Chapter 45 Rafe
RAFE
I lean against the outside of the garage and wait. The sun bleeds orange across the horizon, earlier than we usually meet before a job.
Bishop's shadow stretches long across the driveway as he paces inside the garage, checking his phone every thirty seconds like it might suddenly sprout the answers he needs. His jaw hasn't unclenched since we got back from the desert.
When he turns, I catch the dark circles under his eyes, the muscle jumping in his cheek.
I roll my shoulders back, focus on the cooling air against my skin, the distant sound of an approaching engine that might be hers.
Let him stew in whatever's eating him. I've got my own countdown running—forty-seven hours since I last saw her face.
Longer since she saw me though.
Headlights sweep the driveway, then die. Doors open and laughter spills out into the air. Bellamy's laugh rings highest, clear as a bell. Bishop's shoulders tense at the sound. I watch his fingers curl into fists, then slowly release.
They bring the scent of sugar and coffee with them, like they're heading to a goddamn picnic instead of a meeting for a million-dollar heist.
Bishop glances at me, jaw working, that muscle in his cheek jumping like it's trying to escape.
My brother hasn't slept right since the desert—since he sat there and watched through half-closed eyes while Bellamy arched beneath me.
His gaze had been intense, devouring the sight of her moaning my name as I devoured her.
Best goddamn meal of my life.
He hasn’t brought it up, and neither have I. What’s there to say?
Hard to judge a man for wanting Bellamy Hale. She’s fucking addictive.
Bellamy strolls up the driveway, balancing two pink donut boxes against her hip, the cardboard bending slightly under the weight.
The frayed edges of her cutoffs brush against tanned thighs with each step, and the faded band logo on her shirt stretches across her collarbone when she shifts the boxes higher.
Her hair catches the breeze, loose waves that she absently tucks behind one ear.
No telltale bulge of a weapon at her waistband, no tension in her shoulders.
Just a smile that makes my fingers twitch toward the lighter in my pocket.
Bellamy's stride hitches mid-step when our eyes lock. Her lips part slightly, the corner of her mouth twitching upward before she catches herself. Lola materializes at her right shoulder, her jaw tightening when she spots me. Her fingers drum once against her thigh—a warning.
Behind them, glass bottles clink as Beck adjusts his grip on a plastic bag. His eyes flick from me to Bellamy, one eyebrow rising in that way that says he's calculating odds.
“Take these,” Bellamy murmurs, pushing the pink boxes into Lola's reluctant hands with a slight nod toward Beck. “I'll be right there.”
Lola's shoulders tense, her fingers tightening around the pink cardboard edges until they crease. She glances at Bellamy, then at me, her jaw shifting sideways like she's grinding down on something bitter.
“Yeah,” Lola says, each syllable measured out like medicine. “Sure. But just know I’m not in the mood for Bishop’s shit tonight, so if you’re not there to referee, we might be a man down tomorrow.” She tilts her head toward the garage.
Bellamy's mouth quirks up at one corner, but her eyes stay locked on mine. “Noted.”
Lola shifts between us, pinning me with a flat stare. “I’m watching you, Calloway.”
“Are you now,” I muse. My gaze drifts over Bellamy’s face and the new freckle I don’t remember seeing before. It’s right on the curve of her upper lip. It makes my mouth water.
Or, fuck, maybe that’s just her.
“Ugh.” Lola’s eyes roll back so hard I can practically hear them. She shoves the pink boxes higher against her chest, grabs Beck by the sleeve, and disappears around the corner, toward the side door of the garage.
Then it’s just the two of us. Her gaze drags over me like inventory—boots, jeans, arms, throat. I push off the wall, unfolding to my full height, watching her pupils dilate slightly in the fading light. No point pretending I don’t enjoy it.
Her teeth catch her bottom lip, leaving the flesh there pink and damp.
“Rafe.” Just my name, nothing more.
I close the distance between us until I can smell her shampoo, feel the heat radiating off her skin. Her breath hitches—a small, involuntary sound—when my fingers find the hollow of her throat. My thumb settles against her pulse point, feeling it flutter beneath my touch.
She tips her head back, exposing the long line of her neck.
There it is.
Her pupils blow wide. I watch it happen every time, fascinated. Like a switch flips somewhere deep and private behind her eyes.
“Baby,” I murmur.
Her hands press against my stomach, her fingers twitching as she spreads them wide. She doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t retreat. The night hums around us—crickets, distant traffic, the low murmur from inside—but the space between us seals shut, its own quiet pocket.
I bridge the gap between us until our lips are barely separated. It’d be too easy to move that last half-inch, claim her mouth. But this is where the chaos lives and breathes. The in-between moments of anticipation, where my blood pounds so hard inside my veins, it’s likely to start a riot.
It’s a dare. For me. For her.
Who’s going to be the one who can hold out the longest?
Metal rattles as someone hammers the half-open garage door three times. “Stop wasting time. Let’s fucking go.”
Her breath hitches against my mouth, warm and coffee-sweet. Her fingers curl into my shirt.
“I’m going to kill him,” I whisper, close enough that my lips graze hers with each word.
The corner of her mouth quirks up. When she speaks, our lips catch—not quite a kiss, just friction and heat. “Forty-eight hours, Calloway.”
My thumb traces her pulse point one last time, feeling it race beneath my touch.
Bishop's fist connects with the door again. “Rafe. Now.”
My hands drop to my sides. She steps back, tucking that loose strand of hair behind her ear again, eyes still dark.
I follow her into the garage.
The air buzzes with movement. Cruz's hands slice through the air, half a donut clutched between his thumb and index finger, punctuating whatever point he's making with invisible diagrams. Beck hunches over his laptop, the blue glow painting his face ghostly as lines of code reflect in his glasses.
Lola's sneaker taps against the concrete floor, her chin tilted toward Cruz but her eyes tracking Bellamy's entrance.
Bellamy flips open a donut box. Gage materializes beside her, his shoulder bumping hers as he reaches past. When he brushes his lips across her hair, she doesn't stiffen or check who's watching.
Just tips her head back, laughs at something he whispers.
His fingers linger at the small of her back, comfortable as an old habit.
She leans into it, the space between them nonexistent.
I wonder what my brother would think if he knew how often I thought about being buried between her thighs. How I relived the memory with my hand wrapped around my cock every night, her name a prayer between clenched teeth.
“All right. We don’t have time for pleasantries tonight. Let’s go over everything one more time,” Bishop snaps.
My brother’s voice snaps me back to reality, but the ghost of her taste lingers on my tongue.
Everyone straightens and crowds around the worktable, except Beck, who stays perched by the open laptop.
“What about Coco?” Bellamy asks, her gaze sliding to Bishop as she settles at the other end of the table.
Bishop waves his hand in the air. “She’ll be here later. Let’s start from the beginning: the construction stop.”
Cruz steps toward the whiteboard propped up against one of the workbenches along the side wall. There’s a basic map drawn with little x’s marking the areas we need to remember.
“Beck and I will get here at nine,” Cruz says, pointing to the first x. “We’ll set up the road closure signage and start the process.”
“Approximately five to seven minutes after the armored truck gets through the construction stop, Gage, Bishop, and I will take the truck.” I fold my arms across my chest, nodding at the whiteboard.
“Where?” Bishop asks, a bite to his question.
“Here,” Cruz says, tapping on the second x. We’re allowing for a five-mile radius, figuring that’s the most the escort cars will give the trucks before they blow the construction stop.
Bishop nods. “Once we take out the driver, we’ll zip tie him and toss him in the trunk of the car we borrowed.”
“And I’ll drive the truck, following the same route to their distribution center,” Gage finishes with a nod.
“And once Gage signals he’s in the driver’s seat, then we’ll let the escort cars through. We’ll hold them off for as long as we can,” Cruz offers.
“And around this point,” Gage says, strolling over to the whiteboard and pointing at the third x. “I’ll signal that I need to pull over here.”
“Which is where Lola and I come in,” Bellamy says, her eyes narrowing on the whiteboard like she’s seeing without seeing.
Bishop nods. “Once the truck and both cars pull over, we’ll have a very limited window of opportunity. We’ve picked the best location we can, but it’s still a fucking risk. So be quick, but don’t fucking kill anyone.” He slides his gaze to me as he says that.
I look down my nose at him. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“I’m looking at everyone,” Bishop says, swinging his gaze through all of us. “Disarm and zip tie.”
“And toss ‘em in the back of an eighteen-wheeler,” I say with a little whistle.
“You better fucking hope they don’t punch out the taillights on the way to that shitty gas station where the eighteen-wheeler is parked,” Lola drawls. “Or we’re all going to prison.”
“Not these cars,” Bellamy says before I can. “The security company made some enhancements to their escort vehicles, meaning they either disabled or removed those features, so we should be good.”
Bishop stares at her for a beat before he turns toward Lola. At this point, you and Rafe will drive one escort car, Cruz and Bellamy will be in the back with Gage driving the truck, and I’ll be driving the second car with Beck.”
Beckett clears his throat and looks at us. “Yeah, so the software’s solid. I found a backdoor in the casino’s inventory system. I can retag the chips with legit serials already in circulation. But depending on how many chips, it’s going to take at least three hours. Maybe three and a half.”
“Which puts us three-quarters of the way to their distribution center,” Bellamy murmurs, her finger tapping along her bottom lip. “So once they’re all retagged, we’ll need to get the fuck outta there and quickly.”
Bishop’s already shaking his head, like he knows exactly what she’s not saying. Probably because it’s the same argument they’ve been having for weeks now. “It’s too risky to leave a car somewhere. We don’t know when Beckett will be done.”
Bellamy blows out a slow breath, like she’s digging for patience. “I know that, Bishop. I’m saying I could drive an additional car, something big enough for all of us to hop into once Beck’s done. Then we don’t need to waste time searching for a car to borrow.”
Bishop glares at her. “I said no.”
Lola folds her arms across her chest. “Oh, are we back to the dictatorship again? I fucking hated it then.”
Ma strolls in with a cocktail in one hand, gaze sweeping the garage. “Trouble, honey?” She pauses next to Bishop, laying a hand on his forearm.
“Everything is fine.” Bishop levels a look at everyone, like he’s daring them to disagree.
Lola opens her mouth like she might call him out on it, but Bellamy elbows her in the ribs, and her mouth snaps shut.
“There should be a donut for you, Coco,” Bellamy says, nodding toward the open pink boxes.
Ma’s smile shimmers at the corners. “How… thoughtful of you.”
Bishop clears his throat. Straightens. “We were just—”
Coco holds up a hand and waves his words away. “Don’t mind me. Continue where you are.”
“Once Beck works his magic, we’ll—”
Coco’s gaze shifts to Beck as she taps one red-painted fingernail against her lips. “Hm, so you’re the magician.”
Beck nods slowly. “I wrote the code to retag the chips.”
“And you tested it?” Coco presses.
“Six times,” Beck says, his brows lowering over his eyes.
“And the margin for error?” Coco arches both eyebrows.
Beck hesitates, his gaze shifting toward Bellamy.
Bishop answers instead. “None.”
Coco’s eyes return to Bishop. “Can you do it?”
Beck straightens, and Bishop shakes his head. “Not like the kid.”
“I’m not a kid,” Beck huffs under his breath.
I hide my smile behind my hand.
Coco hums and nods a few times as she strolls around the garage. She cuts her attention back to Beck. “And you’re sure it’ll work?”
“Yes,” Beck says. Louder this time.
She studies him for a long second, then nods. “Good boy.”
Bishop clears his throat and tosses the dry erase marker onto the table. “It all comes down to Beck. If those chips don’t retag before the system flags the discrepancy, it won’t matter how well the rest of the job goes. We’ll be fucked.”
I push off the table and shoulder past Bishop, light but deliberate. “No pressure, kid.”
Beck swallows and rotates his neck from left to right. “Fuck.”
This is the part right before everything tips. And god help me, I live for it.