The words droplike a live grenade.
For a split second, no one moves. The hum of the scrambler fills the space, too loud, too present. Bishop’s face hardens into something sharp and dangerous. Cruz lifts a brow, slow and unreadable.
“We donotbring outsiders into Calloway jobs,” Bishop says, every word clipped tight.
It’s a phrase Coco shoved down our throats for years. It’s etched somewhere between my lungs and spine at this point.
“We bring results,” I shoot back. My voice stays level. It costs me to keep it that way. “That’s all she cares about.”
Bishop’s hand slices through the air. “Bullshit. You’re talking about some girl you haven’t seen in six years like she’s the answer to all our problems. So you had a little childhood crush? Get the fuck over it, man. This is our life on the line.”
Heat flares under my skin, and I welcome it. I lock my jaw shut, feel the tension crawl into my shoulders, into my fists.
The truth is, it wasn’t planned.
Impulse knifed through me the night she came over for dinner. One minute I was watching her follow Ma into thekitchen, the next I was in the garage, palm closing around the tracker before my mind had even caught up. Curiosity dragged at me—a low, restless hum in my gut. I wanted to know her patterns. Where she went after she left us behind again.
The world narrowed to my own heartbeat as I slipped outside while she cut the cake. I snapped the tracker into place on her car and slid back into my chair before doubt could get its teeth in. Just a sharp and certain need to follow her trail. To see what came next.
Twelve hours. That’s how long it took before I actually opened the tracker app. The screen lit up, and there she was—a little dot, stuck on some street in Bayview, unmoving. After I stared at it for too long, I closed the app. And when I looked a few hours later, she was still there. It was the same three days in a row.
The itch started slow. A scratch at the base of my brain, restless and persistent.
I fucking followed her.
It wasn’t until she slipped out of my truck that the pieces finally snapped together. The door thunked shut, and I just sat there, staring at everything within her truck’s line of sight while my brain replayed everything. The realization hit me square in the chest.
Highlight Entertainment.
It’s a good fucking job, and it’ll be even better when we work it together.
I grit my teeth and push the anger back where it belongs. “For once, why don’t you pull your head out of Coco’s ass and actually listen?”
Bishop’s expression empties. No anger, no reaction at all. That’s the dangerous one. He steps forward. “What did you just say to me?”
I slide off the workbench and straighten to my full height, meeting him halfway. That inch I have on him must eat him alive on days like today.
“You heard me. I bring you a solid idea and you don’t even hear it because you’re too busy pretending you’re the only one who speaks for this family.” My jaw sets. “This isn’t a dictatorship. We vote.”
A sharp laugh cuts from Bishop’s throat. “Oh, that’s fucking rich. You want to talk votes?”
He steps into my space. I don’t back up.
“Fine,” Bishop snaps. “Let’s take a vote. Who’s in favor of bringing in some random girl we haven’t seen in years to run a job we don’t know shit about? Taking her word for it, huh?”
“Me,” I say immediately.
Cruz pushes off the workbench with a roll of his shoulders. “Yeah. Fuck it. I’m in.”
Bishop’s mouth twists. “You seriously think Coco’s gonna bless that?”
“She doesn’t have to,” Rafe drawls from the corner. “Not if the majority’s in.”
I don’t look at him, but I feel it—that subtle shift in the room. The balance tipping.
Rafe lets the silence stretch. I know him well enough to recognize when he’s enjoying himself.
“Let’s fucking do it,” he says at last, grinning.
