Chapter 11 Cruz #2
The door whispers shut behind me. The music recedes, muffled now by double-paned glass, vibrations felt more than heard.
Goosebumps rise on my forearms as the air conditioning hits my skin.
Coco’s favorite lemon-scented cleaner mingles with spilled beer and the faint musk of the leather sectional—the particular cologne of Coco’s parties, unchanged since we were teenagers.
Beckett stands at the dining room table with Coco, angled just enough that his back shields whatever his hands are doing. The backpack hangs from one shoulder, zipper teeth parted.
I ease into the shadowed doorway and lean against the frame, settling my weight like I’ve been here the whole time.
His hand closes around something bulky on the table before he tilts the backpack just enough to slide it inside.
Coco’s fingernails tap once against the table. “Don’t overthink it, honey.” Her voice lifts, sheds its weight, becomes something that could float back out to the pool deck. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. And this is good experience for you.”
Beckett’s chin dips. “Yeah, thanks Mrs. Calloway.”
She reaches up and palms one of his cheeks. “I’ve already told you to call me Coco.”
I catch the edge of her smile before she taps his cheek twice—the gesture hovers between maternal and proprietary. She turns and walks deeper into the house, toward all the bedrooms without so much as a glance at Beck’s backpack.
I count ten heartbeats before I make my presence known.
“You good?”
Beckett’s shoulders tense. “I’m fine,” he snaps, looking over his shoulder. His gaze darts to mine, then away. His thumb works the zipper closed with practiced precision.
I push off the doorframe. Three steps and I’m close enough to catch the scent of Coco’s perfume still lingering in the air. His shoulders hunch forward, one hand gripping the backpack strap so tight his knuckles pale.
“You sure, man?” The words come out barely above the bass line still thumping through the glass. “Don’t let her force your hand—make you do anything you don’t want to.”
His head snaps up. The muscle in his jaw pulses once, twice. “Just because my sister is fucking around with your brother,” he says, each word landing like a knife on concrete, “doesn’t make you my brother.”
I let the corner of my mouth lift, muscles tight. “Just some friendly advice.”
His nostrils flare. A short exhale. He rocks back onto his heels, shoulders angling toward the exit. “Whatever, man. I’ve got shit to do.”
My gaze drops to the backpack, lingers for two heartbeats, then rises to meet his. “Yeah, I’m sure you do.”
The space between us stretches, holds, and finally breaks. The backpack swings as he pushes past me, toward the front door.
There’s something fucking weird going on, and I can’t tell what Coco’s involvement is exactly, but I’m sure as fuck gonna figure it out.
I trace the edge of the table with my index finger, finding a scratch in the mahogany I’ve memorized since childhood.
The same table where Coco once bandaged Bishop’s split knuckles while telling him to hit harder next time. Where she laid out cash in neat stacks after jobs, her red nails tapping each pile.
Bishop’s not wrong, I could’ve gotten my own place years ago.
But there was always something that held me back.
At first, I didn’t want to leave Ma here alone, not when she left a string of enemies up and down the coast in the last decade.
Somewhere along the way, it morphed into something else entirely.
I toured five different apartments last year, security deposits ready in my pocket. And five times I drove back to this house instead, checking the perimeter before walking in the door, listening for voices that might not belong to family.
I push through the sliding door back to the party.
Bass hits me like a fist to the sternum.
Sweat beads instantly at my hairline, the night air thick enough to chew.
Bodies shift and sway in the same patterns as before, red cups tilted at identical angles, laughter rising and falling in predictable waves.
My gaze sweeps left to right and stops on her.
Gage leans back against the stone wall by the pool, his weight shifting as Bellamy’s body settles across his thighs.
Her sandal dangles from one foot, swinging slightly with each laugh.
His fingertips trace invisible patterns along her side, catching occasionally on the thin fabric of her dress.
When she turns to whisper something, her hair falls forward, creating a curtain that shields whatever passes between them from the rest of the party.
I’m three steps from the bar when Coco materializes beside me, fresh drink in hand, ice barely melted.
“Having fun?”
I keep walking. “You know me.”
She matches my stride, her gaze sliding to the pool then back. The corner of her mouth twitches upward. She hums softly, tilting her head just enough to follow my sightline toward Gage and Bellamy. “They’re cute, aren’t they?”
The words float between us, light as cigarette smoke.
“You know,” she continues, swirling her drink slowly, ice tapping against the glass, “Gage was asking me earlier about my grandmother’s chocolate cake recipe.” She pauses to take a sip. “He wants to make it for her.”
“He should,” I grunt out. What the fuck do I care if my brother wants to make a fucking cake?
“He always was so sweet,” she muses, her gaze roaming over the side of my face.
“Of course, all my boys are special in their own ways.” She palms my cheek, tapping softly twice.
“Enjoy yourself tonight, honey.” She steps away, red nails flashing as she waves to someone across the pool, shoulders relaxing into the persona she wears for everyone else.
I stay where I am for a second longer than I should, my attention drifting without landing anywhere in particular, the weight of the moment sitting just under the surface without resolving into anything useful.
Then I push off the wall and move, because standing still isn’t doing me any favors.