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Dust hangs over the remnants of what used to be the Maple Club.
Betty enters first, gun pointed in front of her, and Jughead creeps in behind her. She circles the main room slowly while she gestures at Jughead to hang by the doorway. They have been monitoring the Maple Club for two days, and she is almost certain that it is abandoned. But still, Jughead is a civilian, and she is the one who dragged him into this investigation with her. The last thing she wants is for him to get caught in a standoff between the FBI and Riverdale’s newest crime family.
Jughead blithely ignores her, of course. He ambles casually through the room, hands stuffed in his pockets, seemingly unfazed both by Betty’s gun and the dangers posed by a territorial drug gang.
Betty sighs and focuses on cataloguing the room, gun still held out in front of her. There is a pile of dirty blankets in the corner under the window, covered with spider webs and dirt. She nudges it with the tip of her boot and then wrinkles her nose. The blankets smell like rotten vegetables and sour milk. She leaves the blankets and looks around for Jughead. He is in the kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers before glancing up at her with a grim look on his face.
She hurriedly moves to join him, stashing her gun back in its holder. “What is it?”
“They’re cooking something,” he says grimly. He squats down to examine the cupboard under the sink. Betty crouches down next to him. The cupboard is stuffed with tubes and cylinders. The instruments are brown and crusty, caked over with a substance that smells almost as bad as the blankets.
“This stuff is filthy,” she says. Her heart is beginning to pound. She hurriedly pulls out her phone and snaps a few pictures. Finally she feels like she has a lead. She has been telling Charles and anyone else who would listen at the FBI that the Goblins have been cooking something new, something more addictive than Jingle Jangle and more dangerous than Fizzle Rocks under the street name Sugar Rush. This could be the proof she has been searching for.
Jughead stands up and shakes his head in disgust. “People put this stuff in their bodies,” he says. “How can you do that to yourself? To your family?”
Betty shrugs. She snaps more pictures and then slowly draws herself to her feet. “People get lost,” she says. “Desperate. You know what the dark side of Riverdale is like. These gangs take advantage of those people. Use them.”
“They still choose it,” says Jughead. The anger radiates off him. “Betty, believe me. I know how hard life can be on the Southside. But every time a Southsider buys Jingle Jangle or Fizzle Rocks or this Sugar Rush… they are making a choice.”
“I know, Jug,” she says. And she does know. He has never spoken of it in so many words, not even back when they were together in high school. But she has an idea of how he grew up. She saw what his mother was capable of doing. She knows how long it took FP to turn his life around. And she knows how hard he has worked not to turn out like his parents.
She takes a step closer to him and then pauses. The urge to touch him, try and comfort him, feels so right and so natural. In a place like this, with dust and smells and drugs around them, she wants to be closer to him, drink him in.
And he smells good . Jughead never wears cologne, not like some of the boys she attended university with, and not like the well-paid, well-suited higher ups at the FBI who wear expensive brand name cologne that hangs in the elevator long after they leave it. He just smells… clean. Like a bar of freshly wrapped white soap.
He has changed in the seven years they have been apart. He has always been lean, but his face is narrower than it used to be, and he has filled out in the chest and shoulders. He still wears his beanie on occasion, but is not wearing it now and his hair sits curled and messy on his head. Her hand practically twitches with the desire to reach up and ruffle it and tell him that it is okay, they are going to shut down the Goblins.
But she does not do any of those things. Jughead has a girlfriend. A live-in girlfriend. Jessica, he said. Her name is Jessica. And he showed her a picture on his phone. Jessica is a brunette. She has a nose ring, and a wide smile. She is pretty in an understated way. She looks like the type of woman who enjoys poetry slams and vegan cafés.
When Betty thinks about Jessica, she feels like the wind has knocked out of her. She feels like running until her legs give out and she falls to the ground, stomach heaving and heart pounding in her ears.
So she tries not to think about Jessica. She tries to reframe her relationship with Jughead. They are friends . Old friends – who happen to be very good at investigating strange events and chasing down drug gangs.
And that’s better than it was, is it not? That’s better than not being on speaking terms at all.
“This evidence is helpful,” she says instead. And then, “We will shut them down, Jug. I promise.”
“Something else will just take their place,” he grumbles, but he follows her as she leaves the kitchen and goes to investigate the bedrooms.
The door to the first bedroom creaks as she opens it. The first thing that hits her is the stench – it smells like mold and piss and vomit. The room is still draped with sheets and curtains as it must have been when Penelope was running the Maple Club as a brothel. She suspects the curtains were once bright red and gold, but now they are faded and stained with black and brown spots. There is a queen-sized bed sitting in the middle of the room, blankets rolled up in the middle and feathers spilling out from the mattress.
Betty plugs her nose and turns to look at Jughead. The look on his face mirrors the revulsion that she is feeling.
“Leave it,” he says. “Your team can come back later.”
She nods and quickly shuts the door, sealing the sights and smells on the other side. She pulls herself together as best as she can, squares her shoulders, and then moves to the next room.
The next room is noticeably different. The traces of Penelope’s brothel are gone. In fact, it is strangely empty save for one generic lamp leaning in the corner. Some dust hangs on the windowsill and the floor, but the room is surprisingly clean. It smells faintly of bleach.
She creeps into the room, feeling a prickle on her neck that tells her to be on high alert. She almost reaches for her gun, but they are completely alone. She sees a closet and then gestures to Jughead. He nods and they approach it slowly. Betty’s eyes tick to the bottom of the door frame and then back up again, searching for hidden traps or cameras. She tries the handle of the door and is not surprised when she finds it locked.
She quickly pulls a bobby pin from her hair and then crouches down to fiddle with the lock.
“I’ve missed watching this.”
Jughead’s voice is closer than she expects. His breath whispers against her ear and neck and she almost loses her concentration on the lock.
A comeback floats in her mind: “ Oh, are you saying Jessica doesn’t do much lock picking?” but that almost sounds flirtatious – or worse, jealous.
She focuses on picking the lock, on turning the bobby pin in the key hole and feeling for the inevitable click. She does not think about how close he is or how she can feel his body heat radiating next to her or the longing she may have heard in his voice.
The lock finally clicks and she stands up with a smirk on her face. The FBI does not usually condone using bobby pins to pick locks, but she cannot deny that she loves the freedom of investigating like this. No paperwork. No regulations. No backup. She is just doing what she does best – chasing down a lead, seeing where it goes.
She turns the doorknob. “Jackpot,” she murmurs as the door opens to reveal a closet stuffed full of plastic-wrapped packages lining the shelves and floor.
Jughead leans over her shoulder. He is close enough that she can feel the outline of his chest against her back, and her breath almost hitches at the feel of him. She thinks about leaning back, pressing herself against him….
“That must be it,” he says darkly. “What they’re peddling to the Southside. Betty, you saw how they are cooking this stuff. It could be contaminated with god knows what. No wonder it’s killing people.”
His voice pulls her from her thoughts, and although it was not his intention, she feels chastised. He is right. This stuff is dangerous. No matter how distracting she might be finding him, she has to concentrate on her investigation and making sure to collect the evidence the FBI will need to shut the Goblins down.
She reaches for her phone, but as she does so, she hears a noise. She freezes and listens. Then she hears it – the front door to the Maple Room creaking open and heavy boots shuffling into the apartment. Jughead makes a noise under his breath that sounds like “ shit ” and then he pushes her into the closet before falling in behind her and yanking the door closed.
They plunge into darkness. Betty backs up a step and almost slips on one of the drug packages under foot. She reaches for Jughead to steady herself, finds his arm, and holds on, her heart pounding in her ears.
From outside, she hears the front door bang shut and then footsteps echoing through the Maple Club.
“What’s going on, boss?” says a voice.
There’s a grunt, and then a gruff male voice answers, “Someone tripped the silent alarm.”
“Not the Ghoulies again. I thought we ran them out of town permanently.”
Betty squeezes her eyes shut, her heart pounding. Charles always warned her against going off on her own. “Somehow or another, it always works out for you, little sister, but one of these days, you’re going to find yourself in real trouble with no backup and no one to come save you. That’s why we do what we do by the book.”
Except it is not just her this time. She has dragged Jughead into this, too. She told herself that the Maple Club was long abandoned, that searching it was a long shot, that they probably would not find anything except the remnants of squatters and drug users. But the truth was, she liked it. She liked investigating with him again. She liked watching the way his eyes lit up when she suggested their search. She wanted to give him a reason to keep spending time with her, a reason to avoid going back home (back to Jessica) one more day.
If he got hurt – or worse – because she dragged him into this, she would never forgive herself.
The gruff male voice from outside spoke again: “I don’t remember leaving that door open.”
Betty’s breath hitches. Jughead suddenly presses up against her, his voice rapid and quiet in the closet. “Betty, I have an idea. Probably a stupid idea but… just go with it, okay?”
She barely manages a responding “okay” before his lips press against hers. Shock momentarily clouds her mind. Jughead has his lips against hers. Jughead is kissing her. But a second later, she leans into the kiss as his arm wraps around her waist to draw her closer. Electricity shoots down her spine. His lips are chapped and he tastes like stale coffee and the blueberry muffin he swallowed in the car on their way over.
She makes a noise that is somewhere between a moan and a squeak as Jughead’s tongue slips into her mouth, pressing against hers, his teeth scraping against her bottom lip. She grabs for his hair, fingers combing through his locks. Now he is the one moaning, and the noise practically sends her into a frenzy. She wants to get closer to him, press herself up against him and lose herself in him.
Her shoulder bumps against something, and it hurts, but she only crushes him closer to her. His hand dips under her shirt, pressing against the bare skin of her back, and she gasps into his mouth. A part of her knows that she sounds desperate and needy, but all she wants is for him to keep kissing her.
When the closet door snaps open and light floods in, Betty is pressed up against one of the shelves, the packages of neatly stacked drugs spilling to the floor. She does not have to see herself to imagine what she must look like – her hair loose from her ponytail, her makeup smudged, her eyes glassy and hooded. Jughead hurriedly pulls his hand out from underneath her shirt and then spins around.
Two burly men stare in at them, their faces hard. One of them has a jagged scar along one cheek.
Jughead’s hair is sticking up in all directions and he hurriedly tries to pat it down. “Hi there,” he stutters out. “We were just, um…” he shuffles his feet awkwardly and leans in closer to the men, dropping his voice, “she said abandoned buildings make her hot.”
Betty gapes at him, but slowly her sluggish mind catches up to his act. “Jake,” she says, “you said this place was empty! You said nobody had been here in years!”
Jughead glances over his shoulder at Betty and then back to the two men with a slightly apologetic shake of his head as if to say: ‘ Women? What can you do?’
“Gents, there must be some misunderstanding. We had no idea that anybody was still using this place. Truly.”
Betty tries to make her voice sound as whiny and nasally as possible when she says, “Jake, I want to go home!”
Jughead looks up at the two men pleadingly. Their expressions do not change, but Betty does note that their stances relax, their hands unflex at their sides.
“This closet is locked,” says one of the men. “How did you get in?”
Betty decides that, in this instance, the truth is the best she has. “Bobby pin,” she says, still in that whiny voice. “I didn’t see anything wrong with it. Nobody was here. Not until you two showed up.”
She gives them a haughty look like they were the ones who trespassed on her property rather than the other way around.
The two men sigh and glance at each other. Jughead seems to decide that their hesitation is good enough. He grabs Betty by the wrist and tugs her forward.
“Well, we’ll just be off,” he says brightly. “Thanks for being so understanding about this, man. I really appreciate it. You both have a good day.”
Betty is certain that they are going to block their path out of the room, but to her surprise, the men part and let them pass.
“You take your girl here to a different abandoned building next time,” calls one of them. “This one is off limits, got it?”
“Gotcha,” says Jughead over his shoulder. He tugs Betty forward as quickly as he can without arousing suspicion. “We’ll try the old mill by Sweetwater River next time.”
Then they are out of the room, through the main entrance of the Maple Room, and out the front door. Jughead keeps his grip on her as they hurry down the hall.
Betty’s heart does not stop pounding until they make it safely out of the building and into her car, slamming the doors shut behind them. She quickly pulls away from the curb and only starts to relax once she has put a couple of blocks between them and the Maple Club. Then she slows the car and pulls over to the side of the road before turning to look at Jughead. She keeps her fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel.
They sit in stunned silence before Betty draws in a sharp breath. “I have to go back,” she says. “I need to get surveillance on these guys. Take the car. I’ll head back on foot, try to stay out of sight.”
“Are you crazy?” he says. “You can’t go back there on your own.”
“You’re a civilian ,” Betty presses. “I never should have involved you in this, Jug. If you were hurt today because of me…”
“I knew what I was getting into,” he says. “And in case you’ve forgotten, we did this type of thing all the time when we were teenagers. Hell, I was even leader of my own gang. You think these guys are any worse than what we faced with the Ghoulies?” He sighs and in a softer voice, adds, “Difference now is that we have the FBI on our side. We might actually be able to stop the Goblins before any more Southsiders overdose on Sugar Rush.”
Her fingers tighten on the steering wheel. She knows he is right. It is not like she dragged him into all of this unwillingly. She saw the spark in his eyes when she mentioned her investigation and knew it matched the own excitement she felt about it. Still, she can’t bear the thought of him getting hurt because of her.
She glances at him out of the corner of her eyes. His jaw is squared and determined.
“Okay,” she says with a sigh. “We have to leave the car. We’ll go back on foot. Stay out of sight. Surveillance only. Then we take everything we have back to my department at the FBI.”
Jughead nods. Then, more hesitantly, he says, “Betty, about what happened back there…”
“Oh, you mean our kiss?” she tries to keep her voice light and airy. She fervently hopes he does not notice the flush creeping up her neck and face. “It was smart thinking, Jug. A good distraction. I’m sure Jessica will understand.”
The last part slips out before she can stop it. The other woman’s name seems to hang uncomfortably in the air between them. Betty shifts in her seat and looks away from Jughead, flushing more deeply. She has been so careful all day to avoid mentioning Jessica’s name. What compelled her to bring it up now?
“Yeah,” Jughead says. He swallows audibly like he is wrestling silently with himself. But then he says, “You’re right. It was just a ruse.”
There is something sad and heavy in his voice. Betty’s heart starts pounding again and she twists her fingers in her lap before turning back to him.
“Jug – ” she begins.
But he opens the passenger door, and when he turns back to her, his face is all business. “Let’s go,” he says. “We need to catch them before it is too late.”
She feels a flash of disappointment, but she pushes it away. After a pause, she opens her own door and follows after him.