Chapter 21 Gage
GAGE
By the time I cut through the courtyard and into the second garage, my chest already feels too tight.
Tomorrow’s the job, and every step closer tightens the vice around my sanity. If anyone gets hurt tomorrow that blood is on my hands.
A thought flickers—annoying and unwelcome, but impossible to shake: If this is what Bishop feels all the time… Christ, I should hate him for his highhanded bullshit, but part of me almost understands why he always looks a breath away from walking straight off the pier. Almost.
Light spills from the cracked service door, carrying with it the low murmur of familiar voices. My hand reaches for the handle when I hear Bellamy's name, and my body locks up mid-stride like I've hit an invisible wall.
“I’ve been on Bellamy for two weeks, man,” Rafe says with a small sigh. “There’s nothing there. She’s either at home, on recon with Cruz, or with her sister down by the water. Surfing, mostly. Sometimes trying to skateboard.” A small huff of laughter. “And she’s really fucking bad at it.”
Rafe's been tailing Bellamy? My jaw locks tight, molars grinding.
Blood rushes to my face so fast I can feel my pulse hammering in my temples.
My boot lifts an inch off the concrete, ready to slam that door wide open, but freezes halfway up.
Instead, I press my ear closer to the crack, barely breathing, fingers curling into fists so tight my knuckles crack in the silence.
Bishop grumbles, “That doesn’t mean shit. She could be playing a long game. Or she’s already spotted you, so she’s not gonna move while you’re on her. Maybe you’re not as good at this as you think you are.”
Rafe laughs, a flat, sharp sort of sound. “Come on, man. Don’t insult me. If I wanted her to see me, she would’ve.”
Their words slam into me like brass knuckles, leaving me breathless.
Was this Coco's call? Or Bishop taking liberties again?
Something icy and foreign splits through me. Fear. Fuck that. I despise the taste of it.
Since when does Bishop run surveillance without telling me? And if everyone knew except me—that's even worse.
My fingers dig into my thighs, leaving half-moons in the denim. The anger comes first—a flash fire in my chest—then something that makes me sick to my stomach.
Relief.
Fuck, I hate myself for it. For letting doubt creep in at all. But Rafe's good at what he does. If Bellamy was playing us, he would've caught her by now.
And if she ever finds out they’d been watching her, she’d walk—and she’d be right to.
The yacht, the warehouse, the music store. Maybe it wasn’t luck. Maybe it was the kind of trouble that circles back for what it wants.
“What are we doing?” Cruz murmurs at my shoulder.
“Jesus.” The word hisses out between my teeth as I spin to face him. “What the fuck are you doing?”
He lifts one corner of his mouth, eyes crinkling at the edges, and my fingers twitch with the urge to make a fist. Cruz's shoulder catches mine as he slides past, the scent of his cologne lingering in his wake.
I follow him into the garage where Bishop leans against the workbench, arms crossed, while Rafe gestures with one hand.
“—swell's supposed to hit six feet by Thursday.” Bishop nods, face neutral as stone.
Neither of them misses a beat when we enter, their conversation flowing without a single stutter or glance our way.
Rafe's eyes flick to mine for a split second. His face gives away nothing, but that's standard operating procedure for him. I tell myself there's no chance he caught me eavesdropping, but this is Rafe we're talking about—the guy has a sixth sense for other people's secrets.
Cruz hits the garage opener, and the main bay door grinds upward, loud and rattling.
And there they are. The Hale siblings stand framed in the rising rectangle of night air.
Bellamy's in cutoff jean shorts, frayed white threads dangling against her tanned thighs, and a faded Nirvana tee with a stretched-out collar that exposes the delicate hollow of her collarbone.
The shirt's been washed so many times the iconic smiley face is barely visible, like a ghost fading into the fabric.
She's holding a pink donut box against her hip, her slender fingers splayed across the cardboard, casual as breathing. My gaze drags over her like I've been wandering a desert for weeks—from her wind-tangled hair down to her scuffed Vans, drinking in every detail I'd forgotten to remember.
Lola stands beside her, one brow raised in that signature skeptical arch, and Beckett’s holding a grocery bag by its twisted handles, the plastic stretched thin around what must be a half-dozen cans that clink against each other when he shifts his weight from one boot to the other.
My feet move before my brain catches up, but Cruz is already there, lifting the donut box from her grip with a practiced ease that makes my jaw clench.
Cruz lifts the box lid with one finger, his mouth curving into that slow half-smile that makes women forget their names. “What do we have here?” His voice drops half an octave, smooth as aged whiskey.
Bellamy’s fingertips tap the cardboard edge of the box. “Our pre-job ritual. Donuts the night before a job.”
Beckett lifts the grocery bag between two fingers. “And canned caffeine as insurance. We’ve got espresso, lattes, energy drinks. And whatever that caffeine water is that Lola swears by.” His top lip lifts like he has a few choice words to say about his sister’s drink.
Lola rolls her eyes, snatching the bag. “Don’t knock it till you try it. Triple berry flavor gets me through the day.”
Cruz’s mouth quirks up at one corner. “Wow. Sounds like you’ve got a lot to live for.”
“Just for that, no caffeine for you,” Lola fires back, clutching the bag to her chest.
Cruz laughs, and I finally cut across the space toward Bellamy.
Her eyes lift to meet mine, and the garage suddenly feels ten degrees warmer.
My pulse skips, stumbles, then races ahead like I've just sprinted up six flights of stairs.
The corner of her mouth twitches upward—barely there, gone in a blink—but it's enough to make my chest tighten like I've taken a direct hit.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I know. Ready for this?” She lifts her brows, tilting her head to the side a little.
“Always. Which donut is yours?” I ask, trying to sound casual instead of starving.
She shrugs. “I’ll eat any of them.”
“Then which one should I eat?”
Her hand dips into the box, hovering past the maple bar and twist before selecting something that looks like a pink coconut explosion. When she transfers it to my waiting palm, her fingertips graze my skin, leaving a trail of heat that has nothing to do with the sugar.
“This one,” she says, smiling just enough to fucking level me. “It’s perfect for you.”
I huff a laugh, low in my chest, and take a bite. Strawberries and cream explode across my tongue, and while I’m tasting sugar, my brain skips straight to the memory of how she used to taste.
How easily she used to melt under my mouth.
How easily she might again.
A hum rumbles out of me before I can stop it.
“Good?” Her cheeks flush a soft pink.
My voice comes out low and rough, like gravel under tires. “Delicious.” The word hangs between us, too heavy for a garage full of people just feet away. Someone laughs—Cruz, probably—but the sound seems distant, underwater.
“You missed a spot.” She gestures at my bottom lip.
I drag my thumb across the corner she indicated. The cream is cool against my skin as I hold her gaze for one heartbeat, two, before bringing my thumb to my lips. The sweetness hits my tongue, and I watch her pupils dilate just slightly as I slowly pull my thumb away, leaving nothing behind.
Her breath catches, and I feel it. I fucking feel it. In my teeth, in my bones, in places I’ve spent years trying to forget existed.
“Is this a social club, or are we planning a fucking job?” Bishop drawls, voice pitched loud.
The moment shatters, and Bellamy pulls back just enough to refocus, though her lashes are still low and her cheeks still flushed.
Lola snorts and takes a bite of her donut, talking around it. “Someone’s in a good mood tonight.”
Bellamy leans toward me just slightly and mutters, “I don’t remember him being this…”
“Overbearing? Obnoxious?” Lola fills in.
Bellamy chuckles, shaking her head a bit. “Stern. Is he always like this, or am I special?”
“I want to say you’re just that special, but the truth is he’s wound tight in his old age.
” I drag my gaze from her and pin it on my brother, knowing he can hear me.
He returns my look with that blank stare of his.
Half an hour ago, I'd have been itching to rearrange his face for that, but maybe sugar's better than therapy—this strawberry donut's already taking the edge off.
“Are you done?” Bishop asks, raising his voice once more.
“Are you forgetting someone?” she counters, her tone sharpening.
“Coco’s not joining us tonight,” Rafe answers before I can.
Bellamy's gaze finds mine, her expression hardening into something careful. “Is that usual? I thought she was an equal partner in your jobs.”
I shrug one shoulder. “Coco's more... behind the scenes these days. Handles logistics, not legwork. She skips the planning sessions but never misses the execution.”
“How do I get that role? Equal cut of the job without showing up,” Lola muses. There’s a twist to her mouth that drips derision.
Bellamy looks from her sister back to me. “We brought her a donut. Save it for her or the job will be compromised.”
I arch an eyebrow, watching her face. Who knew she’d be this superstitious.
Bishop slaps a stack of cheap black phones onto the table with a hollow clatter. One by one, he slides each device across the scratched surface of our table. “Numbers are already programmed one through seven. No names on a line. Ever.”
Lola eyes him. “Let me guess—you’re number one?”
Bishop folds his arms across his chest with a nod. “I’m planning the job.”
Beckett snorts. “Participating in our planned job, you mean.”
Bishop slices his hand through the air. Bellamy's jaw tightens—a muscle flickering beneath the skin—then stills. She picks up the phone, turns it over once between her fingers, and slides it into her pocket. Her shoulders square by a fraction of an inch. The corner of her mouth twitches upward.
I’m watching her too closely not to notice.
Bishop keeps going. “Rafe is two. Gage, three. Cruz, four. Beck, five. Lola, six. Bellamy—seven.”
The amusement on her face flickers out like someone pinched the flame. Her expression settles into a practiced blankness that doesn't quite reach her eyes, where something cold and calculating has taken residence.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were compensating for something, Bishop,” Bellamy says.
Before Bishop can snarl back, Lola elbows her and mumbles around a mouthful of donut, “Uh-oh. Better not wear Dutch braids tomorrow, sis. Bishop might try to tug on them like middle-school bully.”
Cruz barks a laugh. Bellamy smirks. My stomach twists like someone’s shoved a fist through my abdomen and grabbed whatever’s inside.
My jaw locks, teeth grinding. I catch myself staring at Bishop’s hands—those thick fingers that have broken men’s jaws—and the image flashes, uninvited: Bishop's fingers wrapped in her wavy strands, tugging her head back, exposing the line of her throat.
My fists clench at my sides, knuckles white. The donut turns to cement in my gut—too sweet, too heavy—and I force my gaze away before the thought can finish forming.
First Cruz. Now my other brother.
Who’s next—Rafe?
“Okay,” I say, louder than I meant to. “We’ve got the burners. What else?”
Bishop's jaw twitches once, twice, a muscle jumping beneath his stubble as he locks eyes with Bellamy.
She doesn't blink, doesn't shift her weight, just lifts her chin a fraction of an inch higher.
The air between them seems to shimmer with heat, like asphalt on a summer day.
Everyone else at the table has gone still, breath held, fingers frozen mid-reach for donuts or phones. Even Lola's stopped chewing.
Cruz must feel it too, because he reaches for the rolled city plans on the table and unspools them fast, smoothing them flat with his palms. “Let’s confirm layout. Beck pulled permits and renovation records. We marked where the safes are likely installed.”
Bellamy slides in closer to the table, fingertip tracing the route across the plans, and everyone shifts with her—Cruz included.
He leans in until his shoulder brushes hers.
His head tilts, angling toward her ear, close enough that a strand of her hair catches on his stubble.
My jaw locks. Something acidic crawls up my throat as I force myself to swallow it down.
This could be the best job we've ever touched—the one that finally puts us in a different league. Or it could be the thing that cracks us clean in half, and I'm not sure which outcome I'm more afraid of anymore.