Chapter 4 Bellamy
BELLAMY
By the time I pull into our little four-flat building—two apartments on the bottom, two stacked above—the sun has settled into that honey-colored glow that hits Hollow Beach like a blessing and a warning.
The air smells like salt and heat and someone’s citrusy laundry detergent drifting from the upstairs balcony.
Early afternoon, but already edging toward the golden hours surfers live for.
The kind of light that makes everything look gold-brushed and temporarily forgiven.
Our unit is the bottom rear one. Not the ocean-facing dream the front apartments get, but if I crane my neck just right from our tiny back deck, I can see a sliver of blue between the houses. Sometimes that’s enough.
We’ve been back in Hollow Beach for a month, and some days it feels like we never left. When we left years ago, I always knew we’d come back. I didn’t realize it would take this long.
I walk the narrow gravel path between our building and the neighbor’s fence. The boards clack under my sandals, and I fish my keys out of my back pocket. When I push the door open, the familiar creak in the hinge greets me—the same one I meant to fix when we moved in but somehow never do.
“Beck!” I call, tossing my sunglasses and keys into the ceramic bowl in the entryway. The bowl wobbles, catches itself, and settles. “You home?”
Lola’s voice floats from deeper inside. “He’s not here!”
Of course he’s not.
I toe off my sneakers and head toward the kitchen. Sunlight spills through the sliding back door, warming the hardwood and the stack of junk mail no one bothered to sort. “Where’d he go?”
Lola appears in the hallway, twisting her hair up into oversized rollers, as if she just stepped out of a vintage pin-up photo shoot. She wiggles the last roller into place and smirks at me. “He’s surfing with Tanner and Nico. They went up to Salt Point Beach.”
Salt Point. One of the rougher breaks a few miles north.
Figures. Beckett likes to pretend he’s invincible. He’s not—he’s just young.
I open the fridge and grab a bottle of water, pressing the cold plastic to my temple before twisting off the cap. “Weird. I just tripped over his surfboard on the back deck. Yet mine is mysteriously missing.”
Lola’s grin widens. “Maybe if you didn’t keep yours in such perfect condition, he wouldn’t steal it every five minutes.”
I snort. “It’s not stealing. It’s sacrilege.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s not.” I roll my neck from side to side, easing the tension that’s been lodged there since running into Gage outside Marty’s warehouse. “What if I wanted to go surfing?”
She gives me an unimpressed look as she pads barefoot to the counter. “Please. You only surf at dawn or dusk. You’re basically allergic to mid-day waves.”
I huff a laugh because she’s not wrong. “Those are the best hours. You know that.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she says, waving a hand. “Golden hour mermaid, blah blah.”
She always says that like it’s a joke, but surfing is one of the few things that’s ever felt like freedom.
I learned when I was ten, on a board too big for me, in waves too mean for beginners.
After everything went to hell years later, it kept me sane.
Dawn and dusk. Quiet, empty beaches when no one was watching.
When no one could follow. When the world felt completely mine for ten minutes at a time.
I lean against the counter, letting the cool quartz absorb the residual heat in my palms. The apartment smells faintly of lemon cleaner and the coconut-scented dry shampoo Lola uses when it’s not a hair wash day.
Sunlight slants across the living room, catching on the cracked ceramic lamp we found at a garage sale, the thrifted bookshelf bowing under the weight of Lola’s paperbacks, and the pile of Beckett’s hoodies perpetually occupying the corner armchair.
Lived-in and scrappy. A little chaotic. Ours.
“So,” Lola says, grabbing a fizzy water from the fridge. “How’d it go? What’d Marty say?”
I take a long drink before answering. “He thinks he can move the pieces. The rings definitely. The watches might take longer. He said two or three weeks.”
“That’s not bad.” Lola cracks her can open with a hiss. “So we’re solid with Marty?”
“Pretty solid,” I say. “For now. Depends on what we line up next.”
Lola taps a fingernail against her can, a little spark lighting her eyes. “Speaking of next. I think I have an idea for another job.”
I glance up, interest sharpening despite myself. “Oh, yeah?”
She shrugs, the rollers in her hair bobbing. “I mean, I need to get a little more info first. Some recon. But I think it might be a really good score. Like, really good.”
The familiar hum settles low in my chest. The familiar buzz of possibility. The part of me that still knows how to plan three steps ahead. “Okay. Let me know when you’re ready to bring it to—”
“The council,” Lola interrupts with a grin.
I groan. “Why do we call it that?”
“Because we’re dramatic,” she says, wiggling her brows. “And because none of us gets to crown themselves the boss. Democracy rules, babe. Unanimous vote, or it doesn’t happen.”
She’s not wrong. That’s been the rule since we were kids: if one of us feels off about a job, we walk away. No exceptions. Surviving is easier when everyone gets a voice.
I push off the counter, stretching my back. “All right, then. Bring it to the council when you’re ready.”
Lola reaches up and tightens one of her rollers. “Well, at least between Marty and the yacht haul, we’re set for the next few months.” She wiggles her brows again. “And maybe we can finally get that portable AC unit before we die of heatstroke.”
A laugh breathes out of me. “Maybe.”
The truth is, we have a handful of storage units scattered around the country. If we hauled everything back here, we could breathe easy for a while. But I don’t let myself do that.
Staying mobile keeps you sharp. Getting comfortable gets you caught.
It’s then I notice she’s wearing a little black dress underneath her pink silk kimono. “Going out tonight?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Drinks later with a couple of girls from the beach. Nothing wild.” She eyes me. “What about you? You doing anything tonight?”
I take a sip of water, then set the bottle down carefully. My pulse kicks hard, sudden and disobedient, just thinking about saying it out loud. “Actually, I think I’m going to a party.”
She freezes. “You don’t go to parties.”
I scoff. “I go to parties.”
Lola just stares at me for a beat, then shakes her head slowly like she’s trying to let me down gently. “No, babe. God love you, but you don’t. Not unless I physically drag you to one.”
I lift my chin and pretend my heartbeat isn’t doing backflips. “Well, consider this me returning the favor.”
Lola narrows her eyes. “Whose party?”
“Yeah, about that. You’re never gonna believe who I ran into today,” I say, exhaling. “Outside Marty’s.”
I give her the highlights. The parking lot collision, Gage waiting for me, how the Calloways were on the yacht, the husband line. And by the time I finish, Lola looks like I just told her gravity stopped working.
“What?” I ask. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Are you actually out of your mind?” she demands. “You’re not going over to the Calloway house after we literally stole a job out from under them.”
“We didn’t steal it,” I say, crossing my arms. “We got there first.”
“Yes,” she snaps, pointing at me. “And that’s exactly why they’re pissed.”
I roll my eyes. “You weren’t even there. He wasn’t even mad.”
She stares at me like I just insulted her intelligence. “Bell. We’re going to clear almost a quarter of a million dollars from that yacht. There’s no version of this where the Calloways aren’t livid.”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck. “They don’t know that,” I say, firmer now. “They don’t know who hit it, how clean it was, or what walked away. And Gage wouldn’t have invited me over if he thought I was a threat.”
That last part lands harder than I mean it to.
I keep going anyway. “This isn’t me walking into an ambush. It’s reconnaissance. I get eyes on them. I see what they know. What they suspect. That’s better than sitting here guessing and waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Lola exhales sharply through her nose. “You’re rationalizing.”
“Maybe,” I admit. “But it’s still the smartest move.”
She watches me for a long beat, then sighs. “Fine. You’re right.”
Relief flickers, brief and premature.
“Because you’re not going alone,” she adds, jabbing her finger at me. “I’ll be your backup in case shit goes sideways.”
I snort. “Great. So they can take us both out? Perfect.”
“Aha!” Lola crows. “You are worried they’re going to kill you.”
“I’m not,” I insist, even as my pulse jumps. “If they were planning to, Gage would’ve already tossed me in the back of his truck, and I’d be six feet under in the desert by now.”
She blinks. “You’re saying that with a lot of certainty. Almost like you’ve seen that before.”
I freeze for one beat too long. “Gage? No, I’ve never seen him do that.”
The implication hangs unspoken, but Lola, mercifully, lets it drop. She crushes her empty can and tosses it into the recycling bin before disappearing down the hallway.
I’m still exhaling when she comes back, arms loaded with black fabric. The first bundle hits my chest before I register what’s happening.
“Hey!” I fumble it, catching the fabric before it falls to the floor.
“You’re wearing that,” Lola declares, pointing at the soft black tank top now draped over my hands.
Two more pieces of clothing hit my face—cutoff jean shorts and a tiny, silky bikini that’s mostly vibes, zero coverage. “And these. No arguments.”
I blink. “You’re just deciding for me?”
“Bell, no one is going to take you out when you look that hot.” She spins on her heel, heading toward her room.
I laugh. “That’s not true, you know.”
“Which part? The you’re hot part or no one kills the hot girl part?” She swivels back toward me with absolute seriousness. “Either way, you’re wrong though. It’s science, Bell. And we don’t argue with science.”
I grip the scrap of black fabric between my fingers as something unfurls low in my stomach. “I don’t even need a swimsuit.”
She waves me off over her shoulder. “It’s a Calloway party, isn’t it? They’re always pool parties.”
She disappears again, leaving me standing in our little sunlit kitchen, holding an outfit I absolutely did not pick, heart hammering like the moment outside Marty’s warehouse never ended.
And somewhere beneath all of it—fear, adrenaline, the familiar tug of old wounds—there’s a spark.
A reckless, dangerous spark.
Because I’m actually going.
To the Calloway house. Tonight.
What the fuck was I thinking?