Page 22 of Nothing Special X: The Last Stand

They collapsed against each other, heaving in the quiet LA morning.

Sometime later, Day rolled onto his side, breathing slower now while sprawled half across his chest.

Sunlight had started creeping fully into the suite, warming the sheets and painting Day’s toned shoulders pale gold.

God ran his hand slowly down his husband’s back.

“Feel better now?” he asked quietly.

Day smirked. “Much.”

“Mmhmm.”

For a while, neither of them spoke as the city buzzed faintly below the hotel.

Eventually Day pushed himself upright with a tired sigh. “We should probably get moving before Ruxs and Greene go downstairs for breakfast and find a way to entertain themselves.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” God muttered.

Day laughed as he climbed out of bed, walking naked to the bathroom. God watched him shamelessly the entire way, while he got up and began to dress for what would possibly be their last assignment.

New city, same bullshit.

Let’s do this.

Green

Green hated this goddamn shirt.

The red collar dug into the back of his neck, and the cheap fabric scratched across his shoulders every time he moved. The matching ball cap with the smiling cartoon pizza slice on the front made the whole outfit that much worse.

The two insulated food carriers—stamped with the logo for Blvd Pizza Express—sitting between them appeared legitimate enough from the outside. The smell of garlic butter and melted cheese also helped sell the illusion.

Two pizzas sat on top of Green’s bag. Underneath them were his boots, holster, shoulder rig, jacket, magazines, and sidearm.

Ruxs carried the same setup, except his bag had salad bowls and breadsticks covering his weaponry and clothes.

Hollywood Boulevard was teeming with life, and Green was taking in the sites as they approached the massive Studio 8 gates on foot.

Tour buses rolled past while guides yelled exaggerated celebrity stories into their microphones.

It was almost noon and already fans were crowding the barricades. Cameras were held high, flashes sparking every few seconds despite there being no celebrities in sight.

The giant silver-and-black Studio 8 sign stretched overhead like the entrance to a royal kingdom.

Green assessed everything—main gate coverage, guard posture, reaction to approach attempts, weak spots, camera placement.

The security guards near the entrance were talking more than watching. One kept checking his phone. Another moved as if he was exhausted. Two more weren’t even facing the crowd only a few feet away.

“You ready?” Ruxs muttered.

Green grunted.

One of the guards stepped forward first. “Delivery?”

“Yeah,” Ruxs answered, sounding mildly annoyed as he read the fake receipt. “Crew order for Stage 12, effects support.”

Green stayed quiet, letting Ruxs perform.