I snatch up the note, recognizing Bell's handwriting. Disappointment curdles in my gut like sour milk, but I quickly squash it. It's not like she could tag along to the fucking meeting, I reason with myself.
But the bigger part of me admits that I wanted to taste her mouth one more time.
Fuck, who am I kidding?Just one moredoesn't exist when it comes to her. I could have her mouth a thousand ways, and it would never be enough.
That thought is a sobering one. But not unwelcome. In fact, I kind of like the idea of being able to have her a thousand different ways.
“Whatever, man. I'm going,” I grumble, grabbing my bike helmet off the counter by the side door.
“Ride with me,” Bishop says, dangling his keys.
“Nah, man. I'm good.” I push past him, shoulder checking his as I stroll outside.
My brother looks like he’s itching for a fight, and if he spouts one more comment about Bellamy, I’d give him one. And I don’t particularly feel like getting into an accident today.
The Ducati waits for me, sleek and patient. I run my palm over the seat, feeling the morning dew still clinging to the leather. The engine roars to life, drowning out Bishop's voice calling after me. The vibration travels up my arms, into my chest, almost—but not quite—enough to shake her scent off my skin.
I lean into the curve at Seacliff and Juniper, the same bend where I wiped out at thirteen and Bishop had to scrape me off the ground. The Ducati purrs beneath me as we pass the faded blue lifeguard tower, then the cracked sidewalk where the roots of the old banyan tree push through. Palm trees give way to imported Italian cypresses, chain-link to wrought iron. The houses grow taller, wider, farther back from the road—as if they're all taking a collective step away from anyone who doesn't belong.
My mind wanders back to earlier this morning.
Bellamy in the parking lot, her hair whipping across her face in the salt-heavy breeze, looking at me with those stormy gray eyes. The way she'd planted herself beside me while thosetourist fucks puffed themselves up like territorial peacocks, her shoulder nearly touching mine. Like she knew I'd protect her.
Just the memory makes my chest feel weird, like someone poured honey directly into my ribcage and it's coating everything inside me, sticky and golden and impossible to wash away.
I don’t know what she does exactly, how she manages to walk through the world like it owes her nothing and still get what she wants out of it, but I know how I feel around her.
Good. I feel fuckinggood. Like someone cranked up all my senses. Colors sharpen and the air tastes better. My skin buzzes for hours after she’s touched it.
It’s exactly like I remembered when we were younger, and somehow it’sbetter.
It’s an underrated experience. One I’d do a lot to hold on to.
The wind peels my lips back from my teeth, stinging my eyes until they water. Yellow lines on the asphalt melt into one continuous streak beneath me. My ears ring with the Ducati's growl, drowning out even the thunder of my pulse in my temples, until thoughts of Bellamy, Bishop's warning, Ma's summons—all of it fades to white noise.
When I pull up to Coco’s house, the gates open without me slowing down. This house has been our home and headquarters for as long as I can remember.
But it’s never felt likehome.
The back gate protests with a long metallic whine that slices through the midmorning stillness. I freeze for half a second, like I'm sixteen again sneaking home past curfew.
At the outdoor dining table, Rafe's shoulders tense at the sound. Cruz doesn't even look up, just taps his sneakers against the bench in rhythm to whatever's playing in his head, steam rising from the mug balanced on his knee, one corner of his mouth hitched higher than the other.
Rafe's jaw twitches every few seconds, his fingers drumming against his bicep. The shadow of the palm tree slides across his face as he stares at the ripples in the pool, not blinking when a leaf spirals down to break the surface.
Cruz's head snaps up at the sound of my footsteps, his watch catching the sunlight as he twists his wrist. “You’re late.”
Rafe’s mouth twitches. “Thought Bishop was gonna pop a blood vessel if you didn’t answer your phone.”
“I was surfing,” I say, dropping into my usual chair at the table.
Cruz's lips curl up, revealing a flash of white teeth. “Where'd you go?”
“And why didn't you extend the invite?” Rafe cuts in, drumming his fingers against the table, eyes never leaving mine.
I roll my shoulders back, feeling the tightness from this morning's session. “Would you have said yes?”
“I might've,” Rafe tilts his head, the sunlight catching the stubble along his jaw.
