Chapter 8 - Bellamy
EIGHT
BELLAMY
My eyelids peel apart, sticky with sleep.
The room swims into view, then recedes, then returns again—ceiling first, then walls, like I’m bobbing at the surface of consciousness.
Something cold and wet seeps through the shoulder of my shirt.
The ice pack. My fingers find the edge of medical tape, the stiff wrap circling my joint.
When I try to shift, a dozen tiny cuts pull and sting across my skin, and deeper bruises throb beneath them in a dull, steady rhythm that matches my pulse.
I blink at the ceiling. Wait for the cottony feeling in my skull to dissolve.
A gray-blue light leaks around the edges of the blinds—not night anymore, but not quite morning.
On the TV screen, black-and-white figures move through some ancient sitcom, their tinny laughter barely audible.
Each inhale brings detergent, fabric softener, and something else—a warm, familiar scent that makes my stomach tighten.
I roll my head against the pillow.
Gage’s chest rises and falls beside me, one arm flung across his ribs, the other twisted awkwardly beneath his head.
The bruise blooming along his eye has darkened overnight, purple-black now instead of red.
His mouth hangs slightly open, lips parted, breath coming soft and even.
No frown lines. No tension at the corners of his eyes.
My mouth burns with the ghost of last night’s kiss, but something cold settles in my chest alongside it. The way it didn’t feel like stepping into something new, but slipping into something old—a well-worn path I swore I wouldn’t walk again.
Easy.
That word presses in, unwelcome and dangerous.
This would be easy, and easy things shatter when the weight of reality hits them. I know better than this.
I push myself upright before I can sink back into that feeling. Pain shoots through my shoulder, white-hot and electric, stealing my breath. The room wobbles, and I brace one hand against the headboard.
“Fuck,” I mutter, squeezing my eyes shut.
Gage stirs beside me, sheets rustling. “Bell?” His voice scrapes low, graveled with sleep. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
His eyes find mine in the half-light as he pushes up onto one elbow, hair mussed on one side. “You look… like you’re hurting.”
“Wow,” I reach over, shoving his arm. “Your bedside manner is incredible. Besides, have you looked in a mirror lately?”
He huffs a laugh and flops onto his back, arms spread wide. “Are you telling me I’m not pretty anymore?” His grin catches the gray light. “Stay. We’ll order those red velvet cupcakes from that place on Seventh. Watch terrible action movies all day.”
I brush the hair from his forehead, my fingertips lingering against his warm skin. “I wish. We’ve got a job to finish.”
His chest rises and falls with a deep exhale, eyes fluttering closed. “Damn. I forgot about that. Another time then.”
My fingers find their way into his hair, twisting a lock between them as I drag my nails lightly against his scalp. “What, you want another sleepover at your mom’s house?”
A small groan escapes his lips. “She’s barely here.”
“Still.” The pad of my thumb traces the shell of his ear. “Next time shouldn’t be here.”
His eyes snap open, the corners crinkling as his mouth curves into that familiar half-smile. “Are you makin’ a pass at me, Bell?”
I tug gently on his hair, catching my bottom lip between my teeth. “And if I am?”
In one fluid motion, his arm hooks around my waist, pulling me against him as he shifts his weight. His breath warms my neck, lips brushing just below my ear, trailing down the slope of my throat. “Goddamn, Bell, why do you always smell so good?”
I tilt my head back, exposing more skin. “I literally used your shower gel, remember?”
“Nah.” His mouth hovers over the juncture where my neck meets my shoulder—my hurt shoulder—before pressing a featherlight kiss there. His lips trace a path along my collarbone, each touch softer than the last. “That’s not it.”
The bedroom door rattles with three sharp blows.
“Get up,” Bishop’s voice cuts through the wood.
Gage’s lips freeze against my collarbone. He lifts his head, jaw tightening. “Fuck off.”
“Morning meeting, five minutes.” Bishop’s footsteps fade down the hallway, each one measured and deliberate.
Gage’s forehead drops to my sternum with a sigh that warms my skin. “Are you sure we can’t ditch the day and stay in here instead?” His thumb traces small circles at my hip.
“Mm-hmm.” I tap his shoulder. “Don’t you want to figure out who hit us yesterday?”
He lifts his head, blue-green eyes catching mine. The corners crinkle, that easy smile sliding back into place, but something flickers behind it—something cold and sharp that doesn’t match the curve of his mouth.
“Yeah, Bell.” His voice drops half an octave. “And god help them when we do.”
I hold his gaze while my fingertips drift along his jaw, feeling the muscle there flex and release.
Ten minutes later, Gage and I stroll into Coco’s kitchen side by side. Sunlight spills in through the windows along the wall, catching dust in the air and glinting off the polished marble countertops. The room smells of coffee and something citrusy—cleaning spray, maybe.
Cruz leans against the refrigerator, phone in hand, thumb scrolling mechanically. Rafe stands at the counter, knuckles white around a coffee mug, while Bishop paces the far end of the kitchen, each footstep landing with military precision.
My shoulder throbs as I cross the room, the brief warmth from Gage’s bedroom evaporating with each step. The tile floor might as well be concrete.
I head straight for Lola and Beck on the other side of the island. “Hey, you guys okay?”
“Here.” Lola shoves an iced coffee into my hand. She rolls her neck, wincing. “Coco needs a new couch. My spine feels like a fucking accordion.”
“Thanks.” The plastic cup sweats against my palm. “Coffee run already? Sun’s barely up.”
The first sip hits—caramel and vanilla cutting through bitter espresso. I close my eyes for half a second.
Lola jerks her thumb to the right. “Not me. Him.”
My brother hunches over his laptop, shoulders curved forward, fingers flying across the keyboard. He mutters numbers under his breath, a string of code I can’t follow.
“Beck?”
“Yeah?” The word floats over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving the screen.
I press my palm against his back, feeling the knots of tension beneath his t-shirt. “Hey,” I murmur, leaning close enough that only he can hear me. “You okay? Did you sleep?”
He looks up, and something twists in my chest. Dark half-moons shadow his eyes. His hair stands in jagged tufts where his fingers have raked through it repeatedly— the same nervous habit he’s had since he was seven, sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor, struggling through math homework.
“I’m fine. Bishop told me to monitor the chips last night, but it’s nearly impossible to do that because the system we designed made it that way to protect us, so now—”
“Whoa. Slow down.” I tap the desk beside his laptop, where two empty iced coffee cups form a small graveyard of plastic and condensation. “How many of these have you had?”
He exhales, shoulders dropping an inch. “Did you get yours? I grabbed some for you and Lola because I wasn’t sure what Coco has, and I thought—” His hand drifts up, catching a chunk of hair between his fingers, twisting until his scalp whitens.
“Maybe I should’ve gotten some for everyone? I didn’t think—”
Lola leans close, her breath warm against my ear. “Yeah. He’s been like this all night. I’m honestly surprised I slept at all, considering he was muttering and tapping on his keys two feet away from me all night.”
“Shit.”
“Pretty much.” She nods slowly, taking a long sip from her cup. “Good coffee, though.”
I press my palm against Beck’s shoulder, feeling the wire-tight tension beneath his t-shirt. “After this meeting, you’re going home to crash. You need sleep, yeah?”
He shrugs, eyes locked on his screen. “I feel fine but whatever.”
I scan the kitchen. Gage’s easy bedroom smile has vanished, replaced by tight lines around his mouth and a muscle jumping in his jaw.
Cruz leans against the refrigerator at an angle, favoring one side.
Rafe stands perfectly still, only his eyes moving, tracking everyone.
Bishop’s footsteps click against the tile in that measured cadence.
Coco’s absence feels tangible.
“Garage,” Bishop says, already moving toward the sliding glass door.
I hang back while Beck gathers his laptop, the cords tangling as he shoves them into his bag with trembling fingers. Lola falls into step beside me, her shoulder brushing mine.
“Where’s Ma?” Gage asks, pausing in the doorway. His fingers drum against the frame, tapping out a fast rhythm.
“Out.” Bishop doesn’t turn around.
Lola looks at me, eyebrows arch high, her lips pressing into a thin line. Why the fuck isn’t she here?
I mirror her expression, a silent conversation passing between us. It’s strange, right?
She nods twice, short and sharp. Yes, it absolutely is.
In the garage, Beck drops his bag onto the table with a thud that echoes off the concrete walls. His fingers fly across the keys before the laptop screen even brightens.
“What do we know?” I ask, looking from face to face.
“Not much.” Rafe’s voice comes from behind me. When I turn, he’s leaning against the closed garage door, arms folded across his chest, one ankle crossed over the other.
“Any idea who hit us?” My fingertips tap against the plastic cup. “And remind me how this job landed on our radar again?”
Bishop cuts in before Rafe can answer, jerking his chin toward my brother. “Coco’s working her contacts. Meanwhile—Kid. Talk.”
Beck’s fingers freeze over the keyboard. He drags both hands through his hair, leaving it standing in wild tufts, then shoves his laptop forward with enough force that his coffee sloshes dangerously close to the edge. “So.” His voice cracks. “We’re fucked.”