Chapter 41 Rafe #2
Bishop—the man who keeps a gun in the bathroom tank, who memorizes exit routes before sitting down to dinner, who sleeps with one eye cracked open—stands there with his mouth hanging open like he's forgotten how to use it.
My boot finds his stool leg with a sharp crack that makes the couple at the next table jump. Bishop's eyes snap to mine, that familiar muscle twitching at his jaw. “Something you want to share with the class, brother?”
The mask slides back into place—jaw unclenched, eyes half-lidded. He leans back, one finger tracing the rim of his empty glass, gaze sliding to Bellamy like she's a particularly uninteresting wall fixture. “In your dreams, Hale.”
Bellamy's fingernail taps against the wooden tabletop, three precise clicks. She props her chin on her palm, lipstick smudged at one corner, eyes glittering with something dangerous. “Funny. Didn’t you once say—”
My brother's arm shoots across the table, palm clamping over her mouth mid-sentence. “Stop talking, Hale,” he says, leaning so close I can see the muscle twitching beneath his left eye. “Before you embarrass yourself further.”
Her nostrils flare. Something dangerous flickers behind her eyes—a match struck in a dark room.
She wrenches his hand away, leaving a smudge of pink lipstick across his palm.
The wooden stool scrapes against the floor as she stands.
She turns to me, bending until her lips brush the shell of my ear.
Her breath comes hot and quick, carrying the sweet burn of whiskey.
“I'm getting a snack,” she whispers, fingers digging into my shoulder.
“If I don't walk away right now, I'm going to break something he needs.”
My jeans suddenly feel too tight. I shift in my seat, grateful for the dim lighting.
My eyes follow her between the tables, tracking the sway of her dress against the backs of chairs.
A thick-fingered hand shoots out from a corner table—latches around her waist. Her spine goes rigid as the man's other hand slides lower, his wedding ring catching the light as he yanks her sideways onto his thighs. Her mouth parts in surprise.
The room blurs. I don’t remember deciding to move. One second I’m sitting, and the next, my brother is wrestling me outside.
“She's fine, man. Chill the fuck out,” he grunts, the tendons in his neck straining as he shoves me against the brick outside.
My hands curl into fists so tight my knuckles crack. “That piece of shit touched her.”
Bishop's forearm presses harder against my chest, pinning me to the brick wall. “She cracked him across the face.”
“Then where the hell is—”
The door swings open. Bellamy steps out, chin high, shoulders squared. Her lipstick is perfect again, but her eyes—Christ, her eyes are winter-gray and arctic. The muscle in her jaw ticks once, twice. My own rage ebbs like a tide pulling back from the shore.
I exhale. Bishop's arm drops away.
She walks right up to me.
“You okay, baby?” My voice comes out rougher than intended.
She lifts one shoulder, lets it fall. “Yeah. I'm alright.” Her fingers pinch at the fabric where that bastard touched her. “Might have to burn this dress now.”
“I'll buy you a new one.” I curve my arm around her shoulders, drawing her against me.
Her arms slide around my waist, head finding the hollow beneath my collarbone like it was carved for her.
Something clicks into place—a lock finding its key after years of jamming the wrong metal into the wrong slot.
“Let's eat,” she murmurs against my shirt. “That whiskey went to my head.”
“Go grab us a table. I’ll be right behind you.”
I count to thirty after the diner door swings shut behind them.
The distillery's brick exterior blurs as I stride back, shouldering past a group of laughing tourists.
Inside, I spot him immediately—red golf shirt, wedding ring catching the light as he weaves toward the men's room.
My boots make no sound on the sticky floor.
The bathroom door gives with a satisfying crack against the wall.
He's at the sink, water running, when our eyes meet in the mirror.
His pupils contract to pinpoints. I shift my weight to block the exit, fingers flexing at my sides, watching his gaze dart toward the narrow window above the urinals.
His eyes widen in the mirror, pupils shrinking to pinpoints. “What?”
“You married?” I nod at his left hand gripping the sink's edge.
“Yeah, so?” The water keeps running.
“Just wondering which hand you grabbed my girl with.” I step closer. The bathroom stinks of piss and cheap cologne.
His knuckles whiten against porcelain. “Look, man—”
The crack echoes off the tile walls, followed by a high, thin sound like air escaping a balloon. His wrist bends at an angle nature never intended. He slides to his knees, cradling the injury against his chest, mouth working silently.
I straighten and check my reflection. “Next time, keep them to yourself.”
The door swings shut behind me, cutting off his whimpers. Outside, the night air tastes clean.
Bishop materializes beside me, his breath fogging in the night air. “What the fuck was that?” The muscle in his jaw twitches twice.
“A correction.”
“Jesus Christ.” His eyes dart back toward the bar's entrance where a small crowd has gathered. Someone's shouting about calling an ambulance. Bishop grabs my elbow, yanking me across the street against the light. “You broke his fingers.”
“Wrist,” I correct.
He stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing a couple to swerve around us. “That's worse, asshole.”
My lips curl upward. The memory of the man's face—that perfect moment when pain replaced entitlement—warms me better than whiskey.
Bishop's fingers rake through his hair, leaving it standing up. “If he goes to the cops, everything we’ve set up, this whole fucking job is done.”
“Funny how you ended up back at the diner. Admit it: she’s growing on you.” It’s a taunt.
He scoffs. “Like black fucking mold.”
I laugh and clap a hand on his shoulder. He shrugs it off immediately and stalks inside the diner.
It’s okay he can’t admit it yet.