, not without being seen. We're staying." Dayne said, turning to face Froy.
"Don't you have a private elevator that goes to the underground?" Froy intoned as he shifted his weight from his right hip to his left. His brother's thoughts were clouded at this point, and he very well knew why.
Dayne simply stood there, staring off into empty space before saying, "Well, bloody fucking hell," and making a break for his go-to supply of prepacked necessities, grabbing a second for his twin.
