Chapter 32 Bellamy
BELLAMY
My cup sits empty beside me, condensation long dried into a ring on the concrete.
Gage's shoulder presses against mine on the lounger tucked along the side of the pool, and I let my head tilt back, the world pleasantly blurred at its edges, sounds stretching like taffy when I close my eyes for too long.
The party pulses around us. A dirt bike's engine growls as it kicks up gravel near the pool's edge, the rider's face hidden behind a helmet smeared with someone's lipstick print.
Each successful circuit earns whoops from a crowd swaying on unsteady feet, red cups raised like trophies.
Across the yard, flames from the bonfire lick upward, casting flickering shadows over a girl straddling some guy's lap on a deck chair, her hair falling like a curtain around their faces.
Ten feet away, another couple doesn't bother with privacy—his hands disappearing beneath her shirt while she tips her head back, mouth open in a silent gasp.
Cruz's laugh carries across the yard as he slings an arm around a blonde's shoulders, red cup tilted dangerously in his other hand.
Across the pool, Bishop's shoulders cut a dark silhouette against the firelight, his jaw clenched as he scans the crowd, pausing every few steps to check the tree line before resuming his circuit. No sign of Rafe since I’d left him in the dining room.
I hate that I notice any of it.
I turn my head to look at Gage. His eyes track the dirt bike with each loop, his fingers twitching against his thigh whenever the engine revs higher.
“You're dying to try it, aren't you?”
He looks at me, one corner of his mouth lifting into that crooked grin. My stomach does a little flip.
“Nah. I've done it a hundred times already.” He nudges my shoulder. “What about you? You want to try it?”
I snort, the sound catching me by surprise. “I'm good. In fact, I should probably head home.”
“Yeah, about that.” Gage's eyes flick to my empty cup, then back to my face. “You're not driving, Bell.” He nods toward the house, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “Why don't you just crash in my room?”
The night air suddenly feels too thick against my skin, and I have to remind myself to breathe. “And where will you sleep?”
“In my bed. With you.” He stares at me for a moment, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. “We’ll just sleep tonight.”
His words hang in the air between us. My stomach flips, then drops—like missing a step on a staircase. I press my lips together, swallow hard. My fingers twist the edge of my towel while something hot and restless crawls beneath my skin.
“Okay.”
His shoulders drop an inch, the tension in his jaw melting away as his eyes brighten. “Good.” He glances at his phone. “Bishop’s gonna start corralling people out soon, so let’s head inside now.” He stands up and extends his hand toward me.
I slip mine inside his and let him pull me to my feet. “I didn’t know you guys ended parties. I thought Coco liked to let them go all night?”
“She does, but he's got a fight tonight. So he's cutting it off.”
We slip inside through one of the side doors. My fingers twitch against my thigh, and I press my lips together to stop myself from asking more questions about Bishop. The memory of his knuckles connecting with that guy's face flashes behind my eyes.
“At this time of night?” I manage, my voice coming out higher than I intended.
Gage shrugs. “It's some underground thing. They thrive on this kind of fucked-up schedule.” His eyes light up. “I can bring you sometime though if you want. Bishop's a fucking animal in the ring.”
“Yeah, maybe.” I tug at my hair, exposing my neck to the cool air. The image of Bishop's knuckles flashes behind my eyelids every time I blink.
Gage pushes open his bedroom door. A blue surfboard leans against the wall, its edges chipped, wax buildup yellowed from use.
The air smells faintly of salt and cologne.
A half-empty water bottle sits on the nightstand beside a dog-eared paperback.
The navy comforter is rumpled on one side, pillow still bearing the indent of a head.
He yanks open a dresser drawer that doesn't quite close all the way, pulls out a faded Nirvana t-shirt, and tosses it toward me. “You can sleep in this.”
I catch the soft cotton against my chest, the worn fabric cool against my fingertips. My skin prickles with goosebumps in the air-conditioned room.
“Thanks.”
Gage turns and reaches behind his head. The muscles in his arms flex as he tugs his shirt off in one fluid motion.
I wait until he's facing away before peeling off my still-damp jean shorts.
They cling to my thighs, leaving red imprints where the seams pressed too tight.
The t-shirt slides over my head, smelling faintly of detergent and him.
With my back to Gage, I reach under the fabric, fingers fumbling with the wet knot of my bikini top until it finally gives way.
I slip my bikini off and drop it on top of my jean shorts.
“Okay, I’m done.”
He turns around. His eyes drop to where the t-shirt's hem skims my thighs, and his throat works as he swallows. His fingers flex once at his sides, then curl into loose fists. He blinks twice, jaw tightening as he fixes his gaze somewhere above my left shoulder.
Gage pulls back the comforter. “Let's go to bed, Bell.” His voice drops to a whisper, like we're kids at a sleepover trying not to wake the adults.
I slide in from one side while he climbs in from the other, the mattress dipping in the middle, drawing us toward each other like magnets. Our knees almost touch. I can't remember the last time we shared a bed—if we ever did.
I turn onto my side, facing him. The streetlight filtering through the blinds catches the curve of his jaw, relaxed now where it had been clenched all evening.
His eyes, half-lidded and unguarded, flick to mine before darting away.
The hard lines around his mouth have smoothed out, like someone's erased the person he pretends to be.
He looks toward me once more. “You're here, Bell.” His voice barely disturbs the air between us.
“I am.” The words catch in my throat like fabric on a nail.
His hand finds mine. His fingertips trace patterns along my wrist, following a path up my arm. “Where did you go?“ The question trembles at the edges, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes me want to look away.
My chest tightens. I open my mouth, close it again. The truth sits heavy on my tongue, too large to push past my teeth. I stare at the ceiling instead, counting the shadows that dance across it.
“Goodnight, Gage,” I whisper.
He sighs, the sound soft but weighted, like a stone dropping through still water.
I refuse to let his disappointment sink into my veins, not when my own disappointment has been growing for years—a constant snarling gray cloud tucked behind my sternum, expanding with each breath until it scrapes against my lungs like sandpaper.
“Night, Bell,” he says quietly.
Sleep takes me slow, same way a tide pulls at your ankles when you’re not paying attention.
It just starts, gentle and steady, and before I know it I’m slipping under, the room going soft and blurred around the edges.
Gage breathes in and out next to me, steady and deep, and for a while that’s all I hear.
It’s like surf, that rhythm, and I let it rock me further out, my limbs getting heavier every time I exhale.
I float there, not really awake, not really dreaming, drifting off the edge of things into deeper water.
Thoughts scatter and flicker, quick and silvery, darting away where I can’t quite follow.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, beneath the warmth of cotton and the steady presence beside me, a single thought curls up tight and watchful like a venomous snake coiled in tall grass: this house—with its salt-stained surfboards, its midnight fights, its beautiful boys with bloodied knuckles—has rules carved in stone and written in bruises.
And tonight, watching Bishop's fist connect with bone and cartilage, I learned exactly how mercilessly the Calloways enforce them.