I let the corner of my mouth lift, muscles tight. “Just some friendly advice.”
His nostrils flare. A short exhale. He rocks back onto his heels, shoulders angling toward the exit. “Whatever, man. I’ve got shit to do.”
My gaze drops to the backpack, lingers for two heartbeats, then rises to meet his. “Yeah, I’m sure you do.”
The space between us stretches, holds, and finally breaks. The backpack swings as he pushes past me, toward the front door.
There’s something fucking weird going on, and I can’t tell what Coco’s involvement is exactly, but I’m sure as fuck gonna figure it out.
I trace the edge of the table with my index finger, finding a scratch in the mahogany I’ve memorized since childhood.
The same table where Coco once bandaged Bishop’s split knuckles while telling him to hit harder next time. Where she laid out cash in neat stacks after jobs, her red nails tapping each pile.
Bishop’s not wrong, I could’ve gotten my own place years ago. But there was always something that held me back. At first, I didn’t want to leave Ma here alone, not when she left a string of enemies up and down the coast in the last decade. Somewhere along the way, it morphed into something else entirely.
I toured five different apartments last year, security deposits ready in my pocket. And five times I drove back to this house instead, checking the perimeter before walking in the door, listening for voices that might not belong to family.
I push through the sliding door back to the party. Bass hits me like a fist to the sternum. Sweat beads instantly at my hairline, the night air thick enough to chew. Bodies shift and sway in the same patterns as before, red cups tilted at identical angles, laughter rising and falling in predictable waves.
My gaze sweeps left to right and stops on her.
Gage leans back against the stone wall by the pool, his weight shifting as Bellamy’s body settles across his thighs. Her sandal dangles from one foot, swinging slightly with each laugh. His fingertips trace invisible patterns along her side, catching occasionally on the thin fabric of her dress. When she turns to whisper something, her hair falls forward, creating a curtain that shields whatever passes between them from the rest of the party.
I’m three steps from the bar when Coco materializes beside me, fresh drink in hand, ice barely melted.
“Having fun?”
I keep walking. “You know me.”
She matches my stride, her gaze sliding to the pool then back. The corner of her mouth twitches upward. She hums softly, tilting her head just enough to follow my sightline toward Gage and Bellamy. “They’re cute, aren’t they?”
The words float between us, light as cigarette smoke.
“You know,” she continues, swirling her drink slowly, ice tapping against the glass, “Gage was asking me earlier about mygrandmother’s chocolate cake recipe.” She pauses to take a sip. “He wants to make it for her.”
“He should,” I grunt out. What the fuck do I care if my brother wants to make a fucking cake?
“He always was so sweet,” she muses, her gaze roaming over the side of my face. “Of course, all my boys are special in their own ways.” She palms my cheek, tapping softly twice. “Enjoy yourself tonight, honey.” She steps away, red nails flashing as she waves to someone across the pool, shoulders relaxing into the persona she wears for everyone else.
I stay where I am for a second longer than I should, my attention drifting without landing anywhere in particular, the weight of the moment sitting just under the surface without resolving into anything useful.
Then I push off the wall and move, because standing still isn’t doing me any favors.
TWELVE
BELLAMY
The party feels louderwhen you’re standing still. Bass thrums through the soles of my shoes, conversations crash like waves, and sweat beads at the nape of my neck where escaped strands of hair stick to skin. The pool casts blue-white ribbons across the patio, dancing over bare shoulders, catching the rim of a glass mid-toast, illuminating half-smiles that dissolve if I blink.
My fingers tap against my thigh. Once. Twice. Three times.
I scan the crowd, tracking movement—a hand gesture here, a shifting hip there—rather than faces. No sign of Cruz, though that means nothing. He has a way of materializing exactly when I’ve convinced myself he’s gone.
Gage disappeared ten minutes ago with a quick “be right back” and a nod toward some guy in a black shirt by the speakers. Something about a blown fuse or a neighbor complaint. His fingers had skimmed my wrist before he walked away—casual, barely-there—but now the phantom pressure is fading, and with it, my reason to stay planted in this corner while strangers brush past me toward the bar.
A hand hooks lightly around my arm, tugging me half a step sideways. “Hey.”
I turn toward Lola. The scrape at her temple has scabbed over, a jagged line disappearing into her hairline—souvenir from the desert. Her purse strap cuts diagonally across her chest, keys already dangling from her fingers.
