Chapter 13 Gage
GAGE
The words drop like a live grenade.
For a split second, no one moves. The hum of the scrambler fills the space, too loud, too present. Bishop’s face hardens into something sharp and dangerous. Cruz lifts a brow, slow and unreadable.
“We do not bring outsiders into Calloway jobs,” Bishop says, every word clipped tight.
It’s a phrase Coco shoved down our throats for years. It’s etched somewhere between my lungs and spine at this point.
“We bring results,” I shoot back. My voice stays level. It costs me to keep it that way. “That’s all she cares about.”
Bishop’s hand slices through the air. “Bullshit. You’re talking about some girl you haven’t seen in six years like she’s the answer to all our problems. So you had a little childhood crush? Get the fuck over it, man. This is our life on the line.”
Heat flares under my skin, and I welcome it. I lock my jaw shut, feel the tension crawl into my shoulders, into my fists.
The truth is, it wasn’t planned.
Impulse knifed through me the night she came over for dinner.
One minute I was watching her follow Ma into the kitchen, the next I was in the garage, palm closing around the tracker before my mind had even caught up.
Curiosity dragged at me—a low, restless hum in my gut.
I wanted to know her patterns. Where she went after she left us behind again.
The world narrowed to my own heartbeat as I slipped outside while she cut the cake. I snapped the tracker into place on her car and slid back into my chair before doubt could get its teeth in. Just a sharp and certain need to follow her trail. To see what came next.
Twelve hours. That’s how long it took before I actually opened the tracker app.
The screen lit up, and there she was—a little dot, stuck on some street in Bayview, unmoving.
After I stared at it for too long, I closed the app.
And when I looked a few hours later, she was still there. It was the same three days in a row.
The itch started slow. A scratch at the base of my brain, restless and persistent.
I fucking followed her.
It wasn’t until she slipped out of my truck that the pieces finally snapped together. The door thunked shut, and I just sat there, staring at everything within her truck’s line of sight while my brain replayed everything. The realization hit me square in the chest.
Highlight Entertainment.
It’s a good fucking job, and it’ll be even better when we work it together.
I grit my teeth and push the anger back where it belongs. “For once, why don’t you pull your head out of Coco’s ass and actually listen?”
Bishop’s expression empties. No anger, no reaction at all. That’s the dangerous one. He steps forward. “What did you just say to me?”
I slide off the workbench and straighten to my full height, meeting him halfway. That inch I have on him must eat him alive on days like today.
“You heard me. I bring you a solid idea and you don’t even hear it because you’re too busy pretending you’re the only one who speaks for this family.” My jaw sets. “This isn’t a dictatorship. We vote.”
A sharp laugh cuts from Bishop’s throat. “Oh, that’s fucking rich. You want to talk votes?”
He steps into my space. I don’t back up.
“Fine,” Bishop snaps. “Let’s take a vote. Who’s in favor of bringing in some random girl we haven’t seen in years to run a job we don’t know shit about? Taking her word for it, huh?”
“Me,” I say immediately.
Cruz pushes off the workbench with a roll of his shoulders. “Yeah. Fuck it. I’m in.”
Bishop’s mouth twists. “You seriously think Coco’s gonna bless that?”
“She doesn’t have to,” Rafe drawls from the corner. “Not if the majority’s in.”
I don’t look at him, but I feel it—that subtle shift in the room. The balance tipping.
Rafe lets the silence stretch. I know him well enough to recognize when he’s enjoying himself.
“Let’s fucking do it,” he says at last, grinning.
Bishop exhales harshly, dragging a hand down his jaw. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” He turns on me, jabbing a finger into my chest. “So you expect me to tell Ma that our brilliant fix for the job you fucked up is cutting in some girl who calls herself a freelance designer over roast dinner?”
I swallow down the surge of heat swelling inside my chest. Shame coats the inside of my mouth, and I’d rather taste the peppery burn of anger instead. Much more palatable. “Yeah, I did the recon on that job, and I fucked up. I obviously missed something.”
“Or she’s just that good,” Rafe drawls, like the idea sits pleasantly under his skin.
I dip my chin once. “Maybe. But I’m not here making excuses. I’m here with a way to make it right.” I meet Bishop’s glare head-on. “We’re not bringing her in on the job. We’re asking her to work with us.”
Bishop stills. Then he laughs, the sound mean and sharp. What an asshole. “Goddamn, Gage. You’re going through an awful lot just to fuck some girl—”
I step forward before I think better of it, crowding his space. “Watch it, brother.”
“The timing is real convenient, brother,” Bishop practically sneers. “That’s all I’m saying.”
My hands curl at my sides, knuckles whitening as Bishop's insinuation hangs in the air between us. I force a slow breath through my nose. Something hot and dangerous crawls up my spine, but I swallow it back down. I don’t want to fight with him today.
“Go on,” I say quietly. I hold his gaze, unblinking. “Say what you actually mean.”
His shoulders lift a fraction, tension winding tight. When he speaks again, his voice is controlled to the point of menace. “Any other secrets you wanna confess while we’re at it?”
A dry laugh scrapes out, and I shake my head. The irony is too good. “Nah, you and Coco have the market cornered.”
Rafe steps between us, his hands landing on our shoulders with enough force that I grunt.
Bishop's jaw twitches under the pressure of Rafe's grip. Mine does too.
The air still crackles, but Rafe's voice cuts through it. “So what's the plan, Gage?”
I drag in a breath. The anger doesn’t disappear, but it shifts, sharpening into something usable. “Next, we convince Bellamy to work with us.”
Bishop shoves Rafe off and drags his fingers through his hair. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. All of this—and she’s not even on board yet?”
“Gotta start somewhere.” There’s no backing out now. I don’t pretend otherwise.
Cruz snorts. “And how exactly are you planning to pull that off?”
“Simple.” I lift one shoulder, casual on the surface. Inside, everything hums. “We tell her the truth.”
Rafe stares at me like he’s watching a car crash in slow motion.
I don’t have a timeline. I don’t have a guarantee. What I have is instinct. And the knowledge that Bellamy Hale doesn’t scare easily, doesn’t miss much—or she didn’t.
And I have to believe that she doesn’t waste time on jobs that won’t pay.
“When and where?” Rafe asks.
“I’ll set the meet,” I say. “All of us there. No bullshit.” My gaze flicks to Bishop. “We treat it like business as usual.”
Bishop scoffs. “Business would be letting me and Cruz handle this and keeping you out of it so you don’t get distracted.”
“Might I suggest,” Rafe says, lifting his brows. “That Bishop sits this one out?”
“Fuck off, Rafe,” Bishop grumbles, but there’s significantly less heat in it.
“He’ll be fine, won’t you, brother?” Cruz says, jerking his chin at him.
Bishop exhales. “Coco’s never going to go for it.”
My mouth curves, tight and sure. “She will once she hears the take.”
Nobody argues with that. Not out loud.
The garage settles into a heavy quiet. Bishop resumes pacing—shorter strides, less control. Cruz picks at the label on his bottle. Rafe goes still, watching.
I look around the room one last time. At my brothers. At the line I’m already crossing. “It’s worth the risk.”
Because I’ve seen her hit first.
Because I’ve watched her stake out Highlight like she already owned it.
Because Bellamy Hale is the variable Bishop can’t control.
And I can’t stop thinking about her.
The house is too quiet when I get home.
I drop my keys on the counter, kick my shoes off by the door, and grab a beer from the fridge without really tasting the decision. The couch takes my weight like it’s been waiting for it, cushions sighing as I sink back and stare at the ceiling.
I tell myself I’m done for the night. Then I pull out my phone.
The tracker app opens faster than it should. Muscle memory. Habit. Curiosity dressed up as something else.
Her dot is there immediately. Same address as last night. Same one that was there when I woke up this morning.
I stare at it longer than I should.
Either it’s where she lives—or it’s where someone else does. Someone whose bed she slept in. Someone who gets to see her without wondering if she’s a liability, or a risk, or the variable that could blow everything apart.
My jaw tightens.
I tip the bottle back and take a long pull, swallowing against the sour edge crawling up my throat. Jealousy doesn’t flare hot; it settles dense and heavy. Like a stone I don’t remember picking up but can’t put down now.
I lock my phone, then unlock it again just as quickly.
“Fuck it,” I mutter.
I open my messages and start typing before I can talk myself out of it.
You always stay up this late?
Three dots appear almost instantly. Disappear, then reappear.
Who is this?
A corner of my mouth tugs up despite myself.
C’mon, Bell. Don’t insult us both.
A pause, long enough to feel intentional.
Cruz?
My smile slips a fraction, and I shrug it off like it doesn’t matter.
Rafe?
Try again.
Another beat.
Bishop?
Now I know she’s fucking with me. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, beer dangling loose in my hand.
And if I said yes?
This time, she doesn’t hesitate.
Then I’d ask how you got my number, Gage.
I huff a quiet laugh.
Ah. So you did know.
She doesn’t respond, and after two minutes, I cave.
Some secrets are better between friends.
Is that what we are?
I swirl the bottle between my two fingers and my thumb, watching the condensation bead and run.
What else would we be?
Three dots, gone, back again.
Friends don’t usually stalk each other.
A low chuckle rumbles out of my chest before I can stop it. I’d forgotten how easy this part is. The push, the pull. The way she doesn’t give ground unless you earn it.
The good ones do.
The silence stretches. I picture her on the other end, phone in hand, expression unreadable. Wondering how much I know. How much I’m willing to admit.
What do you want, Gage?
I stare at the words. My thumb hovers over the screen, debating how honest to be.
I don’t type right away. Because the truth is, I already know exactly what I want.
You.
I fucking want you.
I stare at the screen, her message still glowing back at me. I don’t type out what I really want. Instead, I settle for a different truth.
I’ve got a proposition for you.