Page 63 of Dreadful

“Our contingency plans for this.” I circle my index finger in the air.

She shakes her head, the divot in her brows deepening. “I don’t understand. I didn’t get an assignment.”

I press the peas gently back against her cheek again and hold her gaze. “That's because you were the assignment.”

TWENTY-TWO

BELLAMY

Turns out, Coco wasn't kidding about the roast. She made a pie too.

The dinner plates have been cleared away, leaving half-empty glasses and slices of apple pie scattered around the table on the back patio.

Less than twenty-four hours after a bunch of bikers cut the power and ambushed us in this very house. Nobody else seems particularly interested in acknowledging how fucking weird it is, so I guess I’ll play along. For now.

Behind me, the family-room bay window is nothing more than a rough sheet of plywood, its edges splintered, nails glinting where they bit into old framing. Down the hallway, fresh drywall mud patches stare back at me—thick, uneven swirls of white plaster covering the gashes Cruz left when he wrestled one of them to the floor. Soon they’ll sand and paint over the damage, and the house will pretend it never happened; but its bones remember.

Every time I catch my reflection in a mirror, I’m jolted back: my left eye swollen, dusky purple spreading into blue, eyelids heavy as if pinned down. My cheek throbs with every heartbeat, a slow drumbeat under my skin.

Next to me, Rafe shifts in his chair—once, twice—until the chair creaks protestingly, and I know exactly where the purple bruise blooms on his ribs.

Cruz’s knuckles are raw, red cracks that bleed carelessly, and the bruise under his good eye is blackening by the hour.

Gage has a long scrape from forehead to jaw, scabbed over but still tender, and another across his shoulder peeks from the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt.

Bishop sits quietly, but I can’t tear my eyes from the split of his lip and the thin cut at his throat—each breath he takes drags my attention back despite myself.

Because honestly, fuck him.

I can almost hear my sister’s voice whispering in my ear, laced with everything I’m not allowed to say. Longing sits in my chest like a boulder—bigger now, after checking in with her earlier. I wanted so badly to tell her what happened before the ambush, but time was a luxury we didn’t have.

Yesterday happened, etched into every scar and plastered wall here, even if we pretend otherwise. We’re a fucking mess—and this quiet dinner just makes the tension hum louder in the air.

I look down and drag my fork through the filling spilling out of my pie.

A low, unspoken tension hovers beneath our chatter—no one will talk about what comes next.

Coco insisted we'd talk it over at dinner. Now we're halfway through dessert, and apparently we're still pretending this is a normal Sunday night dinner.

Beside Coco, Troy takes another bite of pie and reaches for his drink. He looks exactly the same as he did yesterday: same easy grin, same guarded eyes.

“So, if we’re not gonna talk business, why don’t you tell us how the two of you met?” Gage asks, pointing between Coco and Troy with his fork.

Troy smacks his lips, holding the rim of his tumbler to his mouth. “I’ve known your ma a long time.”

“How long?” Cruz asks, leaning forward to look at him.

Troy exhales. “Let’s see, I came out to California when I was seventeen, eighteen. Fell in with some people, and met your ma a few years after that.” He blows out a breath. “Twenty-five years or so?” He looks to Coco.

She dips her head, taking a slow sip from her drink.

“Coco here was a real hell-raiser,” Troy says with a chuckle. “Never met a woman who could spin a story and con her way out of anything faster.”

“Was?” she asks, setting her glass down.

“Still are, Coco.” He reaches for his drink. “We ran a few jobs together, made some money, got into some shit.”

“Hm. Where are you from again?” Rafe asks, his hand a welcome pressure on my thigh underneath the table.