#ny3m

You tentatively raise your phone’s front camera to your face. It's helpful to fix your updo and reapply your lipstick perfectly—a shade of red that was a perfect contrast to the black dress you had on, and was a perfect complement to the ambiance of the hotel you were in right now. Equipped with multiple crystal chandeliers, a ballroom, and an insanely expensive, four-Michelin-Star restaurant. 

Once you angle your phone just right, it’s also very helpful to see the man in the booth behind you. Or, the back of his head, anyway. But once his little friend, the one you were really after, got here, you’d have eyes on the face you needed to see. 

And as much as this was for the greater good, and as many highly illegal things you’d done before, doing this felt…weird. Wrong, almost. 

“How do you not feel like a stalker right now?” You mutter, eyes looking from the screen to your friend’s hazel ones. 

“Why do you feel like a stalker?” Bosco retorts. “We’ve been doing this kind of thing for a while.”

Heat rises to your cheeks. “Yeah, I know,” you mumble. “Just…it’s usually more proactive. We’re here right now just to listen in on him to set up a trick, not perform one. And getting tangible evidence of his crimes. Which, in the way we’re doing it, is illegal. And if he catches us, he’ll kill us. And if he kills us, we die.”

“Yeah, that’s the point of killing people,” he snorts, reaching for a breadstick from the basket in between the two of you. “And we’re not gonna die anyway. We’ve spent a while on this, it’s gonna work as long as we stick to the plan.”

Right. The plan. The hasty, two-step, plan. Record what you need. Get out. 

Simple enough, in theory, but as you sat across from Bosco on the plush leather cushion, holding a drinks menu for glasses of wine that started at $24 each, you were beginning to realize that it was much easier said than done.  

“But there’s so many variables!” You bite your lip, trying to keep from raising your voice so high as to draw attention from other fine-diners. “What if he catches us? Or I don’t hit record in time? Or we lose footage? I mean, Bosco, it’s always been the four of us, never just the two of us. They shouldn’t have brought in something so new for such an important job. If we mess up anything, this entire heist goes to shit.”

“Luckily for us,” he starts, “we’re not gonna mess up. Two rules: Stick to the plan. And stick together. Nothing’s gonna go wrong.” He sounds confident. Cocky, almost. “Now eat one of the breadsticks or drink some water before someone gets suspicious of you not eating anything.”

Sighing, you begrudgingly reach for a breadstick. “He’s not even here yet,” you grumble.

It’s twenty more minutes of breadsticks and small-talk. About the menu, about the weather, some news that came up on Instagram. Your stomach twists. You and Bosco had never once small-talked in all your years of knowing each other. It was never needed. Conversation always flowed naturally between the two of you; usually too naturally, in fact. One of you would simply ask the other for a glass of water, and before you knew it, it had been four hours and you had covered practically every topic under the sun. 

It’s just the nerves, you think to yourself. About pulling this off.  

Because isn’t that all it was?

***

The ninth time you both try to subtly glance at the door after hearing it creak open, you see your target. A tall, square-jawed guy with short, clipped, hair, looking to be at least forty. He’s dressed in a suit and a tie, and shoes so shiny they could blind someone if they just looked down. 

He practically struts into the restaurant, sliding smoothly into the booth behind you and Bosco. You give your friend a look, and he holds a menu out in between the two of you. You pretend to scrutinize its options carefully to pick your perfect meal, when really, none of the words you’re seeing even register. Your focus is all on hearing the two men right by you. 

“You’re early,” says one of them. 

“You’re late,” says the other. So he must be the guy who was in the booth already.

 They don’t seem to get down to business like you’d assumed they would. They talk the way that you and Bosco had. Sharp, quick, political remarks. Questions about their travels that neither of them even attempted to make sound of genuine curiosity.

You lift your phone again, opening Bosco’s contact and hastily typing a message.

Do u think its some sort of code?

His phone buzzes, and he ignores it to listen until you kick his shin under the table. As he looks at what you’ve sent him. 

You train your ears to the two men in the next booth as Bosco types. Once your phone buzzes, you switch roles again. 

No, the text reads. 

I feel like theyd be talking more ominously if there was a coded meaning

Yk

That made sense. You text him that.

You also wonder if this had been what you thought it was, your Juilliard-level-actor best friend would be judging their acting skills. You know he’d have a lot of comments. But that’s something to think about when you aren't in the middle of a job.

So this wasn’t code, and they were seriously discussing the weather? Could this have been set up? To lure some of the Horsemen into a trap that resulted in you or Bosco or both of you being kidnapped and maybe ransomed or beat into submission or killed, and then—

Your rapid train of thought is interrupted by a kick to your shin. You glare in front of you at Bosco, who looks to the side innocently, at a tired-looking waitress, staring expectantly at you with an order pad and pen in hand. 

“Have you decided what you’d like to order yet, ma’am?” 

You blink and nod hurriedly, glancing quickly down at the menu and reading off the first item you saw. “I’ll have the lasagna,” you tell her. 

She writes that down onto her little notepad and then leaves your table for the kitchens.

Now it’s Bosco’s turn to talk. 

“Where were you? You can’t be all up in your head during a job where our one task is to listen.”

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, burying your face in your hands. “I was just freaking out about how this could go wrong and what could happen and I don’t wanna get hurt.” 

“You’re not gonna get hurt,” he promises. “As long as we stick together. That’s easy, right?”

“But what if I lose you?” Your voice is soft. So many layers to those last two words. Obviously, you meant lose him in a crowd or something, but what if you also really lost him? Robbed by the world of being able to talk to him from dusk to dawn, or of hearing him laugh at his own jokes. Of his hugs when you needed someone, and his adept ability to shit-talk someone when they hurt you on any level. He’d hunt them down and do it to their face, but you always said that whatever happened wasn’t worth that and you just wanted to talk to him. So he talked to you. 

Like there were two spoken rules for this current caper, there were two unspoken rules in your friendship:

Bosco would do anything for you.

You would do anything for Bosco.

And as much as you should be cooperating with this environment, refusing to worry, and just going along with this so you could just go home, your mind was plagued with thoughts of any and all setbacks. Ones that could hurt you. And ones that could hurt your best friend. 

Bosco’s eyes soften. Even though you only said so little, you meant so much more, and he could tell. Of course he could. Conveying the unsaid is a huge part of acting, and to fake it, you’ve gotta know when people are really doing it. 

“You’re not gonna lose me.” And then he reaches across the table, holding his pinkie finger out towards you. 

“Really?” You lift a brow.

“It’s the original form of trust,” he shrugs, his lips slightly quirking upward. “I pinkie promise you, you’re not gonna lose me.”

You smile, too, lifting your hand and linking your pinkie with his. “You better not break this promise, Leroy.”

“I can’t. This is an unbreakable vow, sweetheart.”

“Good.”

***

Your hand stayed on your phone, braced and ready to rapidly open the camera app and record the guy the second he said anything suspicious. But there was no progress, and the waitress had refilled your waters three times. 

The desire to scream in frustration seems to peak every two minutes. 

But then it goes in a different direction. 

Meaning, they go in a different direction. 

Both men slide out of their seats, walking past your booth and towards the door. The one that opened up to the ballroom. 

Bosco stands up to follow after them, but you pull him back down quickly. “It’s gonna be so obvious we’re following them if you go in right now,” you hiss. “Give it a minute.”

He plops back down, drumming his fingers anxiously on the polished wooden table. A waiter walks past you. Once. Twice. 

Bosco stands up again. “Come on.”

You push yourself up and out of the booth. Bosco’s already walking to the door, and you practically have to run to catch up with him. 

The engraved wooden doors look huge, and when you and Bosco push them open, the ballroom looks even huger. A massive, open space with marble floors, huge arches along the walls, and a crystal chandelier that was so big and so bright it looked like the builders hung the sun. 

You take a second to be enamored by it all. The fact that you were in a room that looked straight out of a movie. 

And then you snap out of it. This isn’t what you’re here for. You look around the ballroom, searching for your guys, but suddenly, everybody looks the same. Well, not the same. You can tell that people are different, but all the men are in suits and ties, and everybody has on a studded mask. 

And everybody is dancing, never in the same place for more than five seconds. 

“Fuck,” you whisper. “How are we gonna find them?”

“Well.” He takes your hand, gently pulling you into the sea of dancers. His right hand finds your waist, and his left one grasps your right. “You wanna dance?”

You nod, stepping slightly closer to him. It takes a moment for you both to adjust to the new space (or lack thereof), but after a few stumbly moments, you’re moving in time with the music ringing from the grand piano in the corner, just like the rest of the room. 

You weave through the crowd, eyes and ears both peeled for any sign of the men you’re after. As you dance past what feel hundreds of silent, in-the-moment couples, you finally find what you’re looking for. 

They’re not dancing. They’re huddled in the corner, not needing to whisper over the sound of the music echoing around the large space. 

And then you hear it. 

“I just want my money back,” one of them says. His voice is deep and raspy, like a villain from a comic book cartoon. “I waited years for that cut, I’m not waiting any longer.”

“Tough luck,” says the other. “Your money’s gone.”

“Yeah? Where’d it go?” You frantically let go of Bosco’s hand, scrambling for your phone to get the ever-anticipated recording.

You tap the camera app open and immediately hit record.

“We lost it, okay?” The voice from the is getting louder, then it shushes again. “When people found out about the deaths during the human experiments, we had to pay to keep them quiet. That money plus what we lost doing those experiments was a lot. We’re still making it back.”

The square-jawed guy nods. “You better be saving. I know that your little drug deal makes a lot more than you let on.”

“It really doesn’t make that much.”

“You promised me money, Atkins. I’m getting it back.” 

You look at Bosco. Bosco looks at you, and nods. That was all the proof you needed. 

And the second the recording stops, the square-jawed guy looks right at you. At your phone. Its angle. Its direction. And he takes a step forward. Then another. Then another. 

Your first instinct is to drop the phone and make a break for it. But you don’t do that. You just gaze at the screen, pretending there’s a reflection to admire before you move it behind your hand and pass it to Bosco, who slips it up the sleeve of his suit jacket, waiting a few seconds before moving his arm and letting it slip into his pocket. 

The other guy is following the first one, getting closer and closer to you. Bosco moves his hand to the small of your back, and guides you into the crowd of people, stepping, swaying, and spinning. You two weave through them, trying to look as natural as you could while you’re actively evading the highly dangerous people you were in pursuit of.

For a good minute, it works. They’re nowhere to be seen, and it’s just you and Bosco, like this was a planned trip and you had scheduled dancing in a ballroom and were just having fun. 

But you catch them out of the corner of your eye. And Bosco does, too. He glances at them, then at you. His gaze is set on yours. 

“Do you trust me?” He asks. 

“Of course I do,” you reply. “You’re my best friend.”

“Okay, great,” he mutters. “Pretend I’m not for a second.” 

You’re a little confused by what that meant, but then he leans in, pressing his lips to yours. This was the last thing you’d expected, but you’d said it yourself: you trust him. So, going with it, you kiss him back. 

Both his arms encircle your waist, pulling you flush against his torso, and one of your hands finds its way to his hair, carding through the dark curls. 

This feels nice, you think. Then, you think, Fuck. 

Bosco kissing you was no longer the last thing you’d expected. Because you never, in a million lifetimes, would have expected that you’d like it. 

Your lips are still on his, until you find them traveling all over his face. His cheeks, his jaw, even along his neck. Hands still in his hair, you feel his head tilt back, and you get the message.

And then a woman and her dance partner bump into you hard, giving you the biggest scowl you’ve ever had the misfortune of receiving, and you get three messages. 

One: We’re in a public area. On a job. Two: I need to stop kissing Bosco.

Three (by far the worst): Bosco is an actor. 

An actor. A fucking actor. A perform-and-fake-things-for-a-living kind of actor. And a good one. Bosco had kissed you, of course he had kissed you—you needed a diversion, and it took the two guys off your tail. It just fit the situation. He was performing. He was faking.

He didn’t mean it. And he didn’t want it. 

But once you had it, you realized you did. 

Shit. 

***

You and Bosco had bolted from the hotel barely seconds after you’d pulled apart from each other, and the second you were out, neither of you said a word. Or even exchanged a look. 

You were glad it was dark and he couldn’t see you even if he’d wanted to. 

Not that he did. 

Bosco had never seemed like an option. He had always just been your friend. Fun and reliable, like a friend should be. But kissing him felt like unlocking a door in your heart that had been trying to open for, well, ever. Sensations and feelings and thoughts had exploded in you like fireworks, and they didn’t seem to want to go away. 

Your heels click against the pavement, and the sound grows slower, more uneven, as you two continue to walk back to the warehouse. Your feet ache. Between having worn these stupid shoes for hours, having danced in them, and run in them, they’re pretty much all maxed out for the day. Or the week. Or a month. You don’t ever want to walk again.

Just five more blocks, you groan internally. 

You don’t know if you’d accidentally externalized the groan, or if Bosco just had real magic powers and sensed your pain, because he stops walking, grabbing your hand. 

“Take your heels off,” he says. “I’ll carry them for you.”

“It’s fine,” you mutter. “It’s just five blocks.”

“Just take them off. We can get home faster that way and then you can do that tennis ball foot rub thing.”

Damn, that sounded nice. 

You slip off your heels, and Bosco takes them from your hands. And so the painfully silent walk continues. 

It’s just five more blocks. 

Charlie lets you into the loft. Bosco puts your shoes down, and you both flop onto the couch. Opposite ends. 

“How’d it go?” 

“Good.” You nod at him assuringly. “I have the recording on my—” you search for your phone, then remember. “Bosco has my phone.”

He pulls it out of his pocket. “It’s on here.”

“Why does Bosco have your phone?” June enters the room, tossing you both sodas. 

“They were onto us,” you tell her. “We had to, you know, make it disappear. Also, my dress doesn’t have pockets, so it couldn’t be me,” you sigh.

June rolls her eyes. “Of course. We need to take you shopping and get you some functional clothes.”

You nod again, this time in agreement. Bosco leans his head on the back of the couch, and June and Charlie both gasp. 

“Is something wrong?” He grumbles. 

“You have lipstick—” Charlie turns to look at you. “—that’s your lipstick. Your lips were—you guys kissed?”

“It was for the thing,” Bosco clarifies hurriedly. “She told you, they were onto us, we had to distract them.”

You hope that the brutal pounding your heart took just now didn’t show on your face. “Yeah,” you say. “We had to, it’s not like we like each other or anything.”

Charlie and June look at you, then Bosco, then each other. “Uh-huh,” they say in unison. 

“I think,” June grins at you. “You and your boyfriend should work on heists alone more often.”