Chapter 12 Rafe
RAFE
The scrambler hums in the corner like a pissed-off hornet, just loud enough to remind you conversations vanish into static the moment they hit the air in here.
Bishop’s already pacing when I push the side door open, a half-crushed bag of chips in my hand and grease still streaked along my forearms from tuning my bike. He’s wearing a groove into the concrete between the workbench and the door.
He doesn’t even look up before snapping, “You’re late.”
I snort and wander in, letting the door thunk shut behind me. “I’m never late. You just started early.”
His gaze slices over, sharp and searching, like he’s inventorying everything from my expression to the way my weight settles on my feet.
“Did you handle that thing from this morning?” he asks.
There it is. The check-in. Not quite distrust, not quite faith—just Bishop making sure the world is still orbiting him the way he expects it to.
I pop another chip into my mouth and talk around the crunch. “When have I not?”
He waits for more. I don’t give it.
I drift toward the nearest safe instead, lean my shoulder against the column beside it, and tap my ring softly against the metal. A steady ting, ting, ting. My favorite quiet fuck you.
Whatever he’s worried about—dock workers talking, a name getting loose, someone spotting something they shouldn’t have—it’s already handled. If there was a loose end, it’s not loose anymore.
Bishop keeps pacing, boots scuffing a tight, angry path. He’s wound so tight I can practically hear him creak.
The door beeps again.
Cruz strolls in barefoot, hair damp, T-shirt clinging to his chest like he just got out of the shower and couldn’t be bothered to fully dry off. He grabs a beach towel off the back of a chair and rubs it once over his head before tossing it aside.
Bishop throws his hands out. “Sure. Take your time. I’m not on a fucking schedule or anything.”
Cruz slouches against the workbench, crossing his ankles. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
I hide a smile behind a chip. Cruz has a gift—he can make anything sound like a favor.
Bishop mutters something under his breath and checks his phone again. He’s been more keyed up than usual lately. Too many closed-door conversations with Coco. Too much yacht fallout. Not enough money moving to smooth the edges off his temper.
“So.” His gaze snaps to me, then to Cruz. “Where the hell is Gage?”
Cruz shrugs, reaching into the mini-fridge for a bottle of water. “How the fuck should I know? I’m not his keeper.”
I tilt my head back against the column. “He’ll show. Said he was checking something out.”
Bishop stops pacing and stares at me. “What does that mean?”
I lift a shoulder. “He mentioned recon. Said he had an idea and wanted to look at it first.”
Bishop scoffs, motion snapping back into him like a switch flipped. “He knows we don’t do recon until we agree on a job. He knows that. So why the fuck is he doing recon alone?”
I lick salt from my fingers, unbothered by Bishop’s mood. “Don’t come at me, man. I’m not the one reinventing the rules.”
He shoots me a look like I’m exactly the one doing that. Whatever. I’ve been getting that look since we were kids.
The door beeps again.
Gage steps in a little out of breath, hoodie unzipped over a faded tee, hair a mess like he ran here with the hood half on and didn’t bother fixing it. He hops up onto the workbench beside Cruz, ankles hooked, palms braced behind him like this is all perfectly casual.
“You’re late,” Bishop says immediately.
Gage blows out a breath that’s not quite a laugh. “I was following orders.”
The way he says it—flat, edged—tells all of us he means Coco, not Bishop. Which is exactly why Bishop’s jaw clenches.
“Fine.” Bishop folds his arms. “We need a job. So what’ve you got?”
Gage’s gaze sweeps the room. Bishop pacing. Cruz half-soaked and lounging. Me in the corner, tapping my ring, pretending not to care.
He rubs his palms together once, like he’s bracing himself. “A problem.”
That’s the first interesting thing anyone’s said all day.
I nudge the chip bag aside, attention sharpening. “What kind of problem?”
Gage exhales, shoulders dropping a fraction. “I was doing recon for a job idea I have.”
“Yeah, about that,” Bishop cuts in, stepping closer. “Why the fuck are you doing recon on an idea? That’s not how we do things around here.”
Gage’s mouth pulls into a cold half-smile. “You wanted ideas, didn’t you? I’m not bringing half-assed shit to the table.” Like the yacht job, he seems to say.
Bishop snorts. “So, what’s the problem? Your idea’s shit?”
Cruz winces like he’s watching a fight about to break out in slow motion. But I know for a fact they’re not close to that point yet.
Gage’s jaw goes tight. “Nah. My idea’s solid.”
“Then out with it,” Bishop says, folding his arms, a smug smirk on his face.
I love my brother, but fuck me, sometimes he’s asking for it. And one day, Gage is gonna take him up on the taunt. Hard to say who will come out on top in that fight, especially if Cruz and I aren’t around to break it up.
Gage looks at Cruz. Then at me. Then back to Bishop.
“Simple,” he says. “I followed Bellamy.”
The air in the garage grows thick.
Cruz rocks forward on the balls of his feet.
My pulse hits once, hard, like someone flicked a switch inside me.
Bishop freezes mid-pace, eyes widening a fraction before narrowing to slits. He tilts his head slightly, like a predator recalculating.
“You followed her how?” Cruz asks, eyes sharp now instead of casual.
Gage’s gaze flashes to me, and I realize what’s happening. He’s waiting. Feeling me out to see if I’ll say it.
If I tell them about the other night—him slipping out of the dining room while dessert plates were still warm, me following him into the garage.
Watching him open the drawer where I keep my toys.
Trackers, bugs, lock tools, and other miscellaneous things that ride the line of legality.
The way he held one up between two fingers and just looked at me.
No words, just mutual understanding.
Curiosity gnawed at me all night, mean enough that I wanted to see what my brother had in store for the little blonde surprise.
I keep my mouth shut.
Gage looks away, back to Bishop. “I put a tracker on her car.”
Bishop’s mouth actually falls open for a beat. Then snaps shut. “You did what? Why the fuck would you—”
“Because,” Gage says, cutting clean through whatever tirade Bishop was going to deliver. “Bellamy’s crew hit the yacht before we did.”
Everything stops.
The scrambler hum, the fridge buzz, Cruz breathing.
Silence slams into the room so hard it’s almost funny.
Cruz goes rigid, his eyes narrowing on Gage. Bishop’s face empties, then floods with something dark.
And I bark out a laugh, my eyebrows shooting up as I lean forward. My ring stops tapping against the metal. Well, well, well. Bellamy just got a hell of a lot more interesting.
Bishop whirls on me. “Please. Enlighten us, Rafe. What the fuck is funny about this?”
I drag my thumb along my bottom lip, still smirking. “C’mon, man. Don’t you think it’s a little funny?”
His glare digs in. I let it sit, giving him my best smile. If he would get out of his own fucking head once in a while, he’d see how ironic the whole situation is.
We were looking for who snaked the yacht out from under us, and lo and behold, the woman waltzes right back into our lives.
Fate has a funny fucking sense of humor. I’m into it.
Bishop turns back to Gage, voice low and barely leashed. “And how do you know that?”
Gage leans back on his hands. “Saw her outside Marty Vega’s when we were casing fences.”
So, she’s an established little thief, I muse, tapping my fingertips against my lips. Curiouser and curiouser.
“So that’s why she showed up to Ma’s party,” I murmur, fitting some pieces of the Bellamy Hale puzzle together.
Gage nods once. “Yeah, I invited her. Wanted to feel her out, see if she was doing someone else’s work—she’s not.”
Bishop’s pacing restarts, faster now. “And why the fuck didn’t you read us in? Why am I just hearing about this now?”
“Because I wasn’t sure what you’d do,” Gage snaps, patience fraying. “And I didn’t want anyone running to Ma.”
Bishop takes a step toward him. “And what’s stopping me from telling her now?”
Before Gage can answer, Cruz speaks up, voice calm but edged in something darker. “Besides the fact that you’d be signing Bellamy’s death warrant?” He slides his gaze to me in a purposeful sweep.
The words hang there, heavy and final. Too true to argue with.
Bishop looks at him, then at me, like he’s waiting for one of us to blink. Neither of us moves.
Gage scrubs a hand over his face. “That’s not even the point. I caught her scouting another job today.”
Cruz’s brows lift. “Where?”
“A music store in Bayview,” Gage says.
My brows rise in surprise. A five-million-dollar yacht is a far cry from a music store in a small town a few hours away.
Bishop barks out a laugh that’s more like a snarl. He shakes his head and looks from Cruz to me, incredulity deepening his expression.
“A music store in Bayview,” he repeats. “Be fucking for real, man. What’s she gonna get, a hundred bucks and an out-of-tune bass?
That’s your big idea?” He shakes his head and turns around, giving Gage his back.
“All right. What do you two have? Because I’m not wasting one more minute talking about robbing a wannabe Guitar Center. ”
“I got nothing.” I reach back to the workbench and grab the half-warm Coke I abandoned earlier, taking a slow sip. “I got nothing.”
Bishop’s head snaps toward me. His shoulders square, spine going rigid like he’s bracing for impact. “You’ve got nothing?”
I shrug. “Yeah. I’m not the idea guy, remember?”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. He drags a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his beard like he’s trying to physically hold his temper in place. He turns to Cruz. “What about you?”
Cruz scratches the back of his neck, expression maddeningly loose. “I’ve got something,” he says. “It’s not cooked yet. I need more time with it.”
Bishop throws his head back and lets out a sharp, humorless breath, hands planting on his hips.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” He looks between us like the room itself personally betrayed him.
“It’s been three weeks since the yacht. Three.
We need money. We need something on the books.
” He jabs a finger toward the floor. “I tell you we need ideas and you show up with nothing—”
“And what about you?” I cut in. “What’s your big idea?”
His eyes snap to mine. For a second that familiar pressure builds in my chest—the silent standoff instinct, the part of me that enjoys seeing how far I can push before something breaks. But I stay leaned back, casual, waiting.
Bishop presses his tongue into his cheek, then shrugs like it’s obvious. “There’s a new jewelry shop two towns over. Soft targets, weak security, small staff. We go in late, smash cases, grab what we can. In and out.”
I purse my lips and exhale a slow, flat note between my teeth, eyebrows raised in mock awe as I examine my fingernails. “Wow. Revolutionary.”
Gage’s head tips to the side, a humorless smirk cutting across his face. “So we knock over some no-name jewelry store in the middle of nowhere, pray a fence takes the pieces, sit on them for a month, and maybe clear a grand each?” He clicks his tongue. “That’s your big move?”
“At least it’s guaranteed,” Bishop bites back, fists clenching at his sides.
“Yeah,” Gage says. “Guaranteed waste of our fucking time. This isn’t ten years ago.”
Bishop laughs, but it’s all incredulity and no humor. “And the music store isn’t?”
Gage stares at him like he’s lost his damn mind. “Jesus, do you hear yourself? It’s not a music store.” He pushes off the workbench, stepping toward the center of the room, like he’s a ringmaster. “We’re talking mid six figures. Easy.”
Cruz’s brows jump. My own attention sharpens, that familiar hum curling tighter.
Bishop crosses his arms, weight shifting back on his heels, posture screaming prove it.
“The two floors above Otto’s Music in Bayview are Highlight Entertainment’s offices. You know who they are?” Gage asks.
I do. I’ve seen their logo on passes, stage scrims, barricades. I’ve been to half a dozen festivals they’ve put on. Those weekends bleed money.
“They handle production for Coastal Fire, Sundown Fest, that desert thing out by Mesa Springs. Plus every mid-size venue from here to Ridgeview.”
Cruz whistles low. “No shit.”
Bishop’s face shifts, but he’s not backing down. “And I’m supposed to give a fuck about some entertainment company above a music store why?”
“Because,” Gage says, dragging the word out like he’s talking to an unruly toddler. “They run all the cash through there. Vendor payouts, settlement envelopes, walk-up tickets, last-minute upgrades. It all bottlenecks upstairs before it moves again.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, studying Gage's face like I'm seeing something new there—the sharp calculation behind his eyes that's usually Cruz's territory, the confident stance that Bishop normally claims. My brother's lips quirk up at one corner when he catches me staring, and I raise my Coke in a silent toast that makes his smirk widen into something almost dangerous.
Gage ticks it off on his fingers. “Soundboards, generators, lighting rigs, merch stock, riders. And at least seventy-five grand in cash every other week. There’s a festival next month—Highlight’s already moving shit in and out.
” He pauses, letting the moment swell. “Bellamy and Lola were camped down the block for hours today. They’ve been watching it. ”
A low laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. Of course she is. Not enough she beat us to the yacht, now she’s lining up a mid-six-figure pull while we’re in here arguing about a jewelry store.
“Then we take it from under them,” Bishop says.
Gage’s head snaps toward him. “No.”
Bishop straightens, eyes narrowing on our brother. “No?”
Gage steps closer. “We don’t poach it from them. We work with them.” His gaze cuts to each of us. “We bring Bellamy’s crew in.”