We sit on our boards between sets, rising and falling with the swell as if the ocean is taking us in its hands and testing our weight. Droplets cling to Bellamy's eyelashes, catching what little sunlight filters through the marine layer.
My eyes catch on her mouth for half a second—salt-chapped, slightly parted—and I think about kissing her in salt water, about how the ocean would mingle with her taste, about the ragged half-moan that escaped when I pushed her against the wall at Coco's, her spine arching beneath my palm.
I don't let the thought finish. It's dangerous territory, sitting on surfboards in the gray morning light with nothing but water between us.
I clear my throat, tasting brine. “Everything move okay?”
She glances at me, then out at the horizon where the pewter sky meets darker water. “Yeah. Vega cleared it.”
Relief loosens something in me, and I exhale. “Good.”
“Jewelry will take another week or so, but I expected it to. What about you guys? I haven’t heard anything.”
“Bishop and Cruz handled it. I think it’s done or almost done. I don’t know. I’m not really involved in that part.”
She dips her chin once, her eyes never leaving mine. Something in her expression shifts—softens around the edges—like she's reading between my words. A swell lifts us, gentle and unbroken. My board rocks beneath me, and I steady myself with a hand on the rail, the other dipping into the cold water.
“You said Lola’s scouting again. She always brings you the ideas?”
Bellamy shrugs. “A lot of them. She sees angles most people don’t.” She turns her board slightly to keep facing the swell. “Beckett handles the tech and drives getaway. Once we all agree on a job, I usually take point. But we’re unanimous. It’s never just one person deciding.”
Must be fuckin’ nice. Annoyance flares underneath my skin like a hot flash.
“I would ask what about you, but I’m pretty sure I already know the answer to that.”
I let out a soft laugh. “Yeah, Bishop and Coco plan all our jobs.”
She hums a little, and silence falls over us.
“I have ideas sometimes,” I add before I can stop myself. I hate that it sounds like I’m asking to be congratulated for having thoughts. “Legit ones. But it’s just not how the family works.”
“Why not?” she asks quietly.
“I don't fucking know.” My voice sounds hollow, like shouting into an empty room.
I stare at the horizon where gray meets darker gray. My jaw tightens, teeth grinding against each other. I dig my fingernails into my palm until I feel the sting. I make a dismissive flicking motion with my hand, water droplets scattering from my fingertips. “Years of the same shit. Doing shit the same way over and over again. It’s played out, Bell.”
“So change it up, Gage.” She says it so matter-of-factly, like she doesn’t know Coco would never hand over the reins.
“If it were only that easy,” I murmur, forcing myself to grin. To lighten to mood.
A set rolls in, glass-smooth faces catching the morning light. Bellamy pivots her board in one fluid motion, her eyes narrowing at something I can't see yet. Her shoulders dip as she throws herself forward, each paddle stroke sending spray that catches sunlight. The board lurches beneath her, that moment of perfect connection, and she's up—feet planted, knees bent, one arm trailing the wall of water as she carves across its face, leaving a white trail in her wake.
My wave builds behind me, a wall of water lifting my board. Three hard strokes and I'm in. The drop makes my stomach float as I pop up, knees bent, arms out. The face of the wave glitters as I carve across it, salt spray hitting my lips, the board humming beneath my feet. When it closes out, I kick out the back, the rush still tingling in my fingertips as I paddle back out to where Bellamy waits, silhouetted against the horizon.
“I think we should pull another job together.” The words tumble out rough-edged, like shells dragged by the tide.
Bellamy's fingers stop tapping against her board. Her eyes flick to mine, then back to the horizon.
Her lips curve upward. “You got an idea?”
“I might.” The corners of my mouth tug without permission. My chest feels lighter anyway.
Three boards clack together as a trio of guys paddle out near us. One is the new wetsuit guy. Another one has a GoPro strapped to his head, swiveling to capture the horizon like he's filming a documentary nobody asked for. They paddle with choppy, uneven strokes, splashing more than moving.
Bellamy's eyes meet mine. One corner of her mouth quirks up. “Assholes?” she mouths.
“Assholes,” I confirm under my breath.
