Chapter 27 Gage
GAGE
One thing about Ma is she can throw a fucking party.
Clusters of sweaty bodies clog the driveway, red cups sloshing, music thudding hard enough to vibrate the concrete. The backyard glows blue from the pool, bodies everywhere—drunk, loud, careless.
I plant my feet wider, scanning faces instead. I need a clear sightline when she arrives, and I don' t trust Bishop and his permanent scowl not to send her running before I get my chance.
Though Bellamy doesn't spook easily these days. Something in her eyes has hardened since we were kids, like she's seen enough shit to know exactly what she can handle. She never really has scared easily, I guess.
I pull out my phone, swipe to the glowing blue dot on the map. My thumbnail clicks against the edge of my case—once, twice, three times—as the screen refreshes. The dot blinks, settling two streets over near the liquor store. My mouth curves into a slow grin. She's close enough to taste.
I glance up to see Bellamy stroll up the driveway, her legs endless in frayed cutoff denim shorts.
An oversized black tee hangs off one sun-kissed shoulder, revealing a delicate collarbone and the thin strap of what I hope is a bikini underneath.
Her hair falls in loose blonde waves that catch the glow of the string lights, and her lips curve into that half-smile that's always meant trouble.
Who fucking knew it'd be that vintage Fleetwood Mac shirt with its faded “Rumours” album cover that'd take me out at the knees, like I'm seventeen again, watching her climb through my bedroom window.
I step forward before anyone else can beat me to her, my boots scraping against the concrete, heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
“Hey,” I say, the word coming out rougher than I intended.
She smiles when she sees me. The kind that reaches her eyes and creates a tiny dimple in her left cheek. “Hey.”
“How'd it go today?” I study the way the string lights catch in her hair, turning strands to liquid gold.
“Smooth.” She shifts her weight to one hip. “He'll reach out in a couple weeks once everything's done.” Her gaze sharpens slightly, those hazel eyes narrowing. “I half-expected to run into you on the street again.”
“I thought about it.” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck where tension still sits like a vise. “But I was stuck on cleanup duty.”
She hums, satisfied, the sound vibrating in the small space between us. “Next time maybe.”
I arch a brow at her, but my grin won’t be contained. “Are you flirting with me, Bell?”
She tips her head back and laughs. The sound ripples through the humid air like a stone dropped in still water. I change my mind. It's not the worn-thin tee with its faded letters or those frayed cutoffs that barely cover the curve of her ass.
It's this.
The way her eyes crinkle at the corners, how her whole body seems to vibrate with the sound, how that dimple in her cheek deepens. It cuts me off at the knees and somehow makes my dick strain against my zipper at the same time.
“C'mon, let's go grab a drink.” I toss my arm around her shoulders and steer her toward the backyard, feeling the heat of her skin against mine. I'm not even subtle about it when I pull her into my side and steal a whiff of her hair, the silky strands brushing against my stubbled jaw.
The scent of sugared lemons invades my senses—sharp, sweet, and so distinctly Bellamy it makes my chest tighten.
I reluctantly let go of her and grab two sweating bottles from the cooler by the door, condensation slicking my palms as I hand her one.
The amber glass gleams under the string lights as I position the caps against the edge of the wooden table and pop it off with a practiced tap of my fist. The cap spirals into the darkness with a metallic ping.
I lift my bottle toward her, foam rising to kiss the lip. “To our first job together.”
Her grin widens and she raises her bottle. “To our first job together.”
The glass clinks with a hollow sound that's nearly swallowed by the bass thumping through the backyard.
She takes a long pull, throat working as she swallows, then lowers the bottle.
Her eyes flick past me toward the patio where bodies sprawl, dance, swim, laugh.
Toward the noise that ebbs and flows like a tide, toward the kaleidoscope of colored lights spinning across the pool.
“This party's bigger than the last one. And during a heat advisory too.”
“Yeah.” I run a hand through my hair. “Something about giving back to the neighborhood. I don’t fuckin’ know.
She throws a big ass party and then dips for half of it.
But whatever. Food’s good. Plenty to drink.
And people love a pool when it’s hot outside.
” I nod toward the kitchen. “I saved you some dessert.”
Her expression softens, something unguarded flashing across her face—a quick glimpse of the girl I used to know before disappeared. Her lips part slightly, the bottom one caught between her teeth for just a second. “You didn't have to do that.”
The words scrape low in my throat. “I wanted to.” I step close enough that the heat from her body radiates against mine.
Out of nowhere, Cruz materializes beside her, beer foam clinging to his upper lip, eyes lingering a beat too long on the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. “Please tell me that's a swimsuit strap I see. Nobody should be wearing this many clothes in this heat.”
Her fingers drift to her collarbone, hooking beneath the thin black strap visible against her sun-kissed skin. She tugs it slightly, revealing just a hint of something dark beneath. “You mean this?”
Cruz's grin stretches wide across his face. “I knew you were my favorite for a reason,” he crows, tossing his arm over her shoulders and pulling her into a side-hug that presses her curves against his torso.
Her laughter spills out, bright and uninhibited, as her slender fingers splay across my brother's fucking six-pack, lingering there like she's mapping every defined ridge.
She didn’t pull away or hesitate. She went right to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My spine stiffens as Cruz's fingers splay possessively across her waist. The space between them disappears—not the casual brush of bodies at a crowded party, but deliberate.
Her body angles toward him, shoulders turning away from me, creating a closed circuit I'm suddenly outside of.
She doesn't even glance back to gauge my reaction, just leans into his touch like she's forgotten I'm standing three feet away, still holding the beer I brought her.
That asshole could take her if he wanted to.
And worse—she wouldn’t even see it as being taken. She’d go because she wanted to. Because Cruz knows how to make things feel like a dare instead of a choice.
Something hot and venomous slithers beneath my skin, coiling tight around my lungs until each breath feels like sandpaper scraping my throat.
Cruz leans in close, his lips brushing against her golden hair.
“Strip for me, Bells,” he murmurs. “Some asshole challenged me to a game of chicken, and you know I don't like to lose.” His voice carries that playful edge that makes women melt, but his eyes lock onto mine across her shoulder. Hard and calculating.
My fingers flex at my sides, curling into a fist before I force them to relax.
The beer bottle sweats against my palm, cold glass a stark contrast to the heat crawling up my neck.
I watch Cruz's hand slide to the small of her back, his thumb brushing bare skin where her shirt has ridden up.
Something primal clicks into place behind my ribs—the sound of a safety being switched off.
This is where I should back off. Let it stay light. Let her choose without me turning it into a contest.
I don’t.
My pulse hammers in my throat. Every rational part of me screams to walk away, but there's a darker voice drowning it out—the one that whispers she was mine first. The one that would rather burn everything to ash than watch his hands on her for one more second.
So fuck it. I'm stepping in.
Alright, brother. Challenge fucking accepted.