Chapter 6 - Rafe
SIX
RAFE
The sliding door whispers shut behind us. Coco doesn’t look up. She sits at the patio table with one leg crossed over the other, the ice in her whiskey catching the low light as she rotates the glass between manicured fingers.
“Gage and Cruz all patched up?” The ice in her glass clicks against crystal as she lifts it. Her eyes track from Bishop to me, lingering just long enough to make it clear she’s assessing, not asking.
“They’re fine.” The gauze and antiseptic are still sharp in my nose, Gage’s split knuckles and Cruz’s temple wound cleaned but throbbing.
Bishop’s hand wraps around the back of the empty chair opposite her, knuckles whitening. I plant myself beside him, arms locked across my chest. The pool pump hums. Salt air mixes with chlorine.
“Good.” Coco’s lips curve around her glass. “And Bellamy?” Her voice shifts on the name—subtle, but there—like she’s testing the weight of a new weapon.
Bishop’s voice cuts through the silence. “ She’s with Gage.”
Coco’s lips curve as she rotates her glass. Ice clinks against crystal. Her gaze lingers on Bishop’s face, measuring something only she can see. “Don’t forget to keep an eye on them. Head injuries aren’t something you half-manage.”
Bishop’s jaw muscle pulses once. Twice. “Gage knows what he’s doing.”
I shift my weight, boot heel scraping concrete. If anything happens, I’m ten steps away.
Coco’s eyebrow lifts a fraction. She takes another slow sip, throat working as she swallows.
I press my shoulders against the cool stucco, watching. Waiting. The night air feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. Bishop and Coco stare at each other across the table—a chess match where neither player wants to reveal their next move.
That same highway adrenaline still hums in my blood. Quieter now, but present. A whisper at the base of my skull.
The pool filter kicks on with a mechanical groan. Chlorine mingles with salt air. No one speaks.
“Your brother’s filled me in,” Coco says finally, her voice honey-smooth as her gaze pins me in place. “But I’d like your take on today.”
Bishop’s knuckles bleach white against the chair back.
I shrug. “Whatever Bishop said happened, happened.”
Her brows rise. A low hum vibrates in her throat. “Maybe I should ask Cruz then? He’s always so forthcoming with me.”
The night air stills. Crickets pause mid-chirp. Even the pool water seems to freeze.
I plant my boot against the wall behind me, knee jutting out. “Ask him. What I want to know is: Who gave you the job?”
Coco swirls her drink. Five seconds pass. Ten. Fifteen. Her eyes never leave mine.
“An old friend,” she says at last.
Bishop’s shadow stretches as he steps closer. “Who?”
Her lips curve. The smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “You know I don’t hand those out.”
“How do you know them?” My voice drops lower.
“We have an understanding.” The words roll off her tongue like mercury—smooth, slippery, poisonous.
An understanding. Like when she disappeared for three weeks and came back with a black eye and a new Porsche. Or when the chief of police suddenly dropped his investigation after Coco sent him a birthday card.
“What kind of understanding?” Bishop’s presses.
“The kind that benefits both sides.” Her fingernail taps against crystal. Tap, tap, tap.
“You trust him?” Bishop asks.
Coco’s gaze flicks back to him, quick as a snake. “I trusted the job.”
“But not your source,” I murmur, tucking the admission away.
She tilts her head, one manicured fingernail tapping against the rim of her glass. “I wouldn’t have brought it to you otherwise.”
I roll my neck, the vertebrae popping in sequence. A vein throbs at my temple, matching the pulse behind my eyes. “Someone knew exactly where we’d be.”
“Honey.” She lifts her glass, ice clinking. Her lipstick leaves a perfect crescent on the crystal. “Did it occur to you that someone missed something? Maybe Sableine wasn’t as…” Her gaze flicks to Bishop. “Cleancut.”
Bishop’s shoulders square. “I walked Sableine myself.”
Coco’s eyes narrow a fraction. The corners of her mouth tighten, then relax into something practiced. Her gaze slides to me, pupils contracting in the low light. “And you?”
The air between us changes temperature.
“What about me?”
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift. Just watches me like she’s counting my heartbeats. “You were there too.”
I hold her stare, jaw locked. The silence stretches.
Her mouth curves as she lifts her glass again. “I’m just wondering,” she murmurs into the rim, “if you were distracted.” The ice in her glass circles once, twice. “Since you so rarely do recon with your brothers.”
Bishop shifts his weight—half an inch, no more—his shoulder angling toward mine. I don’t blink. Don’t swallow. Keep my breathing even.
Coco lowers her glass, perfectly manicured nail tracing its edge. Her smile softens into something maternal, but her eyes remain fixed on mine like a predator tracking wounded prey. The nail tapping against crystal echoes in the silence between heartbeats.
“Just wondering, honey,” she says, voice dripping like poisoned honey, “does your brother know that you’re trying to steal his girl when he isn’t looking?”
The pool filter’s hum fades first. Then Bishop’s breathing beside me. The scrape of a chair leg against concrete as Coco shifts her weight. The salt-chlorine air. All of it dissolves until there’s just her face across the table, that smile still fixed in place, and her question hanging between us.
I recognize the glint in her eye—the one that says she’s found a pressure point.
My mouth pulls sideways, teeth pressing against the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper.
“Funny,” I murmur. “I was thinking the opposite.”
Coco’s left eye twitches, the corners of her mouth pulling downward. I’ve seen this exact expression countless times. She laughs—a dry sound like nails over a chalkboard. “Oh, honey.”
The two syllables land like a slap.
“Maybe it wasn’t the job then,” she says, her gaze sliding from Bishop to me like a searchlight. “But the people.”
“Are you accusing us of something, Mom?” I ask.
Her lips purse at the maternal moniker, the skin around them blanching white for a second. Her eyes narrow to slits, irises nearly disappearing.
“Maybe my boys got sloppy? Maybe they let themselves get distracted by a nice ass? Maybe your little girlfriend pulled a job out from underneath you.”
The silence after that is thin enough to tear.
“Careful now, Coco.” I don’t raise my voice above a murmur.
The sliding door opens behind us, and Cruz steps out.
“Bellamy was in the truck. She could’ve fucking died the way shit went down today.”
Coco’s attention shifts to him, irritation flashing before she smooths it over again. “So Bishop said.”
Cruz’s voice drops lower, each word measured like he’s counting bullets. “You think she set up a job she was sitting in?”
Coco’s lips curl back, exposing the sharp edge of one canine. “I told you what happens when you bring in outsiders.”
There it is. that old pressure point she keeps her thumb pressed against whenever she needs the room to tilt back toward her. Family. Blood. Loyalty. The implication always sitting there underneath her words like a blade tucked in a sleeve.
Cruz doesn’t blink. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one that matters.” Coco studies him for a long moment. Then she leans back into her chair, picking up her glass again like she’s already done with the conversation. “Don’t forget who taught you everything you know. I’ll talk to my contact, see if anything shifted on their end.”
Bishop’s jaw tightens, a muscle flickering beneath the stubble. His exhale fogs the night air between them. “Do that.”
Coco’s gaze slides to me, her pupils contracting to pinpoints under the patio light. She rises, chair legs scraping concrete. “You boys should sleep,” she adds, voice honeyed but hollow. “Those circles under your eyes are aging you.”
The sliding door whispers shut behind her. Chlorine and silence hang heavy in the air.
I stare at the house, at the silhouette moving behind half-drawn blinds, then back at Bishop. “The kid. Can he track the chips that were taken?”
Bishop drags a hand down his face again, slower this time. “Probably.”
“Then fuck it. We track ‘em ourselves and leave bodies as thank-you notes.”
“Jesus, Rafe.” Bishop exhales, long and controlled. “Let’s grab a few hours of sleep, and we’ll regroup in the morning.”
The words land like a command, but neither Cruz or I argue this time.
Cruz watches me for half a second longer, then gives the smallest shake of his head and turns toward the house.
Bishop doesn’t follow him immediately. He stays where he is, staring out into the yard like if he looks hard enough at the dark water in the pool, it’ll offer him answers.
“What do you think happened? What went wrong today?” His words are low.
“I don’t know, man. But we’ll figure out who’s behind it. And I’ll get restitution.”
He glances at me. “Don’t stay up all night. I need you fresh tomorrow.”
I don’t say anything, and he turns and heads inside.
I sink into the lounger. Above me, stars blur into pinpricks of light. One by one, they reshape themselves into amber-flecked irises watching me through dark lashes. My chest expands, then empties as twilight bleeds into the horizon.