Chapter 12 Bellamy
TWELVE
BELLAMY
The party feels louder when you’re standing still.
Bass thrums through the soles of my shoes, conversations crash like waves, and sweat beads at the nape of my neck where escaped strands of hair stick to skin.
The pool casts blue-white ribbons across the patio, dancing over bare shoulders, catching the rim of a glass mid-toast, illuminating half-smiles that dissolve if I blink.
My fingers tap against my thigh. Once. Twice. Three times.
I scan the crowd, tracking movement—a hand gesture here, a shifting hip there—rather than faces. No sign of Cruz, though that means nothing. He has a way of materializing exactly when I’ve convinced myself he’s gone.
Gage disappeared ten minutes ago with a quick “be right back” and a nod toward some guy in a black shirt by the speakers.
Something about a blown fuse or a neighbor complaint.
His fingers had skimmed my wrist before he walked away—casual, barely-there—but now the phantom pressure is fading, and with it, my reason to stay planted in this corner while strangers brush past me toward the bar.
A hand hooks lightly around my arm, tugging me half a step sideways. “Hey.”
I turn toward Lola. The scrape at her temple has scabbed over, a jagged line disappearing into her hairline—souvenir from the desert. Her purse strap cuts diagonally across her chest, keys already dangling from her fingers.
“You good?” Her eyes flick over me, then past me, then back.
“I’m fine. You heading out?”
She shifts her weight toward the walkway. “Yeah. I’ve hit my limit on this party.”
“You want me to come with?”
“Nah, I’m good.” The corner of her mouth quirks up.
I lean closer, catching the unmistakable freshened up blush on her cheeks. “You’re not going home, are you?”
Her mouth twitches, but her attention drifts past me, scanning the crowd with the same restless energy I’ve been feeling. When her gaze slides back, her eyebrows lift a fraction. “Are you?”
I roll my eyes and bump my shoulder into hers. “I’m always home, aren’t I?”
“Sure.” She dips her chin, her smirk spreading slow and wide. “Unless you’re getting dicked down by a Calloway—”
“Jesus, Lola.” My hand flies to cover her mouth as I glance around, catching the side-eye from a girl by the cooler.
She keeps talking against my palm, voice muffled but unmistakably gleeful, until I drop my hand in defeat.
“Walk in our apartment and see my sister getting pounded by some dude,” she finishes with a triumphant grin.
I stare at her, heat crawling up my neck. “Are you done?”
She grins, rocking back on her heels. “I’m just getting started.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Where are you going, anyway?”
She slides her phone out, thumb swiping across the screen before it disappears back into denim. “Just some friends.”
I arch my brow. “Do I need to give you your own weird little talk?”
Her brows bounce as her lips curl. “Nah, I just track you and Beck, so I make sure I’ve got plenty of time.
” She pauses, tapping her index finger against her chin.
“Though I have to say, I’m getting really good at coming on command if we’re in a time crunch, so.
” Her gaze locks on mine, glittering with something wicked.
Heat floods my face. My jaw hangs open, the party’s bass suddenly very far away. “What the hell, Lola?”
She loops an arm around my shoulder, laughter bubbling up. “God, your face right now. You’re too easy, Bells. ”
I shrug her off, lips pressed tight even as the corner of my mouth twitches. “So this was all bullshit?”
Lola’s voice lilts upward, her fingers tracing invisible patterns in the air. “Let’s call it manifesting a delicious Calloway sandwich for you.”
My neck snaps toward her so fast I feel a twinge. “Lola.”
She throws her head back, laughter spilling out unrestrained, the scab on her temple catching the pool light. “Your cheeks are actually turning red right now.”
I press my lips together and physically push her shoulder, steering her toward the exit. “Weren’t you leaving?”
“Mm-hmm.” She plants a wet kiss on my cheek that leaves a sticky lip gloss mark. “Go for gold tonight, sis. I believe in you!”
I trail behind her a few steps. “Text me when you get there.”
She spins around, walking backward down the driveway, arms spread wide as she inhales dramatically through her nose. “Smell that, Bells? That’s the scent of possibility… of a three-way!”
A reluctant laugh escapes me. “Take your own advice.”
Her smile turns crooked as she continues her retreat. “Maybe I will.”
I stand watching until her silhouette disappears at the end of the driveway. The music from the party pulses against my back as I turn, scanning faces again. No Cruz. No Gage. No Bishop. No Rafe—despite Coco’s “mandatory attendance” decree.
My feet carry me across the yard, past the pool, beyond the clusters of people as my sister’s words reverberate inside my head, bouncing around until it becomes a maelstrom of Calloways.
I blink, finding myself in front of the garage’s service door entrance. My fingers hover over the keypad—the one place explicitly marked as off-limits tonight. But lucky for me, I know the code for the lock. Unless they changed it.
6-2-4-9. The keypad accepts my code with a soft beep and green flash. The door clicks shut behind me, sealing away the throbbing bass and drunken laughter like I’ve stepped into a vacuum.
My shoulder blades press against cool metal. I freeze.
Rafe lounges on the couch, claiming it like a throne. One leg stretched long, the other bent at the knee. An unlit joint dangles from lips that curve slightly at the corners. His thumb hovers over the lighter’s striker, suspended in the moment before flame.
He doesn’t straighten or speak. Only his eyes move—storm-cloud blue beneath heavy lids, tracking me with the patience of a predator who knows prey will come closer voluntarily.
The overhead light slices across him, painting half his face in shadow while illuminating the sharp edge of his jaw, the hollow where his throat meets collarbone, the cotton stretched taut across shoulders broader than they have any right to be.
My mouth goes dry. My pulse finds a new home low in my belly.
“You need something, baby?” His voice scrapes low, a rough-edged murmur that vibrates in the air between us.
The room narrows to just him. Just us. Just this moment balanced on a knife’s edge.
“Yeah.” The single syllable emerges steadier than the thundering in my chest would suggest. I push off the door.
One foot in front of the other, measured steps across concrete that feels like crossing an ocean.
Neither rushing nor hesitating—just moving toward an inevitability I’ve been circling for longer than I care to admit.
His eyes track me across the room, pupils dilating slightly with each step.
I stop between his knees. The denim of his jeans brushes against my bare legs as I climb onto his lap, my dress riding up my thighs.
I pluck the joint from between his lips, my fingertips grazing the warmth of his mouth. The lighter clicks against the arm of the couch as I set both aside.
When I look back, his head tilts. Just slightly. Just enough that a shadow cuts across his jawline. The corner of his mouth twitches.
His palms find my thighs, fingertips leaving five distinct points of pressure on my skin. They drag upward, bunching the fabric of my dress but stopping before he reaches the crease of my hip.
He straightens beneath me. The air between us shrinks to nothing.
“What do you need, baby?” His voice is velvet poured over gravel, low and rough.
My pulse throbs in my throat, behind my ears, between my legs. I slide my palms up his chest, reveling in being able to touch him freely. I wish there weren’t any clothes between us.
Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to explore this man without any clothes hindering my exploration.
The steady thump of his heartbeat quickens under my touch as I sink fully onto him. An involuntary exhale escapes my lips when I feel the hard ridge of his cock beneath his jeans press against where I ache.
I lean in, drawn by something primal and hungry.
The first brush of his lips against mine sends electricity crackling down my spine.
He tastes like stormy nights and possibilities—intoxicating and consuming.
For a heartbeat, he lets me lead, lets me explore the curve of his bottom lip with my tongue.
Then his hand slides to my waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh there. He takes control with a growl that reverberates through my chest, tilting my head just so. His tongue slides against mine, hot and demanding, stealing the breath from my lungs.
I gasp against his mouth as his other hand cradles my neck, thumb stroking the sensitive skin beneath my ear. The kiss deepens, turns molten. My hips roll instinctively against him, chasing friction, chasing heat.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes against my lips, the word more sensation than sound.
I arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan.
The noise hits first—music, voices, the sharp spill of it breaking through the quiet. Then it cuts off as suddenly as it came.
“Coco’s looking for you.”
I turn my head.
Bishop stands in the doorway, one hand still braced against the frame, his presence filling the space in a way that feels different from Rafe’s. It’s harder and sharper, like something that doesn’t bother softening its edges.
“Or don’t,” he adds, voice edged just enough to bite. “I’m sure she’d love to walk in on you trying to fuck our brother’s girl.”
Rafe’s chest expands against mine, a slow inhale that never fully releases. His fingers dig slightly deeper into my waist—not enough to hurt, just enough to mark. His eyes stay locked on mine, pupils blown wide, the blue barely visible around the edges.
“Stay,” he murmurs, the word warm against my lips. “I’ll be back.”
His hands slide to my hips, lifting me off his lap with a deliberate drag that leaves heat in their wake. My dress catches beneath his fingers, riding up another inch before he sets me on the couch.
He rises in one fluid motion, crossing to the door. Bishop doesn’t move. Their shoulders connect with a dull thud as Rafe passes.
The door clicks shut. The air smells like sandalwood and smoke and something electric.
I tip my head back against the couch, the concrete ceiling swimming above me, willing my pulse to slow down, my body to forget the imprint of his hands on my skin.
… and counting down the minutes until he’s back and touching me again.
The joint sits abandoned on the armrest. I reach for it without looking, pinch it between my lips, and fumble with the lighter.
Bishop materializes in front of me, all six-foot-something of coiled tension. His fingers close around my chin, thumb pressing into the soft spot beneath my bottom lip. He plucks the joint from my mouth without a word.
“Can I help you?” I drawl, refusing to flinch. His eyes lock onto mine—same stormy blue as Rafe’s, but where Rafe’s gaze invites drowning, Bishop’s calculates the precise moment the lightning will strike.
He leans over me, his shadow falling across my face like a curtain. My eyes trace the crooked ridge where his nose broke—once? twice?— and catch on the three-day stubble darkening his jaw. The harsh garage light cuts across his cheekbones, making him look like some kind of hot, broody specter.
“You didn’t shave,” I say, the words slipping out before I can catch them.
One corner of his mouth lifts, all contempt, no warmth. “So observant.”
I exhale through my teeth. “Whatever. I’m busy, Bishop. Give me the joint back.”
“Yeah.” He slides the joint between his lips, the paper sticking slightly to the fullness of his bottom lip.
“I saw how busy you were.” The lighter clicks once, twice before catching.
Orange flame illuminates the hollows of his cheeks as he inhales, his eyes never leaving mine.
When he exhales, the smoke hits my face in a deliberate stream, carrying his next words. “With Rafe.”
I lift my head off the back of the couch. The leather squeaks beneath me. Bishop’s fingers find my sternum, pressing—two points of heat through the thin fabric of my dress.
“Since you clearly can’t be trusted...” His fingertips dig deeper, not enough to hurt but enough that my spine reconnects with the couch cushion.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” The words scrape my throat. My cheeks burn.
His fingertips remain, two anchors keeping me in place. “Open up.” His eyes flick to my mouth, then back up, pupils contracting to pinpoints in the blue. His other palm lands beside my head with a soft thud against the leather.
My lips part just enough to let a breath escape. Not obedience—just the body’s betrayal.
“Wider.” Another drag from the joint, the cherry glowing orange-red. He leans in until I can count his eyelashes, until the heat from his skin radiates against mine.
My pulse hammers in my throat. I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t part my lips any further. Just watch him watching me.
He makes a noise in the back of his throat—something between a growl and a sigh—as his lips hover a breath away from mine. His eyes lock onto mine as smoke pours from his parted lips, filling my mouth with heat and haze. The burn spreads down my throat, sharp and sweet.
“Hold it,” he commands, his voice rough velvet.
My chest tightens. The garage walls seem to pulse inward with each heartbeat. His face blurs at the edges, too close, all sharp angles and shadow.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, the words ghosting across my cheek as he pulls back just enough for me to see his pupils dilate.
The same words he whispered that night in Reno. Different context. Same effect.
My lungs scream. I exhale in a rush, smoke curling between us like a question.
He straightens, sliding the joint between his lips. The cherry glows orange as he inhales, casting his face in momentary light before he turns and walks out without looking back.
I press my fingertips to my tingling lips. I stay frozen, counting my own heartbeats. The walls of the garage seem to press inward with each breath. My skin feels too tight, too hot.
Rafe told me to stay, but my legs won’t stop trembling. I dig my nails into my palms, leaving crescent moons in the flesh.
I slide off the couch, grab my keys, and stumble toward the door before whatever’s building inside me can claw its way out.
The party noise crashes back in the second I step outside, loud and overwhelming and exactly the same as before.
But I’m not.