Chapter 38
GAGE
I drag a T-shirt over my head and pad barefoot down the hall toward the kitchen. “Bell?”
Bishop's there instead, hip against the marble countertop, arms crossed, jaw tight. He taps a piece of paper on the countertop. “She cleared out ten minutes ago.”
I lock eyes with him. My jaw tightens, teeth grinding against the soft flesh inside my cheek until I taste copper. “What did you say to her?”
Bishop's eyes flick to his watch, the same one Ma gave him last Christmas. His shoulders square. “Ma called a meeting two hours ago.” His voice drops, all gravel. “We don't have time for this. Get your shit; let's go.”
I snatch up the note, recognizing Bell's handwriting. Disappointment curdles in my gut like sour milk, but I quickly squash it. It's not like she could tag along to the fucking meeting, I reason with myself.
But the bigger part of me admits that I wanted to taste her mouth one more time.
Fuck, who am I kidding? Just one more doesn't exist when it comes to her. I could have her mouth a thousand ways, and it would never be enough.
That thought is a sobering one. But not unwelcome. In fact, I kind of like the idea of being able to have her a thousand different ways.
“Whatever, man. I'm going,” I grumble, grabbing my bike helmet off the counter by the side door.
“Ride with me,” Bishop says, dangling his keys.
“Nah, man. I'm good.” I push past him, shoulder checking his as I stroll outside.
My brother looks like he’s itching for a fight, and if he spouts one more comment about Bellamy, I’d give him one. And I don’t particularly feel like getting into an accident today.
The Ducati waits for me, sleek and patient.
I run my palm over the seat, feeling the morning dew still clinging to the leather.
The engine roars to life, drowning out Bishop's voice calling after me.
The vibration travels up my arms, into my chest, almost—but not quite—enough to shake her scent off my skin.
I lean into the curve at Seacliff and Juniper, the same bend where I wiped out at thirteen and Bishop had to scrape me off the ground.
The Ducati purrs beneath me as we pass the faded blue lifeguard tower, then the cracked sidewalk where the roots of the old banyan tree push through.
Palm trees give way to imported Italian cypresses, chain-link to wrought iron.
The houses grow taller, wider, farther back from the road—as if they're all taking a collective step away from anyone who doesn't belong.
My mind wanders back to earlier this morning.
Bellamy in the parking lot, her hair whipping across her face in the salt-heavy breeze, looking at me with those stormy gray eyes.
The way she'd planted herself beside me while those tourist fucks puffed themselves up like territorial peacocks, her shoulder nearly touching mine. Like she knew I'd protect her.
Just the memory makes my chest feel weird, like someone poured honey directly into my ribcage and it's coating everything inside me, sticky and golden and impossible to wash away.
I don’t know what she does exactly, how she manages to walk through the world like it owes her nothing and still get what she wants out of it, but I know how I feel around her.
Good. I feel fucking good. Like someone cranked up all my senses. Colors sharpen and the air tastes better. My skin buzzes for hours after she’s touched it.
It’s exactly like I remembered when we were younger, and somehow it’s better.
It’s an underrated experience. One I’d do a lot to hold on to.
The wind peels my lips back from my teeth, stinging my eyes until they water.
Yellow lines on the asphalt melt into one continuous streak beneath me.
My ears ring with the Ducati's growl, drowning out even the thunder of my pulse in my temples, until thoughts of Bellamy, Bishop's warning, Ma's summons—all of it fades to white noise.
When I pull up to Coco’s house, the gates open without me slowing down. This house has been our home and headquarters for as long as I can remember.
But it’s never felt like home.
The back gate protests with a long metallic whine that slices through the midmorning stillness. I freeze for half a second, like I'm sixteen again sneaking home past curfew.
At the outdoor dining table, Rafe's shoulders tense at the sound. Cruz doesn't even look up, just taps his sneakers against the bench in rhythm to whatever's playing in his head, steam rising from the mug balanced on his knee, one corner of his mouth hitched higher than the other.
Rafe's jaw twitches every few seconds, his fingers drumming against his bicep. The shadow of the palm tree slides across his face as he stares at the ripples in the pool, not blinking when a leaf spirals down to break the surface.
Cruz's head snaps up at the sound of my footsteps, his watch catching the sunlight as he twists his wrist. “You’re late.”
Rafe’s mouth twitches. “Thought Bishop was gonna pop a blood vessel if you didn’t answer your phone.”
“I was surfing,” I say, dropping into my usual chair at the table.
Cruz's lips curl up, revealing a flash of white teeth. “Where'd you go?”
“And why didn't you extend the invite?” Rafe cuts in, drumming his fingers against the table, eyes never leaving mine.
I roll my shoulders back, feeling the tightness from this morning's session. “Would you have said yes?”
“I might've,” Rafe tilts his head, the sunlight catching the stubble along his jaw.
“Tomorrow then? Six AM?”
Rafe lifts his coffee mug to his lips, steam curling between us. He swallows slowly, sets the mug down with a soft clink. “Nah, I've got plans tomorrow morning.”
I shake my head, half-smirking as I spread my hands. “Alright, man. Door's always open. Just text me.”
Rafe leans back, chair creaking under his weight, eyes drifting toward the pool again.
“Catch anything good?” Cruz asks, tapping his index finger against his mug.
“Six-footers rolling in clean.” My lips twitch remembering Bell's blade slicing through nylon. Heat spreads low in my belly. “Got three Pyzels sitting in my garage now. Still smell like resin.”
Cruz’s grin widens, and he whistles. “Let me guess: kooks?”
I laugh, but the sound cuts short as the patio door slides open.
Coco steps out onto the patio carrying a plate piled high with pastries and muffins, silk blouse tucked into tailored trousers, hair smoothed back into some kind of twist she likes to do.
She looks put-together in a way that always makes me feel like I’m ten years old again, standing barefoot in the kitchen after doing something I wasn’t supposed to.
“Morning, Ma,” I say, already on my feet.
“Hi, honey. So nice to see you,” she says, smiling and tilting her head to offer me her cheek.
“Here, let me take this.” I lean down and drop a kiss, taking the platter from her.
She offers me a warm smile. “My boys are so thoughtful. Coffee’s fresh in the kitchen. I made that dark roast you boys fight over.”
I set the pastries down with a soft clink of porcelain against glass. Cruz's hand darts out before I've even taken my seat, fingers closing around a blueberry muffin. The chair creaks under my weight—same spot, same sound, every time.
Ma slides onto her throne at the head of the table, steam curling from her mug like a question mark. Her eyes scan the empty chair across from me, one perfectly shaped eyebrow rising. “Where's your brother?”
“He’s a few minutes behind me. His car is slow as shit.” I can just imagine how annoyed he was driving here, knowing I could weave in and out of traffic, and he had to stay in the lines.
“I bet he’d love to hear that,” Cruz says with a laugh. “Especially after upgrading to that twin-turbo system last month.”
“Hear what?” Bishop grumbles as he comes through the back gate.
I lean the chair back on two legs and take a bite of the fried croissant. “That you’re getting slow in your old age, man.”
“Morning, Ma. Sorry I’m late.”
Coco's eyes soften. “It's all right, honey.” Her hand brushes Bishop's forearm as he leans down to kiss her cheek. “Thank you for getting your brother.”
Bishop's footsteps echo against the concrete as he circles the table. When he passes behind me, his knuckles connect with the back of my tilted chair. The world tilts. My stomach drops. My hand shoots out, fingers gripping the table edge just as the chair teeters on the edge of disaster.
Bishop slides into his seat, one corner of his mouth curling upward. “What was that about being slow?”
The chair crashes down, all four legs hitting concrete with a sound like a gunshot. “Asshole.”
Coco hums, unbothered by our shit, and lifts her mug. She takes a slow sip, lets the quiet stretch just long enough to be noticed.
Coco sets down her coffee mug with a soft clink against the glass tabletop. Her red-lacquered nail traces the rim once, twice. “Have you boys ever heard of Sableine?”
Cruz's forehead creases. His muffin hovers halfway to his mouth. “Should we have?”
“It's a town.” Coco's voice drops to something sweet and dangerous. “Six hours inland. Off the seven-oh-nine.”
Rafe's lighter snaps shut. His eyes narrow, calculating. “Never heard of it.”
Bishop's jaw tightens, the muscle flexing beneath his stubble. His eyes narrow to slits, the way they always do when he's calculating angles. “Why?”
Coco's mouth curls upward. “Because Sableine is the sole manufacturer of clay and ceramic composite poker chips for five major casino companies nationwide.”
The table goes silent. Cruz freezes mid-chew. Rafe's lighter stops mid-flick. Even the breeze seems to pause.
Cruz exhales, the sound cutting through the stillness. “You want us to hit a casino?”
Bishop's palm settles flat against the table. “That’s a terrible idea.”
Coco doesn't acknowledge Bishop. Her manicured nails sink into the flaky crust of a pastry, tearing it apart with deliberate precision. Crumbs scatter across her plate like evidence.