12
RAFE
The scrambler humsin the corner like a pissed-off hornet, just loud enough to remind you conversations vanish into static the moment they hit the air in here.
Bishop’s already pacing when I push the side door open, a half-crushed bag of chips in my hand and grease still streaked along my forearms from tuning my bike. He’s wearing a groove into the concrete between the workbench and the door.
He doesn’t even look up before snapping, “You’re late.”
I snort and wander in, letting the door thunk shut behind me. “I’m never late. You just started early.”
His gaze slices over, sharp and searching, like he’s inventorying everything from my expression to the way my weight settles on my feet.
“Did you handlethat thingfrom this morning?” he asks.
There it is. The check-in. Not quite distrust, not quite faith—just Bishop making sure the world is still orbiting him the way he expects it to.
I pop another chip into my mouth and talk around the crunch. “When have I not?”
He waits for more. I don’t give it.
I drift toward the nearest safe instead, lean my shoulder against the column beside it, and tap my ring softly against the metal. A steadyting, ting, ting. My favorite quiet fuck you.
Whatever he’s worried about—dock workers talking, a name getting loose, someone spotting something they shouldn’t have—it’s already handled. If there was a loose end, it’s not loose anymore.
Bishop keeps pacing, boots scuffing a tight, angry path. He’s wound so tight I can practically hear him creak.
The door beeps again.
Cruz strolls in barefoot, hair damp, T-shirt clinging to his chest like he just got out of the shower and couldn’t be bothered to fully dry off. He grabs a beach towel off the back of a chair and rubs it once over his head before tossing it aside.
Bishop throws his hands out. “Sure. Take your time. I’m not on a fucking schedule or anything.”
Cruz slouches against the workbench, crossing his ankles. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
I hide a smile behind a chip. Cruz has a gift—he can make anything sound like a favor.
Bishop mutters something under his breath and checks his phone again. He’s been more keyed up than usual lately. Too many closed-door conversations with Coco. Too much yacht fallout. Not enough money moving to smooth the edges off his temper.
“So.” His gaze snaps to me, then to Cruz. “Where the hell is Gage?”
Cruz shrugs, reaching into the mini-fridge for a bottle of water. “How the fuck should I know? I’m not his keeper.”
I tilt my head back against the column. “He’ll show. Said he was checking something out.”
Bishop stops pacing and stares at me. “What does that mean?”
I lift a shoulder. “He mentioned recon. Said he had an idea and wanted to look at it first.”
Bishop scoffs, motion snapping back into him like a switch flipped. “He knows we don’t do recon until we agree on a job. He knows that. So why the fuck is he doing recon alone?”
I lick salt from my fingers, unbothered by Bishop’s mood. “Don’t come at me, man. I’m not the one reinventing the rules.”
He shoots me a look like I’m exactly the one doing that. Whatever. I’ve been getting that look since we were kids.
The door beeps again.
Gage steps in a little out of breath, hoodie unzipped over a faded tee, hair a mess like he ran here with the hood half on and didn’t bother fixing it. He hops up onto the workbench beside Cruz, ankles hooked, palms braced behind him like this is all perfectly casual.
