Chapter 17 Gage
GAGE
By the time we slip through the side gate into Ma’s backyard, the sky’s gone soft gold and the pool is throwing back the last of the light like it’s hoarding it. The air smells like chlorine, grilled citrus, and whatever expensive candle Coco’s burning.
She’s lounging by the deep end in a black swimsuit with a floral kimono tied at her waist, sunglasses perched on her dark hair like a crown.
One leg is draped over the arm of the chair.
A man I don’t recognize sits on the edge of the lounger beside her, barefoot, tan, mid-forties maybe—linen shirt unbuttoned at the collar, easy smile, holding a sweating glass of something red.
Right. Her current boyfriend. Not that she would ever call him that.
Coco bought this house for the pool. When we were still kids, she said she wanted a place that felt like a resort without having to leave town. She poured time and money into this backyard until it bent exactly to her vision. Even now, it feels curated to her.
She turns when the gate clicks, smile already in place like she knew we were coming. “Well, now this is a surprise.”
Cruz lifts the taco bags like an offering. “We brought dinner.”
Her smile widens. “Is that from—”
“Your favorite place,” Cruz cuts in. “Yeah, Ma. It is.”
She makes a pleased sound and stands, the man beside her rising with her. “All my favorite things,” she says lightly. “My boys and dinner, and it’s not even my birthday? Miracles never cease.”
Bishop goes to her first. He leans down, hugs her, and kisses her cheek. “Hey, Ma.”
She cups his jaw, studying him the way she always does, like she’s checking for cracks only she knows how to see. “Hi, honey. How are you?”
“I’m good,” he says.
Her gaze flicks to the man beside her. “This is Evan,” she adds casually. “He’s a friend.”
Evan flashes us an easy smile. “Nice to finally meet Coco’s boys. I’ve heard so much about you.”
We all murmur greetings. It doesn’t really matter what this dude’s name is or how nice he might be, Coco’ll kick ‘em to the curb in a few weeks. She always does.
Coco turns to me, wrapping her arms around my waist and pulling me in for a hug. “What did I do to deserve such good boys?”
I bend and kiss her cheek, inhaling the scent of sunscreen and lime margaritas. “We just wanted to see you,” I say, which is true. Just not the whole truth.
“Mmm,” she hums, patting my face like she doesn’t buy it for a second. “Rafe. Come give your momma some love.”
Rafe steps in, quick hug. “Hey, Ma.”
“Hi, sweetheart.” She pulls back, eyes narrowing slightly. “You eating enough? Sleeping? You look thin.”
“I’m fine,” he says smoothly. “I’ll come by for lunch soon.”
Cruz steps in last, dropping a kiss on her cheek. “Hey, Ma.”
She smirks. “Hello, my darling boy. I haven’t seen you around for a couple of days.”
“We’ve been working on something,” Cruz says, dimples flashing.
Coco nods slowly, that knowing smile blooming like she’s already decided she approves. “All of you together,” she says, gaze flicking over us. “I love to see it. Can’t wait to hear about what you’ve been working on.”
She turns to Evan, looping her arm through his. “Sweetheart, would you mind running to the store and grabbing more margarita mix? Or maybe some things for sangria? Whatever you find.”
“Of course, Coco.” Evan leans in and kisses.
I look away before I get an eyeful. There are some things you don’t need burned into your brain, and watching your mom make out before tacos is one of them.
“I’ll be right back,” Evan says, heading toward the driveway.
The second the gate shuts behind him, the air shifts.
We move toward the patio table like we’re a normal family having a normal dinner instead of a crew trying to sell our mother on a job.
Cruz sets down the food. Bishop pulls out her chair like the good son he’s supposed to be. Rafe heads toward the house with a casual, “I’ll get plates.”
I crouch at the outdoor fridge for beers, cold glass biting my fingers, and take a second to steady myself.
Coco settles in just as I set the bottles down.
“Now I really know something’s going on,” she says lightly. “My boys waiting on me hand and foot?” She taps the rim of her margarita glass with one polished nail. “So. What job are you trying to butter me up for?”
“Maybe we just wanted to visit,” I say, forcing a grin.
“Maybe,” she echoes, eyes narrowing with amusement. “But don’t insult me.”
Rafe returns with plates. Cruz is already tearing into the foil containers. Bishop sits stiffly at the opposite end of the table, shoulders tight, like his body’s already braced for impact.
“All right,” Coco says, lifting her glass. “I’m listening.”
Bishop flicks me a look. I guess that’s my cue.
“We’ve got a lead,” I say. “Highlight Entertainment. They’re above a music store in Bayview. Holding inventory for a festival next month. Security’s workable. The payout’s solid if we time it right.”
Bishop's nostrils flare as he exhales sharply, his mouth a tight line, eyes never leaving mine.
Coco’s head tilts. “Something amusing, honey?”
Bishop straightens a fraction. “No.”
She watches him a beat longer than necessary, then lets it drop.
I fill in the rest in broad strokes—the window, the movement, the scale. I leave Bellamy out of it entirely.
When I finish, Coco hums, gaze unfocusing the way it does when she’s running numbers. “Ambitious,” she says. “A lot of moving parts. Complicated. Risky.” A pause. “Certainly possible. But there are easier jobs.”
“Easier,” Bishop mutters. “And better ones.”
That gets her attention.
The corner of her mouth twitches upward—not quite a smile. “Ah,” she says, voice dropping to a silken whisper that somehow cuts through the evening air more effectively than a shout. “I see.”
His jaw locks, a muscle twitching beneath the stubble on his left cheek. “See what?” The words come out clipped, each syllable hard as stone.
“This wasn’t your idea,” she murmurs.
He makes a sound in the back of his throat, lips curling at the edges, eyes hard. “Of course it wasn't.”
My teeth grind together, the click audible in my skull. “And what's that supposed to mean?”
Coco's gaze slides across the table, lingering on each of our faces—Bishop's tight jaw, my clenched fists, Cruz’s stillness, Rafe’s fingers drumming against his thigh—before returning to me with the weight of a loaded gun.
Her lips curve into that smile I've seen a thousand times, the one that says she's already three steps ahead of whatever game we think we're playing. “Whose idea is it, honey?”
Bishop chuckles, but there’s no humor in his laugh. “Take a wild guess, Coco.”
Something cold slides down my back. I force the word out. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
He leans back, arm slung over the chair like he's relaxed, but his jaw's grinding hard enough I can almost hear his molars cracking.
The tendons in his neck stand out like ropes.
“It means this job is risky. Overestimated payout, underestimated security, and a sketchy timeline.” He tilts his head, eyes cold as he flashes me a condescending grin.
“Don't worry, man. It's not your fault. This isn't your lane, Gage.
You break doors and lift heavy shit. That's your role in the family.”
“Jesus Christ, Bishop,” Cruz drawls, dragging his hand down his face.
Our oldest brother just lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “What? We all have our roles in the family.”
My fingers curl around my beer bottle until my knuckles bleach white.
I inhale through my nose, counting to three, the way I learned in juvie.
Bishop's face across the table blurs at the edges, his smirk swimming in my vision as my pulse hammers in my ears. I’m three seconds away from reaching across the table, grabbing my asshole brother by the collar, and punching that pretty-boy smirk off his face.
“Last I checked, we all bring ideas to the table. You just can’t stand it that my idea is better than yours.”
“Your idea, hm?” Bishop says, arching his brow.
Something sharp twists between my ribs. I mentally scream at my brother to keep his fucking mouth shut. This is not how I’m telling Ma about Bellamy.
“Say what you actually mean,” I say through gritted teeth.
Bishop leans back, folding his arms across his chest, lips curling into something that isn't quite a smile. “Come on, you really want us to believe you’re not doing all this to impress her? Talking mid-six figures like you didn’t pull that number out of your ass just to look like you’re more than Calloway muscle. ”
Bishop's words land exactly where he aimed them, but I've heard this shit from him every night for a week—in the garage when I first mentioned the job, again over beers when I showed him the blueprints, yesterday morning when he caught me checking my phone for her messages.
My jaw tightens as heat crawls up my neck. “Fuck you, man. This is a solid job.”
His eyes flick—just once. Fast enough most people would miss it. Something passes over his face—a flicker of regret, maybe, before it hardens. “You're chasing pussy and calling it a job,“ he says, voice quieter than before, like part of him wishes he could take it back even as he doubles down.