Bishop?
Now I know she’s fucking with me. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, beer dangling loose in my hand.
And if I said yes?
This time, she doesn’t hesitate.
Then I’d ask how you got my number, Gage.
I huff a quiet laugh.
Ah. So you did know.
She doesn’t respond, and after two minutes, I cave.
Some secrets are better between friends.
Is that what we are?
I swirl the bottle between my two fingers and my thumb, watching the condensation bead and run.
What else would we be?
Three dots, gone, back again.
Friends don’t usually stalk each other.
A low chuckle rumbles out of my chest before I can stop it. I’d forgotten how easy this part is. The push, the pull. The way she doesn’t give ground unless you earn it.
The good ones do.
The silence stretches. I picture her on the other end, phone in hand, expression unreadable. Wondering how much I know. How much I’m willing to admit.
What do you want, Gage?
I stare at the words. My thumb hovers over the screen, debating how honest to be.
I don’t type right away. Because the truth is, I already know exactly what I want.
You.
I fucking want you.
I stare at the screen, her message still glowing back at me. I don’t type out what I really want. Instead, I settle for a different truth.
I’ve got a proposition for you.
14
BELLAMY
Lola crumplesthe empty chip bag and shoves it into the door pocket with a dramatic sigh, as if she’s been personally wronged by time itself.
“So let me get this straight,” she says, pointing a finger at me. “Not only are we about to go meet the Callowaysvoluntarily”—she flicks her eyes upward like she’s sending a prayer to any god willing to intervene—”but we’re early? Bells, babe. What is happening to us?”
Beckett snorts from the back seat. “Pretty sure it’s the end times.”
“It’s called professionalism,” I mutter, flipping the visor down because the afternoon sun is slicing straight into my retinas. “Also, if we’re going to hear them out, we’re not showing up late like a bunch of amateurs.”
