“Hey!” I fumble it, catching the fabric before it falls to the floor.
“You’re wearing that,” Lola declares, pointing at the soft black tank top now draped over my hands.
Two more pieces of clothing hit my face—cutoff jean shorts and a tiny, silky bikini that’s mostly vibes, zero coverage. “And these. No arguments.”
I blink. “You’re just deciding for me?”
“Bell, no one is going to take you out when you look that hot.” She spins on her heel, heading toward her room.
I laugh. “That’s not true, you know.”
“Which part? The you’re hot part or no one kills the hot girl part?” She swivels back toward me with absolute seriousness. “Either way, you’re wrong though. It’s science, Bell. And we don’t argue with science.”
I grip the scrap of black fabric between my fingers as something unfurls low in my stomach. “I don’t even need a swimsuit.”
She waves me off over her shoulder. “It’s a Calloway party, isn’t it? They’realwayspool parties.”
She disappears again, leaving me standing in our little sunlit kitchen, holding an outfit I absolutely did not pick, heart hammering like the moment outside Marty’s warehouse never ended.
And somewhere beneath all of it—fear, adrenaline, the familiar tug of old wounds—there’s a spark.
A reckless, dangerous spark.
Because I’m actually going.
To the Calloway house. Tonight.
What the fuck was I thinking?
5
GAGE
Coco’s househums like it’s alive.
From the kitchen island where the four of us hover—each leaning against a different stretch of granite as if staking our own quiet territory—I can see straight through the wide sliding glass doors to the sprawling backyard. Early-evening sunlight flashes off the pool, golden streaks skating across the surface as people drink, laugh, splash, and flirt. Bass-heavy music pulses under everything, vibrating through the tile and up my legs.
The house curves around the yard in a loose U-shape—bedrooms anchoring each wing, kitchen and living room in the center, every back door opening onto the patio like a stage. She likes spaces that bend around her, where she can see everything. Everyone.
Rafe pulls from his beer and mutters, “You’d think she’d be tired of this scene by now.”
Cruz huffs out a laugh. “This? This is her slowing down.”
Rafe snorts, conceding the point.
Outside, Coco’s holding court in a flowing black dress, sunglasses perched on top of her dark hair. She’s talking animatedly to a man in a linen shirt who’s nodding along likehe’s either terrified or in love. Hard to tell with Coco. She can elicit both reactions from someone in the same breath.
Bishop swipes a hand across his jaw, already irritated. “Are you two crashing here tonight?” he asks, tone flat as poured concrete.
Cruz shrugs, like he doesn’t still sleep here five nights a week.
Rafe clinks his bottle against mine and leans back against the fridge. “I’m staying long enough to appease her,” he says. “One hour. Two if she’s in a good mood. What about you?”
Bishop grunts. “I’ve got shit to do. One more drink and I’m out.”
“Don’t let her hear you say that,” Cruz says.
Bishop scoffs. “As if I’d ever be that stupid.”
