Chapter 11 Cruz
ELEVEN
CRUZ
The bass from Coco’s speakers pulses through the soles of my shoes, vibrates up my legs, and settles somewhere behind my right eye where the headache’s been building for hours.
Five days since masked motherfuckers rolled our truck and stole a third of our take. Three days since Bellamy and I walked out of Pacific Trade empty-handed.
Ma catches my eye from across the yard, raises her margarita glass in a silent command that needs no translation: smile, mingle, pretend we didn’t just get fucked.
I lift my glass back to her, the perfect obedient son, because what she wants, she gets—a point she reinforced at breakfast when she told me I need to make sure I act like everything is fucking sunshine and rainbows with that look that’s never actually been a request.
I lean against the far end of the outdoor bar with a glass of whiskey in my hand, watching her.
Coco is exactly where she should be, positioned at the center of the yard without ever looking like she chose it.
People orbit her without thinking about it, pulled in by something that reads as effortless if you don’t know how much control it actually takes to maintain.
She laughs at the right moments, touches the right arms, leans in just enough to make whoever she’s speaking to feel singled out without isolating herself from the rest of the room.
It’s seamless like always.
I guess that her whole fucking point.
Beside me, Bishop exhales slowly. “You know, any one of them could be behind the interception.”
I scan the party crowd through the rim of my glass.
One of Coco’s regular dealers, laughing too loud by the fire pit.
The Moreno brothers, who used to run with Coco back when she was our age, huddled near the speakers.
My gaze catches on unfamiliar faces—friends of friends, plus-ones, variables, people Coco invited on a whim.
“You think so?”
“Maybe.” Bishop’s jaw works beneath three days of stubble as he drags his palm across it. His eyes never settle, constantly moving between faces like he’s counting exits.
I nod, feeling the throb behind my right eye intensify. The bruise on my temple still pulses purple-green where my head hit something during the ambush.
He stretches his neck, vertebrae popping. “We’ve gotten out of worse before.”
“That was before. When it was just us four.” My shoulders tighten, muscles bunching beneath my shirt. I roll them back once, twice, but the weight remains—like someone’s standing behind me, hands pressing down, waiting for me to fix this shit.
“Right.” Bishop’s eyes flick toward the pool, then back to me. “And now we’re seven deep and the biggest score we’ve ever had gets sabotaged.” He tips back his glass, Adam’s apple bobbing as he drains it in one swallow.
I squint at my eldest brother, watching him set down his second empty glass in thirty minutes. “Are you fucking with me right now?”
Bishop rolls his eyes and reaches behind the bar, fingers closing around the neck of that amber Macallan bottle Coco keeps stocked just for him.
The liquid catches the string lights as he pours three fingers, then slides the bottle back into its hiding spot.
“Not saying she orchestrated the whole thing. Just noting she looks like someone who’s here for another fucking pool party. ”
My attention drifts poolside without permission.
The water erupts as Gage launches himself into a perfect cannonball, his impact sending a wave over the concrete edge. Bellamy sidesteps the splash, her sundress still dry while others shriek and scatter. Her head tips back, throat exposed, laughter visible even from here.
I snap my focus back to Bishop.
“Gage doesn’t exactly look devastated either.
” I jerk my chin toward our brother, who’s now floating on his back, grinning like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“You think they’re in it together? Risked a federal charge—and broken bones—for less than their cut would’ve been if we’d pulled it off clean? ”
Bishop’s bloodshot eyes narrow as he drags his palm down his stubbled face. “Christ, just—” He shakes his head, shoulders slumping slightly. “Ignore me. I haven’t slept in three days.”
I tilt my glass toward the general direction of Bishop’s place across town. “You’ve got your own place, man. Go home, get some sleep. Despite what Ma thinks, this party isn’t mandatory if you don’t live here.”
A dry laugh scrapes up his throat. “C’mon, man, not even you believe that shit. These things are always mandatory.” He shakes his head and takes a sip of his drink. “Besides, Coco’s not exactly chaining you to the property line.”
My gaze stays fixed on the rim of my glass.
“Might be time to cut the umbilical, Cruz.”
I let the whiskey burn down my throat, counting the seconds of heat before lowering the glass. “Yeah?” The ice clinks against crystal. “That guest room of yours still available?”
Bishop barks out a laugh. “Like you couldn’t buy half the neighborhood with whatever you’ve got buried in offshore accounts.”
I shift my weight, angling my shoulder toward him. “We sharing banking secrets now?”
Something in his expression locks down, humor draining from his features so fast that it’s hard to believe it was ever there.
“That why the invitations dried up?” I press my thumb against a drop of condensation on my glass. “Afraid we’ll find the duffel bags in your ceiling?”
He shakes his head as he twists the cap off a nearby water bottle. “Only idiots hide cash where the dogs can smell it.”
A smile tugs at my mouth despite everything. “Fair enough.”
Across the yard, Gage breaks the surface of the pool once more, water sluicing off his shoulders as he flings his head back. His laughing taunt to Bellamy carries over the music. She stands at the edge, her bare feet inches from the water, head shaking but eyes pinned on my brother.
I turn away before I can catalog the exact shade of her smile.
I tip my glass toward the pool. “You know who definitely hides his money under the floorboards?”
Bishop’s mouth twitches. “Nah, he spends it too fast, remember?”
Rafe walks by, gold watch catching the light as he slips something to one of Coco’s friends by the cabana.
I roll the glass between my fingers, ice clinking against crystal.
Bishop’s shoulders tense. “You hear from Portia or Madeline?”
“I told you I would let you know if I did.” The whiskey burns going down.
“Not even after you cancelled that date?”
“Her assistant called, and I said something came up.” I keep my voice level.
Bishop’s exhale cuts through the music. “So you ghosted the woman who moves half our inventory because—what? You didn’t feel like pasta?”
I meet his stare, one eyebrow raised. “Didn’t realize my dick was part of the payment structure.”
His jaw locks, a muscle twitching beneath stubble. “For fuck’s sake, Cruz.”
I take another slow sip, letting the burn linger. Across the yard, Bellamy’s laughter rises over the crowd. My glass stays at my lips.
I raise my eyebrows. “And besides, I didn’t even meet with Madeline, remember?”
Bishop’s fingers tighten around his glass. “I know. I’m just saying—” His jaw locks, then releases. The volume stays low but his consonants sharpen. “What’s a couple of hours at a restaurant if it keeps Madeline in play?”
I tilt my glass. The ice slides against crystal with a soft clink. A single drop of condensation rolls down the side, leaving a wet trail on my thumb.
“Depends what it costs.”
Three seconds pass. Bishop’s shoulders remain rigid. Mine stay loose. Neither of us looks away.
The bass from the speakers vibrates through the concrete beneath our feet. A woman’s laugh cuts through the music. Someone bumps my elbow as they reach for the bottle behind me.
Bishop’s eyes flick to my face, then to my drink, then back to my face.
He exhales through his nose. “You know what? Fuck it. Coco helped Madeline get on her feet, but if she wants to fuck around with us?” He shrugs one shoulder.
“We’ll make our own fence. It’ll take a while, but we’ve got some other contacts in the meantime. ”
Bishop sets his glass behind the counter with a soft clink. The empty water bottle arcs through the air, landing in the garbage can with a hollow thud. He pushes off the bar, shoulders rigid. “I’m going to go get some air.”
He’s ten feet away before I can point out the breeze already ruffling his shirt collar.
My gaze drifts back to Coco a table length away.
She shifts her weight, angling her body just slightly to the left, creating a pocket of emptiness in the crowd.
Beckett drifts into that space like a boat caught in an invisible current.
His feet don’t quite step forward; hers don’t quite pull him in.
Yet somehow he’s there, standing close enough that her perfume must be filling his lungs.
She leans in. Her palm presses against his chest, fingers splayed across the fabric of his shirt.
Her lips move near his ear. His chin dips immediately—once, twice—puppet-string quick.
Her hand slides upward, fingertips lingering at his collarbone before settling on his shoulder.
She squeezes once, the fabric of his shirt bunching beneath her grip.
Her lips brush his cheek, leaving behind the faintest smudge of pink. “You let me know how it goes.” The words blend into the bass line, meant to dissolve like sugar in water.
But I catch them anyway.
The conversation ends with a nod, and I slide my gaze past them to the pool lights, counting one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand before looking elsewhere. My fingers tighten slightly around the glass. The ice shifts, settling into new positions.
I drain the whiskey in one swallow, barely registering the burn. The empty glass makes no sound when I set it behind the bar. I move toward the sliding door without looking back, keeping my stride loose, hands in pockets as I follow Beckett and my mother inside the house.