She shoots me a look. “Okay, well, hurry up then, because I’m starving.”
We load our boards on the rack, and I feel that zip of nerves again. The SUV looks like it’s a Calloway vehicle, and for a split second I think it’s Gage—because it’s always Gage in my brain,even when it shouldn’t be. But when I risk a glance, it’s definitely not his profile in the driver’s seat.
And I have no idea why that disappoints me.
21
GAGE
By the timeI cut through the courtyard and into the second garage, my chest already feels too tight.
Tomorrow’s the job, and every step closer tightens the vice around my sanity. If anyone gets hurt tomorrow that blood is on my hands.
A thought flickers—annoying and unwelcome, but impossible to shake: If this is what Bishop feels all the time… Christ, I should hate him for his highhanded bullshit, but part of me almost understands why he always looks a breath away from walking straight off the pier. Almost.
Light spills from the cracked service door, carrying with it the low murmur of familiar voices. My hand reaches for the handle when I hear Bellamy's name, and my body locks up mid-stride like I've hit an invisible wall.
“I’ve been on Bellamy for two weeks, man,” Rafe says with a small sigh. “There’s nothing there. She’s either at home, on recon with Cruz, or with her sister down by the water. Surfing, mostly. Sometimes trying to skateboard.” A small huff of laughter. “And she’s really fucking bad at it.”
Rafe's been tailing Bellamy? My jaw locks tight, molars grinding. Blood rushes to my face so fast I can feel my pulse hammering in my temples. My boot lifts an inch off the concrete, ready to slam that door wide open, but freezes halfway up. Instead, I press my ear closer to the crack, barely breathing, fingers curling into fists so tight my knuckles crack in the silence.
Bishop grumbles, “That doesn’t mean shit. She could be playing a long game. Or she’s already spotted you, so she’s not gonna move while you’re on her. Maybe you’re not as good at this as you think you are.”
Rafe laughs, a flat, sharp sort of sound. “Come on, man. Don’t insult me. If I wanted her to see me, she would’ve.”
Their words slam into me like brass knuckles, leaving me breathless.
Was this Coco's call? Or Bishop taking liberties again?
Something icy and foreign splits through me. Fear. Fuck that. I despise the taste of it.
Since when does Bishop run surveillance without telling me? And if everyone knew except me—that's even worse.
My fingers dig into my thighs, leaving half-moons in the denim. The anger comes first—a flash fire in my chest—then something that makes me sick to my stomach.
Relief.
Fuck, I hate myself for it. For letting doubt creep in at all. But Rafe's good at what he does. If Bellamy was playing us, he would've caught her by now.
And if she ever finds out they’d been watching her, she’d walk—and she’d be right to.
The yacht, the warehouse, the music store. Maybe it wasn’t luck. Maybe it was the kind of trouble that circles back for what it wants.
“What are we doing?” Cruz murmurs at my shoulder.
“Jesus.” The word hisses out between my teeth as I spin to face him. “What the fuck areyoudoing?”
He lifts one corner of his mouth, eyes crinkling at the edges, and my fingers twitch with the urge to make a fist. Cruz's shoulder catches mine as he slides past, the scent of his cologne lingering in his wake.
I follow him into the garage where Bishop leans against the workbench, arms crossed, while Rafe gestures with one hand. “—swell's supposed to hit six feet by Thursday.” Bishop nods, face neutral as stone. Neither of them misses a beat when we enter, their conversation flowing without a single stutter or glance our way.
Rafe's eyes flick to mine for a split second. His face gives away nothing, but that's standard operating procedure for him. I tell myself there's no chance he caught me eavesdropping, but this is Rafe we're talking about—the guy has a sixth sense for other people's secrets.
Cruz hits the garage opener, and the main bay door grinds upward, loud and rattling.
And there they are. The Hale siblings stand framed in the rising rectangle of night air.
Bellamy's in cutoff jean shorts, frayed white threads dangling against her tanned thighs, and a faded Nirvana tee with a stretched-out collar that exposes the delicate hollow of her collarbone. The shirt's been washed so many times the iconic smiley face is barely visible, like a ghost fading into the fabric.
