Chapter 28 Bellamy
TWENTY-EIGHT
BELLAMY
Rafe barely rolls the bike into the driveway when his phone vibrates inside his pocket—against the back of my thigh.
“Are you going to get that?” I murmur into his neck, rocking my hips.
“No.” He walks the bike up his driveway, each movement flexing his cock inside of me.
His phone vibrates again.
“Maybe you should get that.” I jerk my chin toward his lap.
“The only person I want to talk to is right here.” He flicks the kickstand out once we’re at the end of his driveway.
I grin, straining toward his mouth. When his phone vibrates again. I rest my toes on the footpegs and push up a little. “Answer it.”
He curls a hand up my back and over my shoulder, pushing me back down onto his length. Then he reaches over and taps a button on his console.
“What?” he snaps, voice rough-edged.
“Why aren’t you answering your fucking phone?” Bishop’s voice comes through the speaker on Rafe’s bike.
“I’m busy.”
“Well cancel your fucking plans, man. Ron just called. They’re bringing him something,” Bishop says.
Rafe’s gaze locks onto mine. “Can’t, man.”
There’s a scuffle sound in the background, then it sounds like Gage’s voice in the background.
“Gage wants to know if you’ve seen Bellamy today. Because apparently, I’m his fucking assistant now.”
I lift the corner of my mouth and squeeze those internal muscles. He grunts, his hand coming up to rest against the front of my throat, his thumb brushing back and forth.
“Yeah. I have.”
“When?” Gage asks from the background.
“She’s not picking up her phone, and he’s insisting she be roped in,” Bishop relays.
“I’ll bring her with me.”
“Fine. Meet us at Ron’s,” Bishop says before the call ends.
I can feel my pulse hammering, his thumb grazing up to my jaw, where he uses it to tilt my chin so I have to look him in the eye.
“You good?” he asks, the words nothing but a low rasp.
I nod. “Are you?” I roll my hips deliberately making my point.
He lets out a rough laugh, but it dies before it’s all the way out. “Yeah, baby, I’m fucking peachy.” The words ride out on an exhale, not quite matching the way his jaw clenches or the way he slowly lays me down against his bike, his hand sliding to press against my sternum.
He pushes to stand. I bring my knees up toward my torso to change the angle, and his breath goes out of him in a way that sounds like a decision being made.
His grip shifts. His rhythm does too—deeper, slower, like he’s got something to prove and all the time in the world to prove it, even though Bishop’s voice is still sitting in the air between us and we both know it.
My fingers find the front of his shirt. His forehead drops to mine. Neither of us closes our eyes.
He pulls out and I feel the loss of him immediately, the cool air rushing in where he was.
He shoves my dress up past my hips, his hands rough and certain, and then he’s coming apart over my stomach with a sound low in his throat that I feel more than hear.
He goes still for a moment after, breathing hard, his eyes moving over my skin like he’s not ready to look away from what he’s done. Like he’s deciding something.
His thumb drags once through the warmth pooling at my navel, slow and deliberate, and the eye contact he makes when he does it is almost better than everything that came before.
Then he reaches into the saddlebag without a word and comes back with a small packet. Tears it open with his teeth. The wipe is cool against my stomach, his touch still unhurried, still careful, cleaning me up with the same focused attention he gives everything else.
The road narrows as we get closer, the terrain shifting from open coastline to something more industrial, less maintained. The air changes with it, salt giving way to a heavier scent—metal and oil mingling with the heat, pressing against my skin.
Rafe slows as we approach the turnoff, his body angling slightly as he checks the road ahead. I can feel the tension radiating from him, a coiled energy waiting to be unleashed as he pulls us onto a rough stretch of gravel that leads toward the salvage yard.
The place comes into view slowly—chain-link fencing, stacks of stripped cars, rusted frames piled into uneven towers catching the last of the light in dull, broken reflections. The whole area feels quiet in a way that isn’t natural, like it’s holding its breath.
He cuts the engine a short distance from the main gate, choosing distance over visibility.
“What is this place?” I slide off behind him, sneakers hitting the ground with a soft crunch. Taking in the layout, I spot multiple entry points—places where the fence has been bent or worn down enough for someone determined to slip through without too much trouble.
Gage steps out from behind a stack of crushed cars, his gaze flicking from me to Rafe and back again. “Thought you’d want to be here for this.”
“Yeah. I do, thanks. What are we looking for again?”
Gage glares at Rafe. “You didn’t tell her?”
Rafe shrugs as he swings his leg off his bike. “Hard to talk when she’s on the back of my bike.”
A muscle feathers in Gage’s jaw. “Right.” He drags his attention back to me and holds out a hand. “C’mon, Bell, you can come with me. I’ll fill you in.”
I slide my hand into his at the same time Rafe’s hand lands on my shoulder. “She’s fine here.”
Something pulls tight in the space between the three of us.
I clear my throat, and don’t even attempt to wade into the pit of emotions swirling inside of me right now.
There’s a version of this where I know exactly what to do. Where my throat doesn’t tighten, and I don’t feel torn between them. Where I don’t feel bad about wanting all of them.
I don’t know why I didn’t expect a little repercussions from fucking around with these men, but I really should have.
“Why don’t we all stay here together?” I lift my brows, looking between the two men.
Cruz’s voice comes from the right, close enough to hear clearly, far enough away that I have to turn to find him. “Bishop’s gonna kill all of you if you don’t get into position.”
I spot him half-shadowed along the fence line, positioned where he can see both the yard and the road without being obvious about it.
“Positions?” The word squeaks out of me as my mind ziplines me to the last hour, and the many different positions Rafe and I were tangled up in.
Like he’s reading my mind, he smirks, dragging this teeth over his bottom lip.
“Yeah, Bell. We’re watching all entry points so we catch those motherfuckers who hit us,” Gage says.
“Get into position. If we lose them because you two are busy pawing at her, I’m going to take out my frustration out of your cut,” Bishop says from further away.
“Way to advertise that we’re here, asshole,” Cruz drawls as he walks away.
Gage’s face darkens. “I’d like to see you fucking try.”
Rafe grins, and it’s all teeth. “He forgets that I’m the one who trained with him for years.”
Gage smirks. “He forgets a lot of things in his old age.”
Something passes between them—not quite a look, not quite a smile. The kind of thing that doesn’t need words because it’s already been said a hundred times before.
Rafe squeezes my shoulder before his hand slides to the back of my neck, tunneling into my hair. His fingers flex, tugging my hair at the roots. I feel tension melt from my body, my lips parting with an exhale like an involuntary body response.
“She’s with me tonight,” Rafe murmurs, voice low.
“Whatever. But you don’t get to hog her, asshole.” Gage steps in and kisses me— quick, hard, a little punishing—and then he’s already walking away before I’ve finished wanting more.
I take a few steps along the fence, giving myself a different angle, one that lets me see deeper into the yard without standing directly in the open. The metal is cool under my fingers as I rest my hand against it, grounding myself in something solid.
Time stretches.
No headlights cutting through the dark. No doors opening. No voices carrying across the yard. Just the low creak of the fence in the wind and the distant sound of something settling in the dark.
Rafe drifts to my side. “See anything, baby?”
“No.”
He doesn’t respond. His jaw shifts once, and then goes still.
Time stretches in a way that doesn’t feel tied to anything real.
We could have been standing here for five minutes or half an hour, and I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. The yard stays quiet, the shadows don’t shift, nothing moves, and I know I should be focused on that.
I am—mostly.
But my body hasn’t caught up yet.
It’s still keyed to him, to the way his hands felt on me, the way the bike moved under us, the way everything blurred together until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
There’s a lingering awareness I can’t quite shake, like my skin is still remembering something my brain hasn’t decided what to do with yet.
I shift my weight and try to drag my attention back to the fence, to the gaps in the metal, to the sightlines we’re supposed to be watching.
It lasts about three seconds before my attention slides sideways.
Rafe is standing just a few feet away, angled toward the yard, his posture loose but not relaxed, like he’s ready to move even when he looks still. There’s no trace of what just happened written anywhere on him, no sign that an hour ago he was—
I exhale slowly through my nose.
Focus, Bellamy.
His eyes cut to me without turning his head. “I can feel you staring, baby.” There’s the faintest hint of a smirk at the edge of his mouth when he finally looks at me.
I don’t even try to deny it.
“Can you blame me?” I ask quietly. “I’m a little distracted.”
His lips twitch. “Don’t worry. I’ll pay attention enough for the both of us.”
I tilt my head slightly, letting my gaze drag over him in a way that is absolutely not subtle. “So generous.”
Something shifts in his expression, brief but sharp, like he’s filing that away for later.
I force myself to look back at the yard, but it doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse.
Because now I’m standing here, pretending to be part of something strategic and controlled, while there’s a very real part of me that is still back on that stretch of road, still caught in the moment where everything tipped and didn’t tip back.
It’s so ridiculous but I also get it. There’s a version of me that existed this morning, and the version of me standing here now. And they are not the same person.
It sounds more dramatic than it feels. If Lola could hear me right now, she would absolutely call me out on it, probably use the word dickmatized with a level of enthusiasm I don’t need in my life.
But she wouldn’t be wrong.
And I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to be the version of me who doesn’t know what it feels like to be with him like that, who hasn’t felt that kind of intensity, that kind of pull, that kind of complete, consuming awareness.
I’ve never felt more alive than I did this afternoon. And that wouldn’t be such a problem if it was just him.
But it’s not—it’s all of them.
That same thread, that same pull, that same dangerous, addictive edge that keeps showing up no matter which one of them I’m standing next to.
I drag a hand through my hair and look back out at the yard, forcing myself to focus again.
My phone vibrates in my hand. Bishop texted the group chat.
Bishop: I’m calling it. Meet at the house.
Cruz: What about Ron?
Bishop: I’ll handle him.
I stare at the message for a second, then glance up at the others as they start shifting out of position, the tension dissolving just enough to move.
We came out here ready for something, and we’re leaving with nothing. Another dead end?
I’m starting to think the Sableine job might’ve been cursed.
“Time to go, baby,” Rafe murmurs, snagging my hand.
He laces his fingers with mine, and we walk, hand-in-hand toward his bike. I should be thinking about the job, about what this means, about what we’re missing.
Instead, I look at the Calloways, and one thought cuts cleanly through everything else.
I am so fucked.
And for the first time since all of this started—I’m not even a little bit worried about it.