Chapter 9 - Bellamy
NINE
BELLAMY
Lola waits for me on the driveway, arms folded over her chest and sunglasses on even though the day is still only barely awake.
“Keep your eyes open.” The words are low, like she’s pressing the warning directly into my skin. “We don’t know if it’s an enemy or an opportunist.”
She pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head, eyeing me as if to say: We don’t know if it’s someone from our past.
I purse my lips. Or if the Calloways have heat on them.
We nod at the same time, our mutual understanding. Going to a new fence is always a risk. And even if she’s established with Coco—and mildly established with Cruz—it doesn’t really mean shit for me. She could say yes to our faces and then do a backroom deal that sells just me out.
In this life, everything is a risk. Some are greater than others, and it’s my responsibility to figure out which ones are worth it.
I step in and wrap my good arm around her shoulders.
She stiffens, spine going ramrod straight, shoulders squared like armor.
Three heartbeats pass between us. Then something gives way—the subtle shift of her weight forward, the pressure of her arms finding their place around my middle, the slight exhale against my collarbone.
There’s nothing like a hug from my sister.
She smells like fruity dry shampoo and hazelnut coffee and the expensive sunscreen she uses religiously. She smells like home.
“I love you too,” I murmur into her hair.
She scoffs softly, the sound muffled against my neck. “Yeah, whatever. Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”
I pull back just enough to look at her, arching a brow. “That feels subjective. Who’s barometer are we using?”
Her lips twitch, but they stay in a frown I know she’s forcing. “Definitely not a Calloway’s.”
My grin widens as amusement flutters through my veins like a kite on a breeze. “Yours, then.”
“God, no,” she sputters out on a laugh. “Bob’s! Definitely Bob’s.”
“Bob’s?! Shit, Lola, I haven’t thought about that turtle in years.
” Something warm blooms in my chest, followed by a familiar hollowness.
I can still picture his ancient, wrinkled neck stretching out of that moss-lined tank in Ms. Henley’s classroom.
The way his shell gleamed under the heat lamp after we’d helped polish it with mineral oil.
“Remember how he’d just sit there for hours?” I say, my voice softer than I meant it to be. “He was so chill, even for a turtle.”
Lola’s smile falters at the edges. “Mm-hmm. That’s why he should be your new barometer. He never did anything stupid.”
“Right.” The word catches in the back of my throat.
She’s not wrong. I was the stupid one that day.
The memory tastes sour now. The weight of Bob’s aquarium in my arms as we brought him home from school that weekend.
How excited we were to watch him. The empty tank when we returned twenty minutes later with our groceries for dinner.
Mom’s glassy eyes as she murmured with conviction, “He wanted to be free, baby. Turtles belong in water.”
“C’mon, Lola. I’ve got shit to do,” Beckett hollers from the end of the driveway, already halfway inside the driver’s seat of my SUV.
Lola rolls her eyes, flashing our younger brother a glare. “Chill out, Beck. I’m talking to Bells.” The obviously is implied in her tone.
“You’ll see her at home in like two hours,” Beck drawls, impatience smothering every syllable.
She looks toward me and slowly arches both brows.
“He rode with Bishop on this job, and all of a sudden, he’s got attitude?
” She slides her sunglasses back over her eyes with a smirk and tosses her hair over her shoulder.
“Don’t worry, Bells. I’ll set him straight on the drive home. And I’ll see you later, yeah?”
I smother my laugh and shake my head. “Go easy on him. He’s probably just stressed about everything that happened.”
She walks backward, tilting her head to look at me over the bridge of her sunglasses. “And we’re not? You were literally ejected from a moving vehicle like some kind of fucked-up cartoon, and you’re not the one bitching at me about hurrying.”
My laugh tapers into a grimace, and I nod a few times. “Yeah, well, we all process differently.”
“Exactly.” Her grin blooms wide across her face, but it’s a little to feral around the edges to be purely joyful. “Move over, little brother. I’m driving. And I have so many errands to run this morning before we get home.”
Beckett groans, tilting his head toward the sky. “What the fuck, Lola,” he grumbles.
Cruz materializes next to me as I watch my siblings bicker. The SUV’s engine growls to life, and Lola’s hand appears through the open window, fingers waggling goodbye before they disappear around the bend.
“I gotta grab something inside, and then we’ll go,” he says, keys spinning around his middle finger is hypnotic circles. Metal catches sunlight with each rotation.
“No problem.”
His footsteps fade across the cement. I’m left in a narrow strip of morning light, heat already pressing against my skin despite the early hour. Sweat prickles at my hairline. My shoulder throbs dully beneath its tape. Somewhere inside the house, a door closes.
Fingers curl around my wrist, and my breath catches.
One step backward and the sunlight disappears.
Stucco scrapes my shoulder blade, tiny pebbles catching on cotton.
Rafe smells like cedar and smoke and something I could get addicted to.
His exhale stirs the hair at my temple. His shoulders create a wall between me and everything else, narrowing the world to just six inches of space.
One hand finds my hip, the other traces up my throat until his thumb rests against the flutter beneath my skin.
The slow drag of his fingertips sends a barrage of goosebumps cascading down my body, igniting every nerve ending.
I tilt my head back slightly, instinctively drawn to that pressure, the reminder of his control.
“Rafe.” My gaze drops to his mouth, lingers there.
His lips hover a whisper away, breath warming mine, voice dropping to gravel. “You okay, baby?”
The words vibrate through me, rough-edged despite their concern. I tilt my chin upward, feeling my pulse jump against the pad of his thumb.
“I’d be better if you kissed me.”
His mouth barely moves, just a twitch at one corner, but his eyes darken. His thumb presses once, deliberately, into the flutter beneath my skin. “What,” he murmurs, close enough that I taste the mint on his breath, “my brother didn’t kiss it better for you last night?”
His voice drops half an octave on brother, the word carrying a weight that makes my stomach tighten.
“We were under strict orders.”
A sound escapes him—dark, low, almost a laugh but sharper. Then his mouth claims mine.
His mouth crashes into mine, teeth catching my lower lip, the scrape of stubble against my skin.
My back presses harder against the stucco as his fingers dig into my hip, his thumb still pressed to my pulse point where my heart hammers against his skin.
I taste mint and coffee and something darker underneath.
My hands find his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, pulling him closer even as my shoulder protests.
The world narrows to the pressure of his mouth, the heat of his body, the rasp of his breath.
It’s over too soon.
Air rushes back between us. My lips feel swollen, sensitive. My chest rises and falls too quickly. His forehead hovers near mine, close enough that I feel the warmth of his skin without touching it, before he steps back.
Cruz’s voice slices through the moment. “You ready?”
I jump at the sound of his voice. Pain shoots through my shoulder, drawing a hiss between my teeth.
He leans against the garage, one leg bent, foot flat against the wall. Keys spin around his finger in lazy circles. His head tilts slightly, taking in the scene—Rafe’s proximity, my swollen lips, the space between us charged like air before lightning strikes.
The back of my neck prickles hot.
Rafe’s eyes lock with mine, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of color remains.
His fingers leave my hip inch by reluctant inch, the fabric of my shirt catching on his knuckles.
My skin cools in the wake of his touch, each point of contact turning to goosebumps as the connection breaks.
The corner of his mouth twitches upward—not quite a smile—as his fingertip traces one final half-circle against my hipbone before falling away completely.
I blow out a slow breath and run my fingers through my hair, tossing it off my face. My elbow brushes against Rafe’s chest. His exhale warms my temple. The taste of him lingers on my tongue while my pulse hammers in my throat, counting out the seconds of this suspended moment between three people.
“Yeah.” The word comes out rougher than intended.
Cruz pushes off the wall without a word, the silence heavier than any comment could be.
The drive stretches out, quiet except for the soft hum of tires on asphalt.
Cruz’s arm drapes across the center console, fingers occasionally tapping against the leather to some inaudible rhythm.
His sunglasses hide his eyes despite the pale morning light filtering through the windshield.
I shift in my seat, wincing as the movement sends a fresh throb through my wrapped shoulder.
My fingertips brush against the edge of my phone, resisting the urge to check in on my siblings. It’s always hardest to curb that impulse after a run-in like the one we just had. But I console myself with the reminder that they’re likely just walking inside our flat, and they’re safe.
Cruz’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly before he clears his throat. “So…” His head tilts slightly toward me, then back to the road. “Rafe, huh.” The corner of his mouth quirks up just enough to reveal the dimple on his left cheek.
I turn, studying the muscle that jumps along his jawline. “What surprises you more? That’s it’s Rafe… or that it wasn’t you?”
A sound escapes him—not quite a laugh, just air pushed through teeth. His fingers tap the wheel three times before he speaks again. “Does Gage know about that?” His focus remains fixed on the road ahead, knuckles whitening briefly against the black leather of the wheel before relaxing again.
“I’m not hiding anything,” I say, watching his profile for a reaction. “If that’s what you’re asking.”
Cruz’s mouth quirks up at one corner. “Didn’t say you were.” His eyes flick to mine in the rearview mirror, then back to the road. “Just wondering how long that balance holds.”
My fingers tighten around my phone. The air conditioning vent suddenly feels too cold against my skin. I stare out the window at the passing buildings, counting the seconds between streetlights while my pulse ticks in my throat.
Cruz’s knuckles flex once against the steering wheel. The radio stays off. The only sound between us is the soft rush of tires on asphalt and the quiet click of his turn signal as we merge into the right lane.
Twenty minutes later, the car slows and veers right. My eyelids snap open as we pull into a drive-thru lane. Cruz rolls down his window, letting in the smell of coffee and pastries that makes my mouth water instantly.
My fingers twitch against my thighs as he leans toward the speaker. “Two large iced cold brews,” he says, then glances at me for half a second before adding, “with brown sugar cold foam on top.” Something in my chest tightens at those last seven words.
I blink at him. My lips part slightly, but before I can say anything, Cruz’s mouth quirks up at one corner, his eyes still fixed on the road ahead.
“Don’t read into it, Bells. It’s just coffee.” The words drawl out slow, deliberate, contradicting the precision of his memory.
The opening notes drift from the speakers—that guitar riff from “Talk Show Host” that Cruz used to play on repeat junior year, windows down, one arm slung over the seat behind me.
My shoulders loosen before I realize it, body remembering sun-warmed vinyl seats and the salt-sticky feeling of skin after a day in the water.
The morning light cuts across his face as he pulls forward in line, and for the first time since we left the house, I get a good look at him.
The butterfly closures on his cheekbone pull slightly when he moves.
Beneath them, bruising has already started to bloom in deep shades of purple and blue, spreading under the skin like spilled ink.
“You sure it’s not broken?” I touch lightly beside the stitches, feeling heat radiating from the swollen skin. His jaw tightens under my touch. He drags his teeth across his bottom lip, the movement pulling at something low in my stomach, and finally turns to face me.
My hand lingers. The pad of my index finger grazes the corner of his mouth.
“You worried about me, Bells?” Each word vibrates against my fingertips, his voice dropping to gravel.
The temperature in the car rises three degrees. The air conditioning seems to falter.
“Of course.” I let my hand fall away, the skin of my fingertips still humming with the memory of contact. “We’re friends, Cruz.”
Cruz’s mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Friends.” The word hangs between us, weighted.
“You didn’t come back last night.” My voice betrays me, lifting slightly at the end.
His eyes drop to my mouth, then lower, tracing a slow path down my neck before returning to my face. “Three felt like a crowd.”
A bubble of something between a laugh and a scoff rises in my throat, trapped behind my teeth. I tilt my chin down, peering up at him through my lashes. “Thought you said three was a party.”
My heartbeat hammers against my ribs. The cut on my lip throbs in time with my pulse.
Cruz shifts in his seat, angling his body toward mine. The leather creaks beneath him. “Do you want to party with me, Bells?” His voice drops half an octave, the question stretching between us like a live wire while my caffeine-starved brain short-circuits.
We pull up to the window, and the moment fractures. The barista’s voice cuts through the charged air between us. Cruz’s arm brushes mine as he reaches for the drinks, his knuckles scraping against my fingers when he passes over my cold brew.
The first sip hits my tongue—sweet cream cutting through bitter coffee—and I close my eyes, swallowing a sound of pleasure. There was once a time when I couldn’t afford the simple luxury of a fancy coffee, so I do my best to always appreciate it now.
When I open them again, Cruz’s gaze is fixed on the road, sunglasses on. Six years ago, we’d have filled this car with overlapping sentences, interrupting each other mid-thought. Now his silence has weight, and I’m afraid to test how much.