Chapter 35
GAGE
The salt hangs in the air at San Onofre this morning, stinging my nostrils with each breath.
Gray mist crawls over the water, leaving droplets on my windshield that catch what little light filters through.
The parking lot gravel crunches under only a handful of tires—two white-haired men in faded wetsuits moving with the slow precision of decades on the water, a kid with bed-head hair smearing wax in clumsy circles, three regulars hunched over steaming cups, passing a thermos between them in reverent silence.
I park where I can see the entrance and sit there a beat longer than necessary, hands loose on the steering wheel.
My jaw tightens as the image flashes again—Bellamy's hair spilled across Coco's table, her back arched under the dim lighting.
Rafe's fingers splayed possessively against her throat, his lips claiming territory.
Then me, pressing her against the wall later, her nails digging half-moons into my shoulders, the taste of tequila and want on her tongue as I swallowed her gasp.
Two weeks. Fourteen mornings of waking up with my thumb hovering over her contact, the screen going dark before I can press call.
Fourteen nights of replaying the heat of her back against that wall, the catch in her breath when my hand found her hip.
The weight of Rafe's stare burning between my shoulder blades.
And fourteen afternoons of pulling up the tracking app under the guise of being curious.
Which is how I know she’s nearly here, her little blue dot less than a minute away.
Her car slides into the space beside mine, tires crunching on gravel. My heartbeat picks up tempo. Before I can second-guess myself, my door's open, the salt air rushing in.
She emerges with one fluid movement, wetsuit peeled down to her waist, revealing sun-freckled shoulders and a blue sports bra. Those Dutch braids swing forward as she bends to grab her water bottle—tight, precise plaits that never unraveled no matter how many waves she takes.
The corner of her mouth quirks up when she spots me, and my throat goes dry.
“Morning, Bell.”
Her “Morning” carries a half-smile that hits me somewhere beneath my ribs. She rises onto her toes, arm extended toward the roof rack tie-downs, fingers straining an inch short. I step close enough to catch the lemon scent of her hair, reach past her shoulder. The back of my hand brushes warm skin.
“I can reach it,” she says, voice flat but not moving away.
“I know.” I work the strap free anyway, plastic buckle clicking open.
Our hands meet at the rail of her board, knuckles bumping. We ease it down against her bumper, and she leans into her car, rummaging through something I can't see.
Then she's in front of me, neoprene sliding over freckled skin, her shoulders disappearing beneath black synthetic rubber.
“God, I’ve missed this.” She squints past me toward the water, where waves thump against sand in a rhythm that feels like fucking home.
“Still mostly locals?” Her eyes narrow as she sweeps her gaze, her braids slipping over her shoulders.
“For now.” I nod toward three Mercedes SUVs parked near the entrance. “But I guarantee those assholes are not locals.”
She snorts. “Tourists?”
“Worse.” I nod toward a trio of guys walking into the ocean, awkwardly carrying their boards. “See that?” I yank my zipper up, the salt-crusted teeth catching at my throat.
She pulls her own zipper with one fluid motion, eyes narrowing at the guys as one tries and fails to get on his board. “Maybe they’re just new? Gotta start somewhere, right?”
“Maybe, but I doubt it.” My mouth twitches as I watch her eyes track the struggling surfer with something almost like compassion. She's always been this way—ready to believe the best when I'm already assuming the worst.
I study the curve of her neck, the tension in her shoulders, searching for something different since that night against the wall.
“I haven't seen you since Coco's party.” The words hang between us, suspended in salt air.
She tilts her head to look at me. “Did you miss me?”
I take two steps to stand next to her. My breath catches.
There's that look—chin slightly tucked, gaze lifting through lashes that cast tiny shadows across her cheeks.
Her bottom lip juts just enough to make my thumb itch to trace it.
Those freckles scattered like stars across the bridge of her nose, constellations I used to count during long summer afternoons.
“For years.” The admission tumbles out raw, unplanned.
She pivots toward me, tilting her head back. Her smile falls into something serious. “You should’ve called me.”
“I did.”
Her brows furrow. “Today.”
My chest constricts. I nod three times, quick and shallow, thumb rubbing against the rough skin of my palm as her implication slams into me. “I'm glad you said yes.”
She lifts a shoulder, the wetsuit creasing at her collarbone. Her eyes don't quite meet mine, fixed somewhere around my chin. “I always say yes when it comes to you.”
Something flips in my chest, a coin tossed in deep water. My cheeks pull tight, teeth flashing before I can stop them. The salt air suddenly tastes sweeter on my tongue.
“Let's surf, Bell.” My voice comes out lower than I meant it to.
Her lips curve up at one corner as she reaches for her board. “If you think you can keep up,” she says, already turning toward the water.
When we start paddling, the world narrows to breath and waves and the slap of water under our arms. The cold bites through my wetsuit at the wrists and neck, salt stinging my chapped lips.
My muscles burn with each stroke, shoulders working against the push of incoming swells.
Out past the break, it's quieter, the sound changing from chaos to rhythm—the distant thunder of waves crashing behind us, replaced by gentle lapping against fiberglass and the hollow echo of water moving beneath my board.
We sit on our boards between sets, rising and falling with the swell as if the ocean is taking us in its hands and testing our weight. Droplets cling to Bellamy's eyelashes, catching what little sunlight filters through the marine layer.
My eyes catch on her mouth for half a second—salt-chapped, slightly parted—and I think about kissing her in salt water, about how the ocean would mingle with her taste, about the ragged half-moan that escaped when I pushed her against the wall at Coco's, her spine arching beneath my palm.
I don't let the thought finish. It's dangerous territory, sitting on surfboards in the gray morning light with nothing but water between us.
I clear my throat, tasting brine. “Everything move okay?”
She glances at me, then out at the horizon where the pewter sky meets darker water. “Yeah. Vega cleared it.”
Relief loosens something in me, and I exhale. “Good.”
“Jewelry will take another week or so, but I expected it to. What about you guys? I haven’t heard anything.”
“Bishop and Cruz handled it. I think it’s done or almost done. I don’t know. I’m not really involved in that part.”
She dips her chin once, her eyes never leaving mine. Something in her expression shifts—softens around the edges—like she's reading between my words. A swell lifts us, gentle and unbroken. My board rocks beneath me, and I steady myself with a hand on the rail, the other dipping into the cold water.
“You said Lola’s scouting again. She always brings you the ideas?”
Bellamy shrugs. “A lot of them. She sees angles most people don’t.” She turns her board slightly to keep facing the swell. “Beckett handles the tech and drives getaway. Once we all agree on a job, I usually take point. But we’re unanimous. It’s never just one person deciding.”
Must be fuckin’ nice. Annoyance flares underneath my skin like a hot flash.
“I would ask what about you, but I’m pretty sure I already know the answer to that.”
I let out a soft laugh. “Yeah, Bishop and Coco plan all our jobs.”
She hums a little, and silence falls over us.
“I have ideas sometimes,” I add before I can stop myself. I hate that it sounds like I’m asking to be congratulated for having thoughts. “Legit ones. But it’s just not how the family works.”
“Why not?” she asks quietly.
“I don't fucking know.” My voice sounds hollow, like shouting into an empty room.
I stare at the horizon where gray meets darker gray.
My jaw tightens, teeth grinding against each other.
I dig my fingernails into my palm until I feel the sting.
I make a dismissive flicking motion with my hand, water droplets scattering from my fingertips.
“Years of the same shit. Doing shit the same way over and over again. It’s played out, Bell. ”
“So change it up, Gage.” She says it so matter-of-factly, like she doesn’t know Coco would never hand over the reins.
“If it were only that easy,” I murmur, forcing myself to grin. To lighten to mood.
A set rolls in, glass-smooth faces catching the morning light.
Bellamy pivots her board in one fluid motion, her eyes narrowing at something I can't see yet.
Her shoulders dip as she throws herself forward, each paddle stroke sending spray that catches sunlight.
The board lurches beneath her, that moment of perfect connection, and she's up—feet planted, knees bent, one arm trailing the wall of water as she carves across its face, leaving a white trail in her wake.
My wave builds behind me, a wall of water lifting my board.
Three hard strokes and I'm in. The drop makes my stomach float as I pop up, knees bent, arms out.
The face of the wave glitters as I carve across it, salt spray hitting my lips, the board humming beneath my feet.
When it closes out, I kick out the back, the rush still tingling in my fingertips as I paddle back out to where Bellamy waits, silhouetted against the horizon.
“I think we should pull another job together.” The words tumble out rough-edged, like shells dragged by the tide.