Chapter 25 Rafe
TWENTY-FIVE
RAFE
I spot her before I even make it fully inside. She’s at one of the small tables by the window, a latte in her hand, sunlight catching in her hair just enough to make her look softer than she actually is.
Underneath the blonde hair and brown-eyed coastal girl exterior, she’s a tempest trapped in a calm sea.
But all these assholes don’t get to see her like that. But I do.
She’s got her legs crossed, one foot moving slightly, like she’s keeping time with something only she can hear. I wonder what’s playing through that pretty head of hers.
I’m in front of her table in three strides. “Hey, baby.”
She glances up, and there’s a half-second where she tenses, but as soon as she sees me, her shoulders relax. “Rafe.”
The way she says my name has my dick already perking up. I ignore it and pull out the chair across from her.
“I didn’t know you came here,” she says, the straw of her latte perched on her lips.
“I don’t.”
Her mouth curves, slow and knowing. “So what are you doing here?”
I hold her gaze. “You’re here.”
She toys with her straw before taking a sip. “You keeping tabs on me?” Something flickers in her expression—amusement, maybe. Something softer underneath it.
I arch a brow. I definitely am.
My brother isn’t the only one who knows how to use a tracker. But I didn’t place something on her car, I installed a background app on her phone, so I can always find her.
“If I was?”
She grins and shakes her head a little. “You’re incorrigible.”
“You like it,” I counter.
She shrugs a little, as if to say yeah, and?
“You wanna take a ride with me?”
Her brows lift slightly. “Oh? Has there been a development?”
I shake my head. “Not that.”
She sets her cup down, leaning back just enough to look at me properly. “This is what then?”
“A little local community cleanup.”
She laughs as she picks up her coffee again. “What kind of cleanup? Save the sea turtles? Trash day?”
I nod once. “Oh, we’re taking out the trash.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, like she’s putting something together. “Wait. Did Gage tell you about what happened at the beach?”
“He did. And the locals. They’re pissed.”
Her mouth curves again. “And?”
“We’re gonna do something about it. I thought you might want to unleash some anger.”
Her eyes dance with mirth, her perfect pouty lips twisting up on one side. “Do I seem like I have a lot of pent up anger?”
I let my eyes move over her slowly. Take my time with it. She looks good enough to eat, and I’ve found that nothing will ever satiate my hunger for her.
“Don’t we all, baby?”
She hums, turning her cup in her hands. “What kind of cleanup are we talking?”
“Strap cutting, windshield smashing, tire slashing.”
Truthfully, I can’t fucking wait to see her like this. To find out what she tastes like with justice tangling with rage on her tongue. I bet it’s fucking delicious.
She huffs a small breath through her nose, shaking her head as she stands and grabs her cup for one last sip. “I’d almost forgotten how the Calloways are friendly neighborhood vigilantes.”
I stand up with her. “In Hollow Beach.”
She tosses her cup in the garbage. “Alright. Let’s go save the locals.”
I usher her out of the coffee shop she loves with a hand on her lower back. My fingers itch to find her bare skin, to feel how soft it is. It’s been a few days since I’ve seen her, and I feel like I’ve gone too long without a fix.
We round the corner where I parked my bike. I’d left it out of sight on purpose—tucked just far enough that I could watch her from the doorway before she knew I was there. It’s one of my favorite ways to look at her, second only to the way she looks when she’s drunk on me.
“I forgot you had a motorcycle,” she murmurs, fluttering her fingertips over the seat.
“After today you won’t.”
“What other secrets are you harboring, Rafe Calloway?” She grins when she says it.
“Too many to count.” It’s the truth.
She just shakes her head, that grin still sitting on her mouth like she’s got nowhere better to put it.
My hand comes up before I think about it, settling at the front of her throat, fingers curling lightly along the side of her neck as I pull her in. Her breath catches just slightly before my mouth finds hers.
She leans into it. Her hand comes up and finds my chest.
I take my time with it.
When I pull back, it’s slow. She follows for half a second before stopping herself, lips parting slightly, eyes opening a beat later than they should.
Her tongue brushes across her bottom lip. And I memorize the movement.
“You ever been on the back of someone’s bike?”
She exhales softly, the corner of her mouth lifting. “A couple times. but it’s been a while.”
My jaw tightens as jealousy gurgles inside my gut like acid. But I file that away for later.
“Tap my leg if you need me to stop for anything. And hold on tighter than you think. Move with me.”
“Got it.” She rocks onto her toes when she says it.
I swing on first, settle my weight, then reach back for her. She takes my hand without hesitation and climbs on behind me. I guide her arms forward until her hands find each other at my stomach.
The heat of her lands against my spine.
“Don’t let go.”
Her arms cinch around my torso. I pull one wrist over the other and hold it there for a second before releasing.
I wait until she’s settled before I start the engine. It shudders up through the frame, through the seat, through both of us.
I ease us out into the street. She tightens her grip at the first acceleration, her fingers spreading flat against my stomach before they curl in.
If we were on the highway—and she had a helmet—I’d open it up. But the beaches are close.
The buildings thin. Then it’s just road and coastline, the ocean cutting a long blue line beside us. The air shifts out here, salt and weight, and the wind comes harder the faster I go.
I go faster.
Her hands climb without her seeming to notice. I take the next curve with a little more lean than I need to, and her chest drops against my back, arms locking in, her whole body making a decision her mouth didn’t.
I hold the speed there. Don’t give it back.
Good.
I keep the speed just under the edge after that, letting the ride stretch out long enough to feel it settle between us.
By the time we reach the beach, the lot is half full. Cars lined up in neat rows, most with board racks strapped to roofs like accessories instead of tools.
I slow the bike and cut the engine, the sudden quiet replaced almost immediately by the steady crash of waves.
“How do we know which cars belong to kooks?” she asks as she slides off behind me. Her hands drag across my stomach before she lets go.
“It’s noon.”
I look in the water, spotting at least a dozen people surfing. We’re too far away to tell if they’re kook assholes, but their cars never lie.
“That’s not enough,” she murmurs, her brows digging toward one another.
“Look at their cars.” I jerk my chin to the line of expensive black SUVs with shiny board racks and window clings from fancy surf shops that care more about clothes than boards.
“Did you bring a knife?”
I flip the kickstand and swing off, pop the saddlebag, and hand her the utility knife. Keep the tire iron for myself.
She plucks it from my fingers, spinning it around a few times as she strolls for the nearest car.
I lean back against the bike, crossing my arms as I watch her and trying not to get turned on by her. It’s a fucking feat.
Her fingers slide along the strap of the first board like she’s checking it. Anyone looking too closely might think that’s all she’s doing. They’d be wrong.
With a small, precise movement, she cuts clean through each one with a wide smile.
I let out a quiet breath, something like amusement pulling at the corner of my mouth.
“You do this often?” I call out.
She glances back at me without stopping. “Only when they deserve it.” She moves on to the next car, repeating the same motion with the same efficiency.
There’s something about the way she does it that gets under my skin. I push off the bike and walk over, closing the distance between us as she works.
“Gage told me you like cutting straps,” I say.
She huffs a small laugh. “It feels like the ultimate fuck you to assholes who almost drown you because they don’t know how to use their board.”
“I don’t know, baby. I kind of think your fuck you needs work. Here, let me help you.” I press a palm to her stomach and walk her back a few steps so I have enough room. Then I swing the tire iron and take out the side mirror.
She squints, tapping the flat edge of the knife against her chin. “Hm, I don’t know, Rafe, I kind of think it needs more.”
My mouth curls up in the corners, and I feel a parallel tug buried somewhere inside my chest. “Yeah, I think you’re right,” I murmur as I stroll around the hood. I take out the other side mirror. “Better?”
“For this car? Sure. But we have so many more cars left.” She grins as she skips to the next car.
We make quick work of it. She cuts all the board straps, and I remove their side mirrors. And then we’re back on my bike and cruising to the next beach.
It’s similar to the first. A cluster of shiny, new SUVs with too-new board racks and shitty vanity plates.
“That’s Shawntel’s Tacoma in the corner.” I jerk my chin to the black truck that shimmers electric blue in the sunlight. “So don’t cut hers.”
Bellamy’s lips purse as she slides me a look.
Oh, is this what jealousy looks like on her? Pleasure prickles against my skin at the thought. I let her sit with it for a few minutes, enjoying the way her shoulders pull back. I wonder what she’s imagining.
“She owns the dog club down the street from my place.”
She nods and slides off my bike. “Sure.”
I flip the kickstand and climb off, grabbing the tire iron once more. We move in tandem, like we’ve been doing this for twenty years and not twenty minutes.
She steps around me to the next car, close enough that I catch the warmth of her as she passes. I turn with her, keeping her in my line of sight without thinking about it.
That’s when I hear the engines. Heavier and lower. The kind of throttle that wants to be noticed.
I look up as three bikes roll into the lot. They don’t stop until they’re five feet out, effectively between us and my bike.
I know who it is without seeing his face.
Bellamy leans toward me. “Who’s that?”
The engines cut.
“Some assholes.”
Elias Crowe pulls his helmet off slowly, drags a hand back through his hair. Younger brother to the new president of the Devil’s Hand MC. A fucking thorn in my side since high school. Every day, he gets closer and closer to the top of my to-do list.
“Well if it isn’t everyone’s least favorite Calloway,” Elias drawls. His eyes move to Bellamy, and his mouth does something that isn’t quite a smile. “Do yourself a favor, sweetheart, and run as fast as you can from this one. He’s not safe to be around.”
“That’s the worst line I’ve ever heard.” Bellamy scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Do it again, but try harder this time.”
One of the guys behind him huffs a quiet laugh, but Elias doesn’t react to it. His attention stays fixed, measured, like he’s deciding how he wants to play this.
Crowe swings his gaze to me. “you better muzzle your bi—”
I erase the distance between us in three steps. “Careful now, Crowe. You don’t want to make your brother an only child, do you?”
It’s a fucking low blow, pressing on the eternally festering wound and cause for all the animosity between us. But I don’t regret it if it takes his attention off of her.
He climbs off his bike slowly. We’re close enough that I can smell the cigarettes on him. “You threatening me, Calloway?”
“Threat?” I rear back, flashing him a grin. I can feel how wild it is around the edges, a reminder for him more than anything. “Nah, just a statement, man. I will not be held liable for what happens if you insult her. You feel me?”
“This how you guys run things now? Threatening people for exercising their First Amendment right?”
A laugh tumbles out of me. “C’mon, Crowe. We both know you failed outta high school, so why don’t you spit out what you came here to say, and get the fuck out of my face.”
His jaw tightens. He spits on the ground between us. “Fuck you and your piece of shit family. Word on the street is your ma’s on the way out.” A beat. “Can’t fucking wait to watch your family burn.”
Behind him, one of his guys chuckles, fist-bumps the third.
I look at Crowe. Then I let out a slow breath through my nose. “You done?”
Crowe’s face goes red and splotchy at the collar. He closes the last step between us. “Nah, man. I’m not fucking done. Because when you get run outta town, the first fucking thing I’m gonna do is take your girl. I’ll let my boys take a—“
My fist connects with his mouth.
He staggers, hands flying up. Blood sheets over his upper lip and he drags the back of his wrist across it, staring at the smear. “Don’t just stand there,” he spits at his guys. “Hold him.”
They scramble off their bikes. I roll my neck once and let them come.
I’ve gone two-on-one with Bishop and Gage before.
These guys telegraph every move—the first one drops his shoulder before he swings, and I’m already stepping into it, catching his arm and using his own momentum to put him into the hood of the nearest car.
The second one gets the tire iron in the ribs before he closes the distance.
He doubles, wheezing. I grab a fistful of the first guy’s shirt and haul him upright, cocking back—
“Rafe.”
I go still. I let go. The guy crumples to the pavement.
Crowe has Bellamy from behind, one arm banded across her chest, his other hand pinching her jaw. She’s twisting, sharp and fast, but he’s already braced for it, tightening his grip just enough to keep her contained.
I’m moving before I decide to.
Then the wrench comes up, aimed at me. “Don’t fucking move.”
I stop two feet out.
“Or I take this,” Crowe says, dragging the flat of the wrench along her cheekbone, “and make sure your girl isn’t quite so pretty anymore. And I’ll still pass her around to all my friends.”
My hands hang open at my sides.
My breathing evens out.