I slip mine inside his and let him pull me to my feet. “I didn’t know you guys ended parties. I thought Coco liked to let them go all night?”
“She does, but he's got a fight tonight. So he's cutting it off.”
We slip inside through one of the side doors. My fingers twitch against my thigh, and I press my lips together to stop myself from asking more questions about Bishop. The memory of his knuckles connecting with that guy's face flashes behind my eyes.
“At this time of night?” I manage, my voice coming out higher than I intended.
Gage shrugs. “It's some underground thing. They thrive on this kind of fucked-up schedule.” His eyes light up. “I can bring you sometime though if you want. Bishop's a fucking animal in the ring.”
“Yeah, maybe.” I tug at my hair, exposing my neck to the cool air. The image of Bishop's knuckles flashes behind my eyelids every time I blink.
Gage pushes open his bedroom door. A blue surfboard leans against the wall, its edges chipped, wax buildup yellowed from use. The air smells faintly of salt and cologne. A half-empty water bottle sits on the nightstand beside a dog-eared paperback. The navy comforter is rumpled on one side, pillow still bearing the indent of a head.
He yanks open a dresser drawer that doesn't quite close all the way, pulls out a faded Nirvana t-shirt, and tosses it toward me. “You can sleep in this.”
I catch the soft cotton against my chest, the worn fabric cool against my fingertips. My skin prickles with goosebumps in the air-conditioned room.
“Thanks.”
Gage turns and reaches behind his head. The muscles in his arms flex as he tugs his shirt off in one fluid motion.
I wait until he's facing away before peeling off my still-damp jean shorts. They cling to my thighs, leaving red imprints where the seams pressed too tight. The t-shirt slides over my head, smelling faintly of detergent and him. With my back to Gage, I reach under the fabric, fingers fumbling with the wet knot of my bikini top until it finally gives way. I slip my bikini off and drop it on top of my jean shorts.
“Okay, I’m done.”
He turns around. His eyes drop to where the t-shirt's hem skims my thighs, and his throat works as he swallows. His fingers flex once at his sides, then curl into loose fists. He blinks twice, jaw tightening as he fixes his gaze somewhere above my left shoulder.
Gage pulls back the comforter. “Let's go to bed, Bell.” His voice drops to a whisper, like we're kids at a sleepover trying not to wake the adults.
I slide in from one side while he climbs in from the other, the mattress dipping in the middle, drawing us toward each other like magnets. Our knees almost touch. I can't remember the last time we shared a bed—if we ever did.
I turn onto my side, facing him. The streetlight filtering through the blinds catches the curve of his jaw, relaxed now where it had been clenched all evening. His eyes, half-lidded and unguarded, flick to mine before darting away. The hard lines around his mouth have smoothed out, like someone's erased the person he pretends to be.
He looks toward me once more. “You're here, Bell.” His voice barely disturbs the air between us.
“I am.” The words catch in my throat like fabric on a nail.
His hand finds mine. His fingertips trace patterns along my wrist, following a path up my arm. “Where did you go?“ The question trembles at the edges, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes me want to look away.
My chest tightens. I open my mouth, close it again. The truth sits heavy on my tongue, too large to push past my teeth. I stare at the ceiling instead, counting the shadows that dance across it.
“Goodnight, Gage,” I whisper.
He sighs, the sound soft but weighted, like a stone dropping through still water. I refuse to let his disappointment sink into my veins, not when my own disappointment has been growing for years—a constant snarling gray cloud tucked behind my sternum, expanding with each breath until it scrapes against my lungs like sandpaper.
“Night, Bell,” he says quietly.
Sleep takes me slow, same way a tide pulls at your ankles when you’re not paying attention. It just starts, gentle and steady, and before I know it I’m slipping under, the room going soft and blurred around the edges. Gage breathes in and out next to me, steady and deep, and for a while that’s all I hear. It’s like surf, that rhythm, and I let it rock me further out, my limbs getting heavier every time I exhale. I float there, not really awake, not really dreaming, drifting off the edge of things into deeper water. Thoughts scatter and flicker, quick and silvery, darting away where I can’t quite follow.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, beneath the warmth of cotton and the steady presence beside me, a single thought curls up tight and watchful like a venomous snake coiled in tall grass: this house—with its salt-stained surfboards, its midnight fights, its beautiful boys with bloodied knuckles—has rules carved in stone and written in bruises.
And tonight, watching Bishop's fist connect with bone and cartilage, I learned exactly how mercilessly the Calloways enforce them.
33
BELLAMY
I wake up warm.The weight of an arm pins me to the mattress, fingers curled possessively at my waist. A heartbeat thumps against my spine, slow and steady. Behind me, warm breath tickles my neck with each exhale, sending tiny shivers down to my shoulders despite the heat.
