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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.
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Mystery / Thriller"Some people want to destroy beautiful things," he said slowly, "but some people just want to steal them." ☆ [completed FIRST draft] a holiday heist in which eight strangers attempt to steal...
