Chapter 40 Bellamy
BELLAMY
The front door crashes open, rattling the coat hooks.
A boot thumps against the wall, then another, followed by Lola's humming—that particular melody she only uses after a good night, something with too many high notes that she never quite hits.
I flinch at the noise but don't look up from my laptop screen, though I haven't typed a word in twenty minutes.
Outside the window, streetlights blur through a thin fog, and somewhere a car alarm starts, then stops.
Keys jangle, followed by the thud of a bag hitting the floor. “You will not believe the night I just had,” she announces from somewhere near the kitchen.
“I probably will,” I call back, not lifting my eyes from the screen.
The floorboards creak. When I glance up, she's leaning against the doorframe, hair falling from what was probably a neat bun hours ago. Beckett's faded blue hoodie hangs off one shoulder, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her eyes are bright despite the shadows beneath them.
Her gaze drifts to the coffee table, landing on the hardcover with its crisp dust jacket. She freezes mid-stretch, mouth parting slightly. “You picked it up.”
“I said I would. I got it yesterday.”
She crosses the room and scoops it up, thumbing the spine reverently. “You’re a saint.”
“I know.”
She drops down beside me, flipping through the first few pages like she’s just checking that it’s real. “God, I needed this. Everything’s been so”—she gestures vaguely—”loud.”
I nod because I know exactly what she means.
She glances at me sideways, taking in my posture, the blue light of my laptop reflecting in my eyes. “You look very perky for two o’clock in the morning.”
I don’t feel perky. “I had a latte after dinner.”
“Mmm.” She leans closer, her eyes narrowing as she looks at me. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you pretend you’re not worried about something, so you casually stay up all night and claim it’s from caffeine.” She pauses and shakes her head. “Like I haven’t seen you down an energy drink at ten and literally snoring on the couch by ten-forty-five.”
I close my laptop. “First of all, I do not snore.”
She laughs, her head falling back against the couch cushion, throat exposed under the yellow lamplight. Her shoulders shake slightly, the too-big hoodie slipping further down one arm.
I lean back, mirroring her posture but tipping my nose up a little. “It's called seasonal allergies.”
“That you have year-round?” Her laughter fades, but her smile remains, one eyebrow arching upward. She taps her finger against the arm of the couch three times, waiting.
“That’s what the allergist said.” I grab the throw pillow—the one with the coffee stain we never quite got out—and launch it across the space between us. “Like you'd know anyway. You're not exactly getting nightly reviews of my sleep habits.”
Her smile shifts into something sharper as she catches the pillow. She leans forward, elbows on knees. “Speaking of which...”
I stare at the ceiling, counting the water stains. “There's nothing to talk about.” My fingers find the loose thread on my sleeve and twist it tight around my index finger until the tip turns white.
She tucks her legs beneath her, twisting sideways until her knee presses against my thigh. Her lips curl into that particular smile—the one that means she's about to pry something out of me. “Mm-hmm, that's not what I heard.”
My fingers freeze on the keyboard. “From who?”
The pillow sails across the space between us.
I snatch it mid-air, the fabric warm from where she'd been clutching it.
“From you, you dork,” she says, leaning forward until I can smell the faint traces of tequila on her breath.
“Your texts have been suspiciously vague.
Two days I've been gone, and suddenly you're 'busy' and 'catching up later'?” She wiggles her fingers in air quotes.
“What is happening with Mister Tall, Dark, and Handsome?”
“I saw Gage and Cruz yesterday.”
Her mouth drops open. She blinks once, twice, then her eyes widen so dramatically I can see the whites all around her irises.
“Holy shit,” she whispers, then lunges forward to grab my arm, nearly toppling us both.
“I wasn’t expecting a three-way so early, but you know what?
Hell yeah!” Her fist shoots upward, nearly knocking over the lamp. “That's my girl!”
I swat her hand down, my palm connecting with enough force to make her wince. “What? No.” My cheeks burn hot. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”
“I literally cannot,” she says, pressing a hand to her chest, eyes wide with mock sincerity. “It's my permanent residence.”
I roll my eyes. “They approached me about working together again.”
Her smile vanishes. She sits up straight, shoulders squaring. “Shit, really?”
I nod, watching her expression shift from playful to calculating in an instant.
“And you said...?”
I lean back against the cushions, putting space between us. “That I needed to talk to you and Beck first.”
She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, gaze drifting to the window. I explain the details—the timeline, the payout, the risks—while her fingers drum against her knee. When I finish, she exhales slowly through her nose. “Hm.”
I wait. Lola's fingers tap a slow rhythm against her knee—one, two, three, pause. Her eyes drift to the ceiling, then to the window, then back to me.
Finally, she asks, “How did that feel? What was the vibe?”
I shrug. “It sounds like a challenge, but I don't know. Doable. Maybe even fun?”
Her eyebrow lifts a fraction of an inch. The tapping stops. “Fun how?”
I open my mouth, then close it again. The clock on the wall ticks seven times before I take another breath. She doesn't lean forward or prompt me, just waits, her body perfectly still in the lamplight, the way she's waited through a hundred late-night confessions before.
I pick at my cuticle, searching for the right words. “Fun, like… we worked well together. It felt easy in a way.”
Her gaze travels from my eyes to my hands, which have stopped fidgeting. “Easy,” she echoes, rolling the word around like she's tasting something unfamiliar. “That's new.”
“Not bad new.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
She closes the book, her thumb lingering on the corner of the page before setting it aside. She shifts, angling her body toward mine, one knee drawn up to her chest. “Just... don't forget the goal.”
My stomach tightens. The muscles in my shoulders contract, pulling me upright before I realize I'm moving. I press my palms flat against my thighs, steadying myself.
“I wouldn't,” I say, the words clipped and sharp.
Lola's knuckles brush my knee. “I know.” Her eyes stay steady on mine, no hint of accusation in them.
“I would never put us at risk,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can measure them.
Her mouth curves slightly at one corner. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing the small scar near her temple from when we were kids and she went over the handlebars. “I know that, too.”
My throat tightens. The weight of her trust sits heavier than her doubt ever could. My fingers find the frayed edge of my sleeve again, twisting until the fabric strains.
“This doesn't change anything,” I manage.
“Okay.” She doesn't lean forward. Doesn't press for more. Just tilts her head a fraction, the way she does when memorizing something important, before her gaze slides to the window.
My ribs constrict around something heavy and tender, like a bruise I'd forgotten was there until someone pressed on it. I swallow and look away from Lola's face.
The hinges on Beckett's door whine—that familiar three-note complaint we've been meaning to oil for months.
“Why the hell are you guys still awake?” His voice is rough with sleep, one hand scrubbing through his dark hair until it stands at odd angles.
Lola's lips curl upward, that particular smile she saves for him. “I just got home. Bells was just telling me the Calloways wanna pull another job together.”
His bare feet make soft sounds against the hardwood as he crosses to the armchair.
The springs protest when he drops his weight onto the cushion.
His gaze flicks between us, pausing on my face a half-second too long.
“Calloways?” His jaw stretches wide, eyes squeezing shut as his shoulders rise and fall with the force of it, a soft groan escaping as he covers his mouth with the back of his hand.
I nod and grin at him. “Go back to bed, Beck. I’ll fill you in on everything in the morning.”
He nods, yawning again as he stands. “Yeah, alright. Glad you’re back home, Lola.” He shuffles down the hall.
Lola unfolds herself from the couch, joints popping as she stretches her arms overhead. “I’m going to bed too. Love you, sis.”
“Love you too,” I murmur.
No lecture. No ultimatum.
Just trust that feels like a noose.
And somewhere deep inside me, two voices battle: one whispers what it always does—you don't get to want things, you get to keep people safe—while another, newer one asks why I can't have both.
I nod instead, swallowing the taste of something that might be resentment, might be relief.
The choice settles in my chest like a stone, heavy with the weight of all the paths I'll never walk.