Chapter 14 Bellamy
BELLAMY
Lola crumples the empty chip bag and shoves it into the door pocket with a dramatic sigh, as if she’s been personally wronged by time itself.
“So let me get this straight,” she says, pointing a finger at me. “Not only are we about to go meet the Calloways voluntarily”—she flicks her eyes upward like she’s sending a prayer to any god willing to intervene—”but we’re early? Bells, babe. What is happening to us?”
Beckett snorts from the back seat. “Pretty sure it’s the end times.”
“It’s called professionalism,” I mutter, flipping the visor down because the afternoon sun is slicing straight into my retinas. “Also, if we’re going to hear them out, we’re not showing up late like a bunch of amateurs.”
Lola lifts her brows at me, slow and incredulous. “Hear them out? Why are we even hearing them out? Since when do we need the Calloways for anything? We do just fine on our own.”
“Because,” I say, pushing my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose. “Gage told me they want to pitch a collaboration.”
Beckett leans forward between the seats. “Did he tell you why? Or what this even is?”
I shake my head. Suspicion sits low and heavy in my stomach like a stone. “I don’t know. But we’ll find out soon.”
Beckett clicks his tongue. “I’m just saying, it seems a little coincidental that the Calloways suddenly want to get cozy. You haven’t said a damn thing about them in years. What’s going on?”
Lola cuts in before I can answer. “What’s going on is that we’re walking into an ambush over the yacht job.” She levels a look at me. “And I feel like I’ve had this exact conversation with you more than once lately.”
“Yeah, and yet here I am—alive and well.” A smirk lifts up the side of my mouth.
Beckett stiffens. “Alive and well? What the hell does that mean?”
“Nothing,” I say lightly. “It was a joke.”
It wasn’t. Not really.
My sister’s worry isn’t misplaced exactly, but I can’t let her see mine.
My brother is a Hale through and through, which means he too isn’t so easily deterred. “So he didn’t tell you why, or what this is about?”
“No.” I keep my tone neutral. “But I did run into him while we were scouting Highlight Entertainment.”
Lola gives a vicious little snort. “Ran into him? Bells, I found you inside his car two seconds away from climbing that man like a damn tree. If I hadn’t knocked on that window—”
“It wasn’t like that,” I cut in quickly.
“Oh no?” She swivels toward me, lips twitching. “Then what would you call the soft-porn eye contact I witnessed?”
“I would call it you being dramatic.” My face heats anyway. Traitorous cheeks.
Beckett groans. “Jesus Christ. I don’t ever want to hear the words soft porn from either one of you ever again. What the hell, Lola?”
Lola twists in her seat to grin at him. “Relax. If Bells and I were celibate, I’d be way meaner.”
“I’m begging you,” Beckett says, clapping his hands over his ears. “I’m not listening to this.”
“Good,” Lola says cheerfully. “Because it gets worse.”
I huff a little laugh despite myself. “Nothing happened.”
Which is technically true, but it could have. And that alone scares me more than I want to admit.
Because it was too easy—sliding back under Gage Calloway’s gravity like no time had passed at all.
“Yeah, okay,” Lola says around a chuckle as she straightens in the passenger seat.
“Look,” I say, fingers tightening on the steering wheel as I turn onto the quiet street lined with cookie-cutter new builds. “We’re not agreeing to anything yet. We’re just listening. If there’s a good opportunity for us, we’d be stupid not to at least consider it.”
Lola leans back, crossing her arms. “Sure. Or again—and I’m going to continue saying it—this is a trap.”
“It’s not,” I insist quickly.
“Bells.” That nickname slides inside me, squeezes something tender, and makes me feel five inches tall.
I finally look at her. “Gage said it wasn’t.”
“Yeah, well,” Lola says quietly, “I don’t exactly trust Gage’s word.”
“I get that, I do. But you trust mine, right?”
Her expression softens. “Of course.”
“Then trust me when I tell you I don’t think they’re setting us up. If I thought this was dangerous for us—for you—I'd already have us halfway back down the highway.”
Beckett huffs. “Then what’s the play?”
“The play,” I say, pulling into the driveway of the model home. “Is that we walk in, listen, and walk out still calling the shots. No one’s steamrolling us.”
Beckett gives a sharp nod. “Good.”
Lola sighs and pops her door open. “Fine. But if any of the Calloways look at me funny, I’m biting someone.”
“That’s weirdly on brand for you,” I say, climbing out of the car.
The air smells like sun-baked stucco and fresh paint.
It’s quiet, the kind that feels stretched thin and waiting.
And standing by the door, arms crossed, shirt stretched obscene-tight across his chest is Bishop Calloway. Thirty minutes early.
Of fucking course he is.
Lola mutters, “Ugh.”
Beckett sighs. “Fuck. Here we go.”
And I can’t help but notice the way he fills out that black surf-brand tee. The way his jeans sit low on his hips. The way his gaze tracks us with that unreadable, carved-from-stone focus.
My pulse does something stupid.
I school my features into something cool, aiming for unbothered and unimpressed.
“You’re early, Bishop,” I call as we approach. “Trying to win a gold star?”
His eyes flick over me once—slow, assessing. A soft scrape of danger. “Just making sure this wasn’t an ambush.”
I smile, lips curving like the edge of a knife, sugar coating venom. Bishop's eyes narrow just slightly, catching the threat beneath the honey.
“Oh, Bishop Calloway.” I step past him, punching in the code for the lockbox. “Trust me. If I wanted to ambush you, you’d never see me coming.”
The door clicks open.
Behind me, Lola mutters, “God, you two are exhausting.”
The model home smells like drywall dust and lemon cleaner. It’s too clean, too bright, too staged. It’s perfect for this meeting.
And it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Bishop steps inside behind us, the door clicking shut with a soft, definitive sound. He posts himself a few feet off the wall, like he needs both space and a vantage point, his gaze sweeping the open-concept room with that same tactical stillness he’s always had.
Bishop’s attention flickers around the space before it settles on me. “This is not the house you described the other night.”
My lips twitch at the corners. “Oh, so you were listening.”
“Aren’t I always?”
“And to think, I’d almost forgotten how high-handed you are.” I brush past him, walking deeper into the kitchen. “You know I’d never host this meeting at my actual house, right?”
Lola and Beckett offer curt nods as they follow me into the kitchen. Bishop gives them nothing in return. No smile. No greeting. Just a faint lift of his chin, like acknowledging their existence is a courtesy.
Lola huffs. “So where’s the rest of your minions?”
Bishop’s jaw ticks. “You said three.”
Lola gestures around the empty living room. “And yet, you’re here thirty minutes early.”
He shrugs, a slow, controlled lift of his shoulders. “I’ve been here for nearly an hour.”
My eyebrows rise. Oh Bishop. I can’t decide if that makes him paranoid or predictable.
I lean against the kitchen island, palms flat on the cool quartz, tilting my head as I study him. “Did you think I was planning to ambush you?”
He doesn’t move—doesn’t even blink. He just gives the faintest, driest lift of his left brow.
“I think,” he says finally, “that you’re capable of a lot more than people give you credit for.”
It’s not meant to be a compliment, but it lands like one anyway.
My smile sharpens. “Good. I’d hate to disappoint.”
The front door opens before he can reply.
Cruz strolls in first, baseball cap backward, sun-streaked hair escaping at the edges, a lazy grin already in place. He does a slow, appreciative spin. “Well, damn, Bells.” He whistles. “Not bad digs.”
Lola gives him a saccharine smile. “Oh sweet summer child, you think we’d actually let you know where we live?”
Cruz laughs like she just complimented him. “Fair.”
Gage appears next, broad shoulders filling the doorway like he owns the place. And Rafe slips in behind him, silent, eyes cataloging everything with a kind of awareness that makes my stomach dip.
All four of them in one room feels like stepping into a storm.
But I hold my ground.
Gage’s gaze catches mine, warm and wicked in equal measure. “Hey, Bells.”
I press my lips together, focusing on the cool quartz beneath my palms. His gaze burns across my skin, and I find myself straightening my shoulders, as if my body is trying to rise to meet his attention.
A flutter kicks against my ribs—once, twice—and I have to force myself to inhale slowly through my nose. Business. This is just business.
Bishop pushes off the wall with a sharp exhale. “All right. We’re here.” His tone is clipped, all business. “Let’s get this over with.”
Every head turns to Gage.
Lola’s brows jump. “Gage? Damn, did you graduate to head Calloway?”
Rafe snorts softly, arms folded, one shoulder propped against the doorway. He’s watching me, and he’s not subtle about it either.
Gage rubs the back of his neck, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face.
Lola’s expression hardens. “Hold on. Before we go any further, let’s be clear: We didn’t agree to shit. Our cut goes from one-third to one-seventh if we work with you—”
“One-eighth,” Rafe interrupts.
Lola snaps her gaze to him. “What?”
He shrugs, casual but exact. “One-third to one-eighth. We cut Coco in.”
Lola studies him for a long beat, chest rising with a slow inhale. Then she turns back to Bishop. “Fine. One-eighth. So whatever pitch you’ve got?” Her gaze sweeps all four Calloways. “It better be worth it.”
Bishop lets out a bitter, humorless sound and pushes off the wall. “Great. Then we’re done here.”
“Perfect,” Lola fires back, already half-turned toward the door.
Gage steps forward quickly, palms up. “Hang on, hang on. Nobody’s walking out. Let’s just talk this out.”
Bishop whips toward him. “Talk it out? You said she had a plan, and she’s not sharing. So as far as I’m concerned? We’re done.”
“Oh my god,” I mutter, pushing off the island. “Bishop Calloway, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re throwing a tantrum.”
He turns, slow and deliberate. A stormcloud passes over his expression before he locks it down. “A tantrum?”
Something hot and wicked unfurls low in my belly.
I know I shouldn’t poke him, not when we're literally in the middle of a meeting to build enough trust to pull a job together.
But there's something about Bishop. That rigid control stretched thin.
That sharp-edged restraint just begging me to test it.
That sharp jawline and those dark eyes. I can't help myself.
I straighten, letting my smile unfurl across my face. “I know how you like to be in control,” I say calmly. “But if this is going to work, you'll have to be willing to hop in the back seat.”
The room stills. It’s not silence but suspension. Like everyone’s holding the same breath.
Rafe’s low chuckle rolls through it first. Cruz follows with a quiet huff of laughter. Gage mutters something under his breath. My brother releases a strangled are you kidding me sound.
But I don't tear my focus from Bishop to really read anyone's expressions.
The oldest Calloway holds my gaze, his jaw flexing once. It's the sort of lethal glare that I shouldn't enjoy as much as I do. The kind that promises consequences.
“Gage told us you pulled the yacht job out from under us,” Rafe says.
The spell breaks, severing the hold Bishop had on me. Gage exhales sharply, and Lola mutters a curse under her breath.
I drag in a breath and look at Rafe. “Alright. So you all know.”
Rafe nods once, his eyes tracking the slight twitch at the corner of my mouth, the way my fingers curl against the countertop, how I shift my weight to my left foot—all the little tells I'm trying desperately to control.
I swallow hard and meet Rafe's gaze head-on.
So they know. The secret's out, hanging in the air between us like smoke.
Better to have it exposed now than to spend weeks wondering when the other shoe would drop.
At least this way, I can watch their faces, catch the micro-expressions, the silent communications between brothers.
If revenge is on their agenda, I'll see it coming.
“Then let’s begin.”