Chapter 41 Rafe
RAFE
The desert doesn’t bother me.
Most people complain about the heat, the emptiness, the way everything feels exposed out here—too much sky, too much distance between things. Like the land itself is watching you.
I like that part.
You learn a lot about people when there’s nowhere to hide.
Bellamy leans against our rental car, one foot crossed over the other.
Her sunglasses sit pushed up into her hair, holding back loose strands that dance in the hot breeze.
The hem of her sundress flutters against her thighs.
She tilts her face toward the sun and smiles slightly, like she's soaking it in.
She looks like she’s on vacation. Anyone watching would buy it without a second thought.
Which is perfect.
And also a fucking problem.
Maybe.
She slips too easily into whatever role she decides to play.
Bishop glances back at her from the check-in counter, frowning. His eyes meet mine, and he jerks his head.
“C’mon, baby. Bishop needs help.” I push off the hood and hold my hand out toward her.
Her palm slips into mine, and I ignore the urge to snatch her up and run far away.
We stroll inside the only little bed-and-breakfast in Sableine. It’s homey and cottage-cute.
“What’s up, man?”
“They only have one room.”
Bellamy leans her head against my bicep. “We can share for a night, Bishop.”
He drags his gaze to her, intense. “There’s only one bed.”
“Cozy,” I murmur, swallowing my amusement.
Bellamy’s shoulders shimmy against mine, and I imagine her face does not hide her amusement.
“Fine,” Bishop snaps. “I guess we’ll take it.”
Bellamy rises onto her toes, leaning across the worn wooden counter.
“We're on a route seven-oh-nine adventure,” she tells the clerk, her voice lifting with practiced excitement.
Her fingers slide around my forearm, squeezing slightly as she adds, “To celebrate our engagement.” The diamond-less ring she'd slipped on earlier catches the dusty light.
I glance out the window at the empty main street, the single traffic light swaying in the hot breeze. Cruz's warnings about keeping our cover tight seem ridiculous now. But when Bellamy's thumb traces a small circle against my skin, I find myself hoping the clerk takes his time with the paperwork.
The clerk slides a tarnished brass key across the counter. “Room three.” Bishop's fingers close around it, knuckles whitening slightly.
We trail him down a narrow hallway where the floorboards creak under our weight. The key sticks in the lock, requiring a jiggle before the door swings open with a whine.
My shoulder brushes the doorframe as we file in. Bishop's back stiffens. The mattress sags in the middle, a pale yellow comforter pulled taut across it. A powder-blue recliner crowds the corner, stuffing peeking through a small tear in the armrest. The chest of drawers lists slightly to one side.
“Motherfucker,” Bishop curses under his breath.
Bellamy sits on the edge of the bed, testing its give with a bounce of her weight. The mattress creaks. She looks between us, one eyebrow lifting as her lips quirk sideways. “I've slept in worse.”
“I’m not sharing a bed with you,” Bishop says, his voice dropping an octave lower than usual.
I watch the muscle in my brother's jaw twitch—once, twice. His eyes never quite land on Bellamy directly, always fixing on a point just past her shoulder or at her hands. Never her face.
My thumb traces the stubble along my jaw as I catalog each micro-expression, filing them away like evidence.
Bellamy stretches her legs out, wiggling her toes in her sandals. “Hope your pride likes lumpy upholstery,” she says, patting the yellowed comforter beside her.
“Are we here to sit around or are we going to fucking work?” Bishop asks, though it’s not really a question.
Bellamy's mouth curves up on one side, a dimple winking in her cheek. My thumb twitches against my leg.
“Funny,” she says, sliding past me toward the window.
Her fingertips leave trails in the dust on the sill as she leans forward.
The glass fogs with her breath, then clears.
“Pretty sure you begged Cruz to let you handle recon with us.” She glances back over her shoulder. “Rafe and I would be just fine alone.”
Bishop's jaw flexes once, twice. He yanks the door open, hinges protesting. “Museum. Ten minutes. Let's go.”
The town sells itself like it knows exactly what it is.
Sun-bleached storefronts. A single main drag lined with antique signage and curated decay. A museum, a tasting room, two diners across the street from each other. Everything built to make outsiders feel welcome—and watched.
Bellamy walks a few steps ahead of me, the hem of her sundress catching on the breeze, showing me glimpses of her upper thighs.
I’ve had dreams about those thighs every single night since the pool. wrapped around my legs, my waist, my fucking face.
She’s like a walking dare. Every freckle on her shoulder a breadcrumb.
I keep my distance behind her, at first because Bishop wants me to, and then because I like the view.
She knows I’m watching. She always does.
Every few steps she glances back, pretending to squint at the sun or the street, but her gaze lands on me and sticks for a second longer than necessary.
I wink at her. She rolls her eyes, but that smile never leaves the corner of her mouth.
The museum is an old bank; the vault has been turned into an exhibit.
The main room smells of dust and air conditioning, with track lighting that casts yellow circles on faded carpet.
A video loops in the corner—some guy in a bolo tie droning about the “golden age of gambling” while three tourists pretend to watch.
Behind glass, casino chips catch the light—different colors from different places, some that don't exist anymore.
I run my finger along the security rope tethering a chip to its display, feeling the coiled tension.
A woman in a vest that's two sizes too large hovers nearby, her eyes following my hands like I might pocket history.
Bellamy moves slower, pausing at each display, fingers hovering over the glass. She bends to read a placard, her hair falling forward. I wonder if she really cares about the chips, or if she’s scanning for something else.
The employee wanders over, vest crinkling. “Do you have any questions?”
Bellamy tilts her head, touching her collarbone. It’s the opening she needs. “So these were all made right here in town?” Her voice lifts at the end, sweet as syrup.
The employee launches into Sableine’s history, the factory that produces the clay composite chips, and the whole process. Bellamy weaves in just the right amount of questions to keep the employee talking, gleaning information with ease. Tourist curiosity with teeth.
It’s a goddamn work of art.
I hover a few paces behind her, smothering my grin behind my hand and pretending to be interested in the display in front of me.
Bishop watches her reflection in the glass more than the display itself.
When we exit twenty minutes later, she squints into the sun, tugging her sunglasses back down.
“Well,” she says, turning to me. “That was almost wholesome.”
“And informative,” I murmur, lacing my fingers with hers and tugging her close to me.
We wander through town, stopping to take pictures of the faded welcome sign.
Bellamy's shoulder brushes mine as she leans in to frame the shot, her hair tickling my neck.
When she steps away, it's just far enough that our hands could accidentally touch if I let mine swing. Bishop’s constantly scanning rooftops, doorways, parked cars.
And somehow, his attention seems to find its way to her constantly.
The tasting room swallows us in a wall of sound—laughter bouncing off exposed brick, glasses clinking, the tour guide's rehearsed jokes landing harder with each round.
Sweat beads at my hairline as bodies press closer in the cramped space.
A woman in a floral dress stumbles against her husband, giggling as she rights herself.
Bellamy's shoulder presses into mine as we reach station five of eight. Her cheeks have taken on a rosy flush, and she blinks twice when the guide slides another generous pour in front of her.
“Jesus,” she whispers, her breath warm against my ear as she leans in, steadying herself with a hand on my forearm. The glass trembles slightly as she lifts it. “These pours are out of control.”
The amber liquid climbs three-quarters of the way up the glass. I hold it to the light. “That’s almost two fingers.”
She blinks at me, pupils wide and dark against hazy gray irises. My train of thought derails.
“So we're getting drunk,” she mutters, lifting the glass to her mouth. Her nose wrinkles, lips pursing as she swallows. A small shudder ripples through her.
My chest warms, mouth curving upward before I can stop it.
Bishop's hand shoots between us, fingers closing around the bottom of her glass. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” he growls. “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it.” He downs the whiskey in one fluid motion, throat working once.
Bellamy freezes.
Her gaze locks on the smudge of pink lipstick now pressed against Bishop's mouth. “My mouth was on that.”
I lean in close enough to feel her warmth. “Very astute, baby.”
She blinks slowly, shoulders dropping an inch. “Your brother, who actively hates me, just willingly put his mouth where mine was.” She pivots toward him, spine straightening until she's at her full height, arms locked across her chest. “I'm not kissing you, Bishop.”
Bishop's eyebrows shoot up. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
Something bubbles up from my chest—a sound I barely recognize as my own. My brother's face freezes in that half-second of genuine bewilderment, like someone just rewrote the laws of physics in front of him.