Bishop ignores both of them. “We regroup in five. Clear what you can, then we take the haul back.”
Rafe snorts. “Haul. Great word for the twelve bucks and a charity bracelet we found.”
Cruz lifts a gold bangle between two fingers. “Hey, this is at least?—”
“Cruz,” Bishop warns.
The air tightens instantly into something dangerous and electric. The kind of tension where one wrong word could turn the whole yacht into a chokehold.
Which is when Rafe—of all people—breaks the mood with a quiet, “So… who’s telling Coco?”
Everything stops.
Cruz freezes mid-step. Bishop’s jaw flexes. I blink.
Rafe lifts his brows. “What? Someone’s gotta do it.”
Cruz lets out a single, dark laugh. “Not it.”
“Not it,” Rafe echoes immediately.
I realize what’s happening a beat too late. “I’m?—”
“Gage it is,” they say in unison.
“Absolutely not,” I fire back. “I’m not telling her we burned two weeks for pocket change.”
“You’re the favorite,” Rafe says flatly.
“Fuck off,” I shoot back. “Everyone knows Cruz is the favorite. That’s why he’s still living at home.”
Cruz’s smirk is a goddamn weapon. “Aw, someone’s jealous.”
A surprised laugh tumbles out of me before I can choke it back. “Jealous of Coco cockblocking me? Nah, I’m good.”
Bishop finally turns, expression flat as midnight. “All of you shut up. I’ll tell her.”
Rafe blinks. “She’s gonna bite your head off.”
“She bites harder when she smells weakness,” Bishop says. His gaze cuts through us. “And all three of you reek of it tonight.”
Cruz clutches his chest dramatically. “Wow. Inspirational. Really feeling the brotherly support.”
I scrub a hand over my mouth to hide the grin threatening to break free. I don’t feel like landing on Bishop’s shit list tonight—and that motherfucker hits people for fun.
Bishop ignores us both.” Two-minute sweep. Then we’re gone.”
He stalks back toward the master berth. I’m sure he’s mentally assembling lies and half-truths he can deliver without flinching.
Rafe lets out a low whistle. “We’re dead.”
I follow him toward the companionway, numb. A little unsteady.
Not because of Coco. Not because of the job.
Because as we descend the stairs, the image slams back into my skull—the girl on the bow, lit up in the spotlight, running like she knew exactly how to disappear.
And the worst part?
