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“I’m not wasting my breath addressing you anymore, pogue. Either go get your man to do something about it or move!”
A wickedly wide smile stretches across your face.
The only thing you comprehend in that entire string of disrespect is “go get your man” and the potential aftermath of you doing so has you so giddy that you don’t even care that the drunk pretentious kook shoves you back.
If this drunk asshole insists you go get your man, that’s just what you’ll do!
What once was a good vibe is immediately haunted by the knowing looks and murmurs of those who witnessed the tense exchange. The kook, totally oblivious to the tense shift in the air of the party, continues the obnoxious conversation he was having before he signed his own death certificate.
Before you can take your phone out of your shorts pocket, Kiara grips your shoulders in her hands and attempts to lead you away from the situation.
“Let it go,” she says, emphasizing your name exasperatingly. “I’m fine. It’s just a little beer and it’ll wash out. He’s just a drunk asshole. Leave it alone.”
Asking you to let anything go is almost hilarious and she knows that but it doesn’t stop her from begging some more.
“Let’s just get outta here and find Sarah and Cleo. It’s late. We’ve been drinking. I’m hungry and I think Pope said he’d bring over some food from the restaurant. It doesn’t have to escalate.”
“It didn’t if he woulda apologized to you and kept his hands to himself,” you tell her, eyebrows quirked and smirk planted devilishly on your glossy lips. “And ‘sides, Kie, he told me go get my man. Who am I to deny him?”
Horror flashes in Kiara’s brown eyes when realization dawns on her — your mind is made up and the night is going to take a bad turn.
For the kook anyway.
You’re going to have a ball.
She exhales in acceptance and strides past you.
“Where you going?” you ask.
“To find Sarah,” she calls back. “She has the car keys and we’re gonna need a quick escape.”
The call is made at 11:03 PM.
Tires are screeching down the road leading to the scene of the crime at 11:07 PM.
Despite the danger in his walk and destruction on his mind, you regard Rafe as if he’s an angel on earth when he stomps out onto the backyard. He surveys the sea of partygoers with a fire in his eyes that extinguishes the second he finds you sat on the outskirts of the lawn with Sarah, Cleo and Kiara.
“No good a come a dis,” Cleo mutters, shaking her head.
“Let’s hope not,” you reply.
“Which one?” he growls in lieu of a greeting once he reaches your spots on the lawn.
You nod over to the patio where the kook is still boasting and acting an ass for his thoroughly unimpressed group of friends.
“Him,” you say simply.
Without a moment of hesitation, Rafe sets his sights on the kook and nods to himself.
“Rafe, please, don’t,” Sarah tries, earning a side eye for her efforts as he takes off towards the patio.
“He’s only got himself to blame,” you say, watching with amusement as your man approaches the kook.
There’s barely an exchange before Rafe’s vicious right hook graces his face, sending him crashing backwards into a table and his drink spraying almost everyone within the vicinity. Despite anticipating it, Sarah, Kiara and Cleo gasp in shock while you bite back an untimely moan.
Call you crazy but it’s hot!
The immediate commotion that follows disrupts the flow of the party, everyone stopping to stare and gather around the fight.
If you could call it that. It’s hardly fair.
“He’s not gonna have any teeth tomorrow, eh?” Cleo snickers, rising to her feet. “Let’s get him before they put your white boy in jail.”
“Might not be a bad place for him to be,” Sarah utters, following the rest of you in a hurry to the patio. The four of you worm between the crowd to see the tail end of the tussle with the kook’s friends and Topper pulling an enraged Rafe off of him.
“Yo, Rafe, relax,” Topper begs, tapping Rafe’s chest and pulling him away from the other boy. “It’s not worth it. Calm down, dude.”
You can’t help rolling your eyes — Top is so full of shit. He’s done more for less, so that comment is rich coming from him.
“How’d you ever date him?” you mutter rhetorically to Sarah who is far more focused on diffusing the situation than worrying about her ex.
“Well, we tried,” Kiara says, arms up in surrender upon surveying the sad state of the kook on the patio floor.
Rafe snatches himself out of Topper's grasp and strides his way over to you and your friends, focused on his opponent coughing, wheezing, and rolling around with a bloody nose.
“You gonna spill beer on anyone else?” Rafe asks.
“…No,” the kook croaks.
“You gonna put your hands on my girl again?”
“No! Fucking fuck…”
Rafe grins. “Good. Now say sorry.”
The kook groans in pain, straining to peer up at you with a pitiful sigh. “I’m sorry,” he croaks.
“You’re forgiven,” you reply cheekily and turn to Kiara. “Kie?”
“Yeah, you’re good,” she says with a nod. “Sar, get the car and let’s get the hell outta here.”
“She’s coming with me,” Rafe tells them, accentuating his point with an arm around your waist leading you away from the scene.
“Rafe, she came with us. She leaves with us,” Sarah snaps, crossing her arms across her chest.
“You guys’ll be fine without her for a night.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Okay, no need to fight,” you insist, sliding out of Rafe’s grasp to join your friends. “I’m gonna go with the girls tonight, okay, baby? I didn’t mean to bother you; just needed that little situation handled.”
Rafe glares between the three of them and then softens his gaze when it reaches you. Eyebrows relaxing and scowl faltering, he glances back over at the patio some yards away where the crowd has diminished and the kook is still gathering himself.
“Y’sure, belle?”
You nod. “I’m sure.”
“And you’re good? You’re not hurt?”
“I'm fine. I promise.”
Rafe considers this and then reluctantly nods. “Okay. If you need me again, you know to call me.”
“She’ll be with us,” Kiara insists, irritated beyond all reasoning. “She’ll be fine, guard dog.”
“Clearly she wasn’t.”
“Right ‘cus you made the situation so much better—”
“Stop,” you snap, effectively shutting them both up. “Thank you, Rafe. I’ll be fine.” You kiss him on the cheek. “Ice your hand, please. You’ll see me in the morning.”
“I better.”
“Let’s go, guys,” Cleo says, taking you by the hand and swiftly fleeing the scene. You twist around to wave at Rafe who is unabashedly watching you walk away.
It should be documented as a world record how quickly your good mood deflates from when you left the party to now at The Chateau. Without a word, you curl up on what used to be Big John’s armchair with a blanket as your eyes dart around the living room to each of your friends as they go back and forth about how Rafe ruins everything, he always takes it too far, he’s needlessly violent, blah blah blah…
You zone out in some areas, outright refusing to hear any of them out when they continue on their rants about the literal love of your life in front of you. It’s nothing you haven’t heard before; it’s actually quite tame in comparison to what was said when they first found out you and Rafe were interested in one another.
You kept him a secret for as long as you could but it was foolish of you to think the same group of teenagers who found literal buried treasure wouldn’t eventually figure out you and Rafe were dating. Or fucking. Seeing each other? The lines are very blurred when it comes to you two sometimes.
You wouldn’t call him your boyfriend necessarily but if someone tells you to go get your man to handle something, who else would you call but Rafe? Sure, you could’ve phoned JJ, John B or Pope but Rafe, blurred lines be damned, is your man.
And you are very much his girl — he’s made that abundantly clear.
It’s not like you didn’t already beat yourself up enough about falling for him after everything he put you and your friends through. The last thing you need is to hear about how terrible he is from your chosen family.
You huff a tired sigh and stand to head to bed.
“As much as I’d love to stay here while you guys talk about my man all night, I’ve gotta get to bed. Date in the morning,” you tell the room and make your way to a bedroom down the hall.
“‘My man’ is crazy work,” JJ scoffs under his breath from his spot leaning on the kitchen counter. “It’s just Rafe.”
His words stop you in your tracks, spinning in your heels and trucking back down the hallway to dignify that with a sharp glare.
“JJ,” you warn.
“I’m serious, dude!” he laughs, hands up in mock surrender. “You could’ve aimed a little higher than King Kook. Getting defensive over him of all people is so below you that it’s not even funny to gossip about anymore.”
You know your friends have their opinions, but you don’t care. As predicted, everyone — except Cleo because she’s real — is making a big deal where there didn’t need to be.
“That aside,” Pope chimes in from the couch. “He still did too much. We all know what happens when kooks feel even the slightest bit inconvenienced by us. They sue, pogues are screwed and we’re another notch lower in the food chain. I mean what if the guy presses charges?”
“A kook beating up another kook is hardly reaching Topper’s grandfather’s desk,” you reply, eyes rolling upward. “Anyone dumb enough to try and press charges on Rafe was clearly born yesterday.”
“Sounds right to me,” Cleo adds.
“Baby, whose side are you on?” Pope asks.
“There’s no sides,” she says, flashing you a sympathetic look and then looking back to her boyfriend. “There was a situation that needed to be handled. It was handled. Just ‘cus we don’t like how doesn’t negate that. We ought to let it go.”
“Now I like that idea,” you say.
“You do see why we’re not happy with it, though, right?” John B asks, peeking from out of the fridge to establish eye contact.
“Oh, please.” You narrow your eyes at your best friend dubiously. “As if this group is immune to getting into it every once in a while. It’s not like Rafe did anything Pope wouldn’t do for Cleo, JJ for Kiara or John B for Sarah. If one of them called and said some kook tried it, you’d be ready to tussle, too.”
Your friends have no response for that because they know you’re right. Instead, they share knowing glances you’re irritatingly familiar with whenever Rafe is brought up.
“I get why it’s different — it’s Rafe, okay? He’s the big bad wolf. He’s made our lives a living hell and there’s no excuse for how he’s treated us. I get it,” you continue, rotating about to address everyone. “But we’re a thing. Kinda. We’re something. We’re enough to each other that we’re going to lose it if something happens to the other and I wasn’t gonna let that kook think he could treat us like that just because.”
“We just wanted better for you,” JJ murmurs, awkwardly scratching and refusing to even look in your direction when you glance his way.
“You think I don’t know that, J? You don’t think I know I deserve better than Rafe fucking Cameron? You think I don’t see how terrible he is? How evil he really is, especially to someone he claims to love?” you ask rhetorically and then point to Sarah. “Don’t you think I wanna do what she did and choose a life without him despite how much I love him? Do any of you have any idea how badly I want to hate him but I can’t? As much as I want to, I physically can’t bring myself to hurt him even if it’s like breathing for him to hurt us?”
“Jesus,” Kiara mutters, hiding her face in her hands.
Cleo utters your name softly but you ignore her in favor of resuming your rant.
“I know it’s fucked up. I know he’s fucked up. I’m fucked up. This whole thing—” you exclaim, waving your hands about to refer to the situation at large. “—is fucked up.”
“We just don’t get it,” Sarah whispers, shaking her head. “That’s all.”
“Neither do I,” you agree, shrugging. “But it is what it is, isn’t it?”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Pope says.
“And until it isn’t, I don’t know what else to say.”
A strained silence falls over the shack as the seven of you digest tonight’s events and the current conversation. Your friends sport matching looks of concern, all with different undertones of confusion, disappointment and anger. You know it’s only because they love and care about you, but the weight of so much negative attention anchors a pit of dread in your stomach.
“I’m gonna go,” you announce, placating the instant reactions of alarm with both hands up.
“It’s only for the night,” you assure them even though your soul is telling you to run away forever and never face your family again since you’ve caused so much trouble already. “I just need to get away for a minute, okay? Tonight was a lot.”
“You don’t have to—” JJ starts but you cut him off with a dismissive wave.
“I do. It’s only tonight,” you reiterate and slip your sandals parked at the screen door on your way out. “I’ll call. I promise.”
“Where you going?” Cleo asks.
You almost want to laugh at the question.
“Guess,” you tell her before shutting the door, descending the porch steps and trekking across the front lawn.
You’re halfway down the dock when you pull your phone from your pocket and search for Rafe’s number. True to his word, he picks up and slurs your name sleepily.
“Hey.”
“Hey, baby.”
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s fine. You alright?”
You pause, fiddling with the beads on your halter top. He doesn’t urge you to speak since what’s understood doesn’t need to be said.
“You need me?”
That question melts your insides into pure mush. You nod even though he can’t see you.
“Yeah.”
“I’m gonna come get you, okay?”
You nod again. “Okay, Rafe.”
“You at Maybanks?”
You shake your head. “John B’s.”
“Okay,” he says and a ruffling noise follows, most likely him getting himself together to leave. “Where’re your friends?”
“Inside.”
“You’re not hurt, are you?”
“No,” you mumble. “I just need you.”
“I know, baby. Daddy’s coming.”
The mush inside you obliterates, bringing you into a crouch that accommodates how small you feel.
“Rafe?”
“Hmmm?” he hums.
“Can I stay with you? Like, for a few days?”
“You can stay as long as you want. You know that.”
Your friends aren’t going to like that.
“Thank you,” you say.
“I’ll be there soon. You gonna be okay?”
Another nod. “Yes.”
“Good girl.”
It doesn’t take long for Rafe to pull up to the Chateau in the charter. Your despondent expression tells him everything he needs to know, so he doesn’t press the issue the entire ride back to Figure 8. He’s smart enough to realize he’s the root of the problem but stays quiet for the sake of your sanity.