Twisting to see his reflection in the mirror, Lance yanked his skirt up over his hips. He could not get the damn thong to lie flat for the life of him. This was his first run as team leader, and he fumbled with nerves and anticipation.
Deft, clever fingers moved his hands out of the way to smooth and untwist the strap as it arched over his hip and across the curve of his ass. Lance shivered.
"You're gonna do fine," Chris said, letting his fingers linger. His voice and hands were quiet, but his heavily lined eyes snapped with barely-contained energy. The adrenaline of the mission always hit Chris first and the hardest, and usually Lance fed off it, let Chris ramp him higher. Today, though, it just made him more jittery. He plucked skittishly at Chris's hand on his hip, but he couldn't find words to express his nerves.
Chris understood. "Dude," he said, lacing it with more affection than any pet name. "You know you can do this. I know you can do this. The team knows you can do this. Hell, the marks probably know you can do this. Joey's on the inside waiting for you. JC's your eyes in the sky; he'll rain hell down as soon as you ask. And J and I have your back. It's your show, but we're there, too." He turned Lance around as he spoke, bringing them face to face. He studied Lance for a long moment then kissed him swiftly. "Plus," he grinned at him, "we match." He pressed his neon pink, halter top-clad chest against Lance's equally pink spandex-covered torso. He reached down to straighten Lance's skirt, which was still rucked up around his waist. His still-gentle hands smoothed the skirt down Lance's thighs, and when he looked down, he laughed. "Dude," he said again, emphasizing it completely differently, "you're ruining the line of your dress."
Lance couldn't help it; he blushed beneath his makeup. Pre-mission adrenaline usually left him half-hard and snapping with anticipation. Today's nerves and having Chris pressed up against him had done their job doubly well.
Chris ran his fingers over the deep line of blush revealed by Lance's neckline. "Can't have you breaking cover," he said as he sank to his knees and rucked Lance's skirt back above his hips. He looked up at Lance and grinned, lips red and wet. Lance swallowed hard.
"Am I too blonde? I think I'm too blonde. I knew I should've gone less platinum," Justin muttered to Chris at the bar, tugging discreetly at his wig. "And you do not even wanna know where I had to stick Janet in this outfit."
Chris rolled his eyes. Janet was Justin's nine millimeter Beretta. Justin named all of his guns after his favorite famous females. He said it made it easier to talk about them in public. Justin liked to talk about his guns. Then again, so did Chris. It's probably where Justin had picked up the habit. "She's under your left tit, like always," Chris said, taking a sip of his dreadfully overpriced martini and scanning the room.
"Ha!" Justin crowed and tossed his hair. "And you think you know me so well, bitch. She's under my right tit. I'm working on a cross-draw. I always wanted to be-" Justin cut off and set his glass down casually, freeing his hands. "Mark three one, southwest entrance, moving north northwest with intent," he said in a completely different tone of voice. "Move to intercept?"
"Negative," came JC's tinny voice from deep within Justin and Chris's wigs. "Joey's got her. Just make sure Lance's path is clear."
"Speaking of which, where is he?" Justin asked, still sotto voce.
"There," Chris nodded, clutching his martini glass like a lifeline. He followed Lance's every step with hungry eyes, just like everyone else in the room.
"Goddamn," Justin whistled. "Where did he learn to walk like that?"
Chris just grinned to himself. Lance didn't look in his direction, but his hips swayed just a little more.