jottings; i started this a million [two] years ago, and finally came back to it last week. there will [in theory] be a part two, though i'm not sure when exactly that will be an actual thing. but i'm in love with this idea/universe and heist plots in general, so yeah. ALSO, while i'm here, i am working on part four of maps, i've just come to a crossroads with it because i have so many ideas for it, but i'm struggling hardcore to actually write it. but it's coming. eventually.
the title and lyrics are from la roux.
disclaimed.

bulletproof

.

been there, done that, messed around.

i'm having fun; don't put me down.

i'll never let you sweep me off my feet.

;;

False eyelashes are always a necessity. Bat around a big pair of curly black lashes, and the men fall into your hands.

Holley carefully presses the pliable row of synthetic fibers onto her left eyelid. She blinks slowly, adjusting to the added weight.

She leans back to examine her reflection. Critical green eyes scope the image, appraising. Her amethyst dress is taut over her figure, the hem floating above her knees. The neckline plunging just far enough to work to her advantage. But none of that really matters. Not to Holley or her polished onyx heart. The important part is the jewels. The tangles of minerals pooling at her throat and sparkling in the light. It's the piece de resistance, the real fruits of her labor. It's a clump of diamonds today. Simple and elegant, resting between her collar bones.

Holley twists up a tube of magenta lipstick and touches it around her lips. She smiles.

Fact: Holley Shiftwell dresses to kill.

She gives herself one final check before stepping out of the bathroom. She sweeps her purse off the table (small enough not to draw attention, big enough to hold whatever harvest she reaps), and leaves the room.

Holley shakes her thick chestnut hair back over her shoulders as she starts down the hallway. There's a cluster of young business men, New York yuppies most likely, congregating near the end. She feels their eyes on her. Holley shifts her gaze to the wall opposite the men.

She bumps her shoulder against one of them.

"Are you alright?" he asks, offering his arm for balance.

"So sorry," she says, all smiles and insincerity. Her fingers curl around his wrist. "It's these shoes—I've been terribly off balance." She bends forward slightly and points the toes of her left foot.

"No problem," responds the man, raking his eyes up her body to flash a shit-eating grin. "Make sure to be more careful. I wouldn't want anything to happen to those pretty little ankles of yours."

Holley bites her lip shyly, fluttering her eyelashes. "Thank you." She smiles again and saunters off.

"Have a good night," he calls. All of them watch the carefully calculated sway of Holley's hips.

"Oh, I most definitely shall," Holley mutters to herself, holding up the unsuspecting man's silver Rolex. She slides the jewelry into her purse.

Fact: Holley Shiftwell is a thief.

The elevator doors are just about to close, but one of the men inside notices her and holds them open. She smiles and wedges herself in beside him. He returns the smile. His wife bristles in the background.

It's a short ride down, but Holley still manages to worm her hand into one pocket, gaining about two hundred American dollars in a gold money clip.

The elevator doors open, and it's all she can do not to rub her hands together like a villain in the comic books her friends from technical school used to read. The grand atrium of the hotel is filled to the brim with tuxedo-clad men carrying women in thousand dollar dresses on their arms.

They're all filing in the door from their Italian sports cars in the valet line. Then, like cattle, they meander through the expansive halls of the hotel until the reach the west wing, which is where the real party is being held.

Holley leans against a wall, separated from everyone else as she weighs her options. There's plenty of money gathered in the lobby. She could pay off her flight to Paris just by hitting up enough of them. But if she waits until they get to the heart of the party, the free booze will start flowing and the chances of being noticed will decrease drastically.

She chews her lip. Self-control has never been her strong point, but she'll force herself to wait. Running her fingers though her wavy hair, she throws herself into the crowd and allows it to swallow her whole.

She casually wades through people, occasionally joining in conversations.

It's a conference of rich men and women in the medical field, she believes. Medicine isn't her expertise, but computer science is. Getting herself on the guest list was simple enough.

Nearing the mouth of the west wing, a red carpet is laid out, and dozens of people with cameras line one side of the hall. Holley glances around those closest to her. Some of them must be more significant than she thought.

She sinks deeper into a cluster of doctors as they cross the red sea, and lets a curtain of hair fall over her face when the cameras flash.

She sticks close to the group until she's safely away from the cameras.

Fact: Holley Shiftwell doesn't get caught.

The group steps over the threshold into the grandeur of the enormous, high-ceilinged conference hall. The lights are dimmer, but she doesn't complain because it gives her the obvious advantage.

The party itself is just as she expected it would be. Hundreds of holier-than-thou money-filled professionals with their glasses of brandy in one hand and their gold in the other.

It's not Holley's favorite type of company, but it is the most profitable.

She scans the crowd, debating where to begin.

It's all a blur, really. She lets her mind slide out of focus and pure instinct can take it from there. It's almost like flying on autopilot by now, nothing but muscle memory and a program in mind.

Let them get you a drink, for their false sense of dominance. Bite the lip, shake the hair, bat the eyelashes, laugh at their shitty jokes, they love that. Find any excuse for physical contact. Bump shoulders, pat their arms, brush up against their flanks as they speak.

Make sure their glass is never empty; let their livers fail if you must. They're all expendable in the end. Walk away before realization sets in.

She's covered it all so many times, yet there's always that underlying thrill that makes her heart flutter and feel just a little bit warm and fuzzy inside.

Call her a sinner, call her a saint. She's been labeled by the very best.

Fact: In all her life, Holley Shiftwell has only been truly good at one thing.

Think of it as a game. The whole world's a chess board just waiting to be played. You have your pawns aligned in the front (these are the insipid ones—so drunk off their asses they wouldn't notice if the place was on fire, and they're so, so easy, it's just not as fun). And you have the kings, all ruling their own personal worlds (the playboys, the misogynists, the grabby ones that are too busy trying to look down her shirt than guard their wallets). The noble knights with their adorable flustered faces, they're her favorites (they're so unaccustomed to female company, they stammer when they speak to her, blush when she touches them, when she lowers her eyelids to half-mast and leans into their nervous bodies; the way they don't take advantage of her advances in their unbeknownst form of chivalry). They're all targets. Rooks, bishops, queens, each and every one of them, they're all players.

And this—this is her game.

Until, of course, it isn't.

Enter from stage right, our bright and shining new player. He's tall, dark, and probably full of money; the ultimate triad in the finest prey. Holley's eyes are immediately drawn to him from the moment he exits reality and crosses the threshold of her intricately drawn chessboard.

She tags him as a bishop. Too confident to be a knight, too sober for a pawn. Maybe a king, but there's something different about his eyes. They're too…too much like diamonds. They're a brilliant blue-green; sparkling and vivid, and Holley has never been apt at resisting shiny things.

The bright-shiny-new plaything catches her eye with his flickering aquamarines, throwing her off guard. She thinks she may have been staring too hard, but she knows she can work this to her advantage.

Forcing a blush, she bats her too-long eyelashes and turns her too-pink lips into a shy smile. His grin flashes back; dashing and debonair, moving gracefully in his forward approach. He is taking the bait. It's still her move.

Holley takes a casual step forward, meeting him halfway. There is a momentary pause in the game; a second of our challengers looking each other up and down. And then—

"A Karmann Ghia has no radiator," she supplies with an awkward grace, her smile reserved

The man's brow quirks upward with visible surprise, yet offers in response, "That's because it's air-cooled."

"Oh god," she mutters, hiding an embarrassed laugh behind one hand. "Forget I said that. I'm not very good at this."

He laughs, and it's a warm sound that makes Holley feel strangely comforted. "I understand completely, my dear. Allow me to introduce myself," he says, extending a hand. "Jay Smith. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss…?"

"Almaz. Georgia," Holley giggles in response, taking his hand.

"Miss Almaz," he echoes, dipping his head to brush his lips over her knuckles.

It is for the sake of the act when Holley lowers her eyelashes demurely; it is not for the sake of the act when her chest tightens unexpectedly.

"What brings you to the gala, Mr. Smith?" Holley asks conversationally. Her opponent is entirely too sober for a simpler tactic, too perceptive, and she is thrilled by the challenge.

"Business, unfortunately," Jay responds, smoothing an elegant hand over his slicked back hair (black and graying slightly around the temples, Holley notes unintentionally). "Though I'm certain you've heard that answer enough tonight—it's always business these days." He smiles suavely. "What brings you here, Miss Almaz?"

"I suppose it's the people," she rejoins, letting her eyes drift around the upper levels of the room before returning to his. This Mr. Jay Smith seems engrossed enough; his eyes are focused on hers.

She thinks this could be her chance.

Casually, Holley shifts her weight onto one foot, closer to him. "I like watching them," she expounds, smiling innocently. Her fingers stretch out toward his pocket. He does not notice; everything is going according to plan. "Hearing their stories…"

She shifts a hairsbreadth closer.

And then—

"If you're going to try, you're going to need to be quicker than that." A set of long fingers are coiled around her wrist.

The pulsating echoes of the party fade to a dull hum, and all she can do is try to find a way out of the present situation.

Holley exhales audibly. "I don't know what you mean," she says, wide eyes and parted lips, the portrait of innocent.

Jay Smith purses his lips, still holding her wrist. "And you were doing so well," he chides.

She blinks. Inhales.

"And what would you know about this?" Holley challenges, shoulders squared and composure regained.

Flashing another debonair grin, Jay Smith raises his hand. A thick chain of diamonds and white gold weave through his fingers enticingly.

"You—," Holley gasps. One hand flies to her neck, searching for diamonds and meeting only bare skin. "When…how did you…?"

"You may say I know a few things," he says smugly.

Green eyes narrowed, Holley does not know if she is awed or angered. Her wrist is hot where Jay Smith's fingers are still curled.

Inside, her mind is calculating. She is a predator; She is the mastermind of this game.

(Only not anymore).

"Who are you really?" asks Holley finally.

He laughs again.

Enter Finn McMissile: a professional.

"I've been playing this game longer than you've been walking, Miss Almaz," he condescends, eyes never straying from hers.

Holley jerks her still-confined arm futilely.

"To your credit, I'm almost positive you've had the sense to use an alias," Finn muses. "Am I correct?"

"Yes." She's weighed her options already; this Finn McMissile has turned her tables, and she has no choice but to comply.

"Almaz," he says, tasting every letter. "That's Russian for diamond, isn't it?" he pauses, then, "Bastardized Russian, at least."

Holley cocks her head, half-smiling with gratification.

"That's brilliant," mutters Finn. "Really, brilliant use of symbolism."

"Thank you," Holley responds, taken somewhat aback by the unexpected compliment.

Finn twists the necklace around his index finger, easily jerking it away when Holley tries to reclaim it. "Just one more question, and then we're free to go our separate ways, forgetting this meeting ever occurred. Alright?"

Holley resists the striking urge to roll her eyes, and gives a curt, "Alright."

"Considering I've given you my name, it's only fair," Finn prompts. "What is your real name?"

It is his eyes, not his grasp, that force her into submission once more.

"Holley Shiftwell."

Finn smiles again. "Holley Shiftwell," he repeats, bright eyes sweeping over her. "It suits you—such a shame you don't get to use it more often."

He releases her wrist.

Holley blinks, unable to shake the tingling sensation that lingers in the exact shape of his hand. "What now, then?"

"Now," says Finn. "You can do whatever you'd like. I, however, have some things to attend to."

"You said you were here for business," states Holley, magenta lips pursing. Her fingers are wrapped loosely around her other wrist, mirroring Finn's hold.

"You said you were here for the people," Finn echoes. He drops the necklace into Holley's open palm. "It truly was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Shiftwell."

With those words, Finn McMissile turns on his heel and strides purposefully through the maze of people that had been so intriguing before.

Holley's gaze lingers on his fleeting form until the black of his jacket blurs into the crowd. Once he's out of sight, her eyes turn down to the tangled jewelry in her hand.

She bites her lip.

Fact: Holley Shiftwell is fucked.