I take another slow sip, letting the burn linger. Across the yard, Bellamy’s laughter rises over the crowd. My glass stays at my lips.
I raise my eyebrows. “And besides, I didn’t even meet with Madeline, remember?”
Bishop’s fingers tighten around his glass. “I know. I’m just saying—” His jaw locks, then releases. The volume stays low but his consonants sharpen. “What’s a couple of hours at a restaurant if it keeps Madeline in play?”
I tilt my glass. The ice slides against crystal with a soft clink. A single drop of condensation rolls down the side, leaving a wet trail on my thumb.
“Depends what it costs.”
Three seconds pass. Bishop’s shoulders remain rigid. Mine stay loose. Neither of us looks away.
The bass from the speakers vibrates through the concrete beneath our feet. A woman’s laugh cuts through the music. Someone bumps my elbow as they reach for the bottle behind me.
Bishop’s eyes flick to my face, then to my drink, then back to my face. He exhales through his nose. “You know what? Fuck it.Coco helped Madeline get on her feet, but if she wants to fuck around with us?” He shrugs one shoulder. “We’ll make our own fence. It’ll take a while, but we’ve got some other contacts in the meantime.”
Bishop sets his glass behind the counter with a soft clink. The empty water bottle arcs through the air, landing in the garbage can with a hollow thud. He pushes off the bar, shoulders rigid. “I’m going to go get some air.”
He’s ten feet away before I can point out the breeze already ruffling his shirt collar.
My gaze drifts back to Coco a table length away. She shifts her weight, angling her body just slightly to the left, creating a pocket of emptiness in the crowd. Beckett drifts into that space like a boat caught in an invisible current. His feet don’t quite step forward; hers don’t quite pull him in. Yet somehow he’s there, standing close enough that her perfume must be filling his lungs.
She leans in. Her palm presses against his chest, fingers splayed across the fabric of his shirt. Her lips move near his ear. His chin dips immediately—once, twice—puppet-string quick. Her hand slides upward, fingertips lingering at his collarbone before settling on his shoulder. She squeezes once, the fabric of his shirt bunching beneath her grip.
Her lips brush his cheek, leaving behind the faintest smudge of pink. “You let me know how it goes.” The words blend into the bass line, meant to dissolve like sugar in water.
But I catch them anyway.
The conversation ends with a nod, and I slide my gaze past them to the pool lights, counting one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand before looking elsewhere. My fingers tighten slightly around the glass. The ice shifts, settling into new positions.
I drain the whiskey in one swallow, barely registering the burn. The empty glass makes no sound when I set it behindthe bar. I move toward the sliding door without looking back, keeping my stride loose, hands in pockets as I follow Beckett and my mother inside the house.
The door whispers shut behind me. The music recedes, muffled now by double-paned glass, vibrations felt more than heard. Goosebumps rise on my forearms as the air conditioning hits my skin. Coco’s favorite lemon-scented cleaner mingles with spilled beer and the faint musk of the leather sectional—the particular cologne of Coco’s parties, unchanged since we were teenagers.
Beckett stands at the dining room table with Coco, angled just enough that his back shields whatever his hands are doing. The backpack hangs from one shoulder, zipper teeth parted.
I ease into the shadowed doorway and lean against the frame, settling my weight like I’ve been here the whole time.
His hand closes around something bulky on the table before he tilts the backpack just enough to slide it inside.
Coco’s fingernails tap once against the table. “Don’t overthink it, honey.” Her voice lifts, sheds its weight, becomes something that could float back out to the pool deck. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. And this is good experience for you.”
Beckett’s chin dips. “Yeah, thanks Mrs. Calloway.”
She reaches up and palms one of his cheeks. “I’ve already told you to call me Coco.”
I catch the edge of her smile before she taps his cheek twice—the gesture hovers between maternal and proprietary. She turns and walks deeper into the house, toward all the bedrooms without so much as a glance at Beck’s backpack.
I count ten heartbeats before I make my presence known.
“You good?”
Beckett’s shoulders tense. “I’m fine,” he snaps, looking over his shoulder. His gaze darts to mine, then away. His thumb works the zipper closed with practiced precision.
I push off the doorframe. Three steps and I’m close enough to catch the scent of Coco’s perfume still lingering in the air. His shoulders hunch forward, one hand gripping the backpack strap so tight his knuckles pale.
“You sure, man?” The words come out barely above the bass line still thumping through the glass. “Don’t let her force your hand—make you do anything you don’t want to.”
His head snaps up. The muscle in his jaw pulses once, twice. “Just because my sister is fucking around with your brother,” he says, each word landing like a knife on concrete, “doesn’t make youmybrother.”
