T W E N T Y - T H R E E
lost chances.
Mr Duck, pre my father being an awful person, was delicate, with intricate patterns extending across his little porcelain body. Flowers, leaves and decorative lines sprawled across the white base in a bright blue. He looked like something your Grandma owned and cherished.
Well, he no longer looks like that, or even like a duck. Or a bird, or any living animal, or perhaps any past animal, maybe some future, hybrid, cyborg animal. The flowers, leaves and delicate lines are disjointed and mismatched, the wing seems to be coming out the top of his back and its beak is upside down. He now looks like an edgy art student's creation, probably something about climate change ruining the environment – not something your Grandma cherishes.
But I don't hate it.
Whatever he is now, he sits on my bedside table proudly, a note tucked underneath him. Rolling toward the awfully recreated duck I slide out the paper. I have to wipe at my eyes, sending my tired brain into overdrive as I try to decipher the handwriting that more resembles Egyptian hieroglyphs than English letters.
It's also in sparkly purple glitter pen, which adds another layer of difficulty.
There were multiple options for a plain black pen. Or even blue or green biros. But no, JJ had to jazz it up.
'You were starfished on the entire bed and I tried to get you to move but you threatened me.
Turns out 3D jigsaws are not easy. Sorry. Please don't slit my throat with the extra piece of Mr Duck I couldn't figure out where to put.
I'll be back after your Mum leaves for work, call Kie if you don't want me to come.
From the best person ever.'
I sit up and look at the sizable piece of china on my desk, I pick up Mr Duck and see no obvious missing piece. He really messed the poor bastard up.
There's a knock on my door and I stuff the piece of paper under the blanket with me as I mumble a tired "come in". There's really only one person it can be, and I don't want them to see a note and question it.
My mother walks in, completely put together, but in a different way than she was with my father. It's more effortless, her hair is down, her makeup is lighter and she's wearing trousers. She looks happier, she looks more like my Mum and less like my father's wife.
"How'd you sleep?" She asks, carrying folded washing in and resting it on my desk.
I nod, pushing some of my hair off my face. "Good, thank you. I thought you'd be gone by now?" I stifle a yawn. I could really go back to sleep.
She looks at me then takes a shirt from the top of the pile, "I decided to wash this – you can give it back to whoever it's from." I notice it's the shirt JJ wore when he stayed over, he changed into one of his I stole a while ago. "Also, you can tell whoever it is that they should stop climbing trees in the dark. They're really bad at it. Are they aware of the door?" She jokes.
I can imagine how red my face is. "It's not Rafe, if you were worried about that." The words come out and are completely irrelevant. She's not worried about that – because there's no chance it would be Rafe. He'd rather kill himself than sneak into and out of my room via a tree. He's too much of a snob for that.
"I gathered that much. Is it JJ?" She asks, leaning against the bathroom door frame. "Because if so, he's welcome to use the front door. I don't fancy calling an ambulance at four in the morning."
"It's JJ. He's nice, I promise," I cannot for the life of me think of anything to say that isn't bullshit she already knows. We've been over JJ being nice, we've been over I'll never be with Rafe again.
"Well, you can stop kicking him out at four AM. You guys aren't subtle, you're very grumpy when you're tired – always have been," she comments.
I glare at her. "I am not."
"'Why are you so slow at doing up your shoelaces? A blind kindergartener with only two fingers could do it faster', I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist. Would you like me to give another example?" She raises a manicured eyebrow.
I shake my head, "No. I get your point – don't fully agree, for the record."
She pushes off from where she leant against the door frame, "Whatever you do, just don't get pregnant, okay?"
"Mum! I'm not going to get pregnant," I shake my head, my eyes shutting tightly.
"Just be careful–"
There's a quick, heavy knock at the door. I lift my phone and look at the time; my mother should've been at work almost two hours ago.
"Are you expecting anyone?" She asks, probably sensing who it is from my reaction.
"Perhaps," I mumble, getting out of bed.
"You brush your teeth, I'll let him know the front door works from the inside and outside," she walks through my room and down the creaky stairs. I don't say anything, but send a little prayer up to the Heavens that JJ doesn't stick a foot in his mouth.
Quickly I leap across the room and begin scrubbing my teeth, then walking to the door so I can overhear the conversation.
"Mabel, took you long e– oh," He cuts himself off abruptly, the realisation I'm not the person on the other side of the door is clear. "Is she..?"
"I gather you're JJ?" She asks calmly.
"Yes, ma'am," he mumbles.
"Don't ma'am me, makes me feel like I'm about to get handed a senior citizen card. Eunice is fine," she corrects.
"Okay, ma– Eunice."
"Do you know how front doors work?" She asks. She's taunting him, only someone who knows my mother understands the tone she's using is just to screw with him.
I go back inside my bathroom, leaving both the door to the bathroom and my room open so I can hear the conversation. Spitting out the foam I walk back out.
"I think so, why?" He sounds so uncertain about every word that comes out of his mouth.
'I think so' Why is he second-guessing that he knows how doors work?
"Was it your idea to climb out the window? Or my daughter's?"
I hurriedly make my bed and throw on clean clothes, loving the conversation.
"Mutual decision, I think."
It was far from mutual.
"Well, I think from now on you should come out the front door. You're very bad at climbing down trees. Granted, you seem to be shoved out the window."
"No, Mab– Frankie, she doesn't do that," he disagrees. Hearing the name everyone calls me, coming out of his mouth is weird. Not once has he called me Frankie, he always just somehow knew it wasn't my name. "She lets me get my shoes on and stuff."
He's making me sound very generous. 'Letting me get my shoes on and stuff', I'm practically Mother Teresa. Building hospitals in Yemen and solving world hunger.
"You plan on getting arrested again any time soon?"
Silence. So much silence.
"...No." I can only just make out the whispered word. I've never seen him so humbled before, it's very amusing. She's not letting him by easily; although I can tell she likes him, in an odd way. She didn't bother saying a word to Rafe. Her indifference covered her true feelings which were far from indifference.
"You can come in, she's upstairs. I've just got one thing to ask," I know exactly what she's going to say and I want to shove cotton wool in my ear so I don't have to hear how awkward he's about to sound.
"Anything," he quickly says, clearly wanting to be on her good side.
"Don't get her pregnant, clear?"
I hear the door shut, presumably behind JJ, or he did a runner at the awkward request.
"No. I wouldn't do that, never."
"Good. I'm leaving now," she walks away, coming toward the bottom of the stairs she shouts a goodbye to me, and I shout one back. JJ jogs up the stairs, his face is a bright red. I can hear the door open and shut behind my mother.
"She's nice, isn't she," I smile at him.
"Are you one hundred percent sure you're not pregnant?" He sounds like he's about to have a heart attack.
I grin, he's so shaken from my mother. Someone I've never said a bad word about, everything I've said about my mother only points toward her being lovely. I understand bricking it to meet my father – something JJ will never do – but my mother isn't someone to be scared of.
"Yep, definitely not pregnant. She was just messing with you. Kind of, not really about the pregnant thing, or the getting arrested thing, but most everything else," I try to reassure him.
"Mabel, I think she hates me."
I turn my back to him as I rifle through drawers, I roll my eyes at his words. "She doesn't hate you, she wouldn't talk to you if she hated you. She just was taking the piss out of you because you sounded like you were thirty seconds away from cardiac arrest."
"Well I want the woman to like me, kind of important."
I turn around once I find what I'm looking for, "I have edibles."
"Yes."
"Yes?" I knit my eyebrows together. I could really use a nap, this day has already been a lot.
"I want some, like, right now," he clarifies.
I open up the zip-lock bag, "Okay, I threw out the packet so they may be expired – not that that ever seems to concern you," I mutter.
"Those are a suggestion, sweetcheeks," he seems to get back up on his feet, relaxing after the interaction with my mother.
I pull out three, leaving three for me. "Mould isn't a suggestion, JJ." I hand them over, putting the three red sweets in his open palm.
"You're right, those are a hint," he says through chewing.
"From what I can remember these are strong, so disregard everything I see for the next few hours, okay?" I request, putting the sweets in my mouth.
"Never. You're fun when you're stoned, or drunk, or both," he adds.
"What about when I'm sober?" I ask, squinting my eyes at him, pretending to be unimpressed.
There's a second of silence as I flop down on my bed, looking up at the hand-painted leaves and vines that extend up the walls. My mind imagines my mother and her mother drawing those, linking that thought with the memory of me and my mother painting my old room. That string of days were some of my favourites, laughing, getting covered in paint and relaxing at the thought of my father not being there.
I hear the chair tucked under my desk roll over the floorboards as JJ sits in it. "Are you mad at me?" He asks.
I sit up on my elbows, "What did you do?"
"Mr Duck," he glances at the monstrosity sitting on my windowsill.
"No, I'm not mad. You did a real number on him, though," we both look at the unfortunate object.
JJ looks back at me, eyes scanning my face to see if I'm lying. "Are you secretly mad?"
I laugh, "Mabel being mad is never a secret. Everyone in all of the Outer Banks knows if I'm pissed off." I don't lie, I'm not subtle, at least not anymore. I did tread lightly around my father and Rafe, but now both of those pieces of shit are out of my life I have no need.
"I swear I tried with Mr Duck."
"I believe you. Stop stressing," I lay back down on the bed.
"Did you figure out where the piece goes?" He asks.
I roll onto my stomach to look at the cyborg, "No, I just sat it next to the poor thing. Seems rude to part them." Dramatically I roll onto my back again, a grin splitting across my face.
"Why are you smiling?" He seems suspicious of my sudden happiness. Not that I've been unhappy, it's just uncharacteristic, I look perpetually unimpressed. Like resting bitch face, but just unimpressed.
"I like it when you're like this," I mutter.
I shut one of my eyes and lift my hand to trace the lines that dance across the ceiling. I like them.
"Like what?" He presses.
"Nice to me," I state simply. "It's why I called you – well, I called Kiara Carrera because I was pretty sure she'd be with you. And I was right. As always."
He scoffs, "I'm always nice to you."
"You've shouted at me a few times. Told me to fuck off once and kicked me out of your house before I got my shirt back on," I remember. "That's not very nice."
"I had a good reason," he argues. "My Dad was coming back earlier than I thought."
"I know, I saw his car. But you literally pushed me out of the house and got annoyed when I tried to put my shirt on before I left. Neighbours got a real good shot of my tits," I ramble.
He kicks his feet up on my bed, leaning back in the chair. "I heard a rumour that one of them is on a certain list."
"Probably wanks to the memory of my tits," I smirk.
"They are good," he nods, looking deep in thought. "But, I'm just saying, if we tallied up the times I've been mean to you, and the times you've been mean to me, I think I'd win."
"There is so much nuance to that," I defend myself. "You were constantly trying to piss off Rafe by inadvertently using the fact we were sleeping together. Remember that night where he tried drowning John B? Before that when you offered me the beer, you were being pretty blatant about it, calling me Mabel when literally no one else does – that made it obvious we weren't strangers. You were using me as a weapon without thinking about how that may affect me. So, I think that should be counted as a time of you being mean."
He pinches his bottom lip between his fingers, looking deep in thought. "Yeah, you may have a point there," he mumbles.
"And we both know that wasn't the only time you used me to piss off Rafe, like the time at the smoothie place where you asked me over to your place saying I already knew the address, that wasn't very covert."
"Okay, now you're making me feel bad," his eyebrows crease together.
I shrug, "I fully admit I've been a bitch."
"You know I care though, right?" He asks, looking unsure.
I sit up, "Yeah. I know. You're just a dumbass who doesn't think sometimes." I tap his shin.
"I cared about you wayyy before you cared about me." I can see the usual bright white of his eyes is becoming bloodshot.
I don't know what to say, because agreeing feels a little mean. But denying is a flat-out lie.
His eyes drift down from my face, "Can I see your boobs?" He asks with a dazed smile.
"Ew, no," I screw up my face.
"Don't act like I haven't seen them a bunch of times. They're great boobs, nothing to be ashamed of."
"Want a bagel?" I change the subject.
"A kiss?"
"You're so desperate," I shake my head and stand up. I go to walk to the door but JJ tugs me down to sit on his lap, his heels drop from my bed and plant back down on the floor.
He's lucky I didn't fall and smack my head open, it isn't out of the question. Neither of us are very good at spatial awareness.
His hands sit on the dip of my waist, he's looking very pleased at the current situation. Teenage boys are so gross – it's like cooties, but for real. But, then again, any non-teenager that's into me is creepy, which is worse.
His thumb plays with the waistband of my shorts absentmindedly.
I stand up for a fraction of a second, not even enough that his hand falls from my waist, but enough that I can shift so one of my legs goes either side of his body. I sit down on his lap and he only looks more pleased.
My mind goes mad when his palms slide down my thighs.
"How are your legs so soft? I swear mine aren't," he goes from looking desperate to just plain confused.
"You're such an idiot," I shake my head, a wide smile on my face. "Maybe you should condition your leg hair? See if that helps," I joke.
He, for a second, seems like he's actually considering it. "I only have the three-in-one, and I already use that."
Of course, he has three-in-one. It may be the least shocking sentence I've ever heard.
I lift my hands putting them on either side of his neck, my thumbs resting against his high cheekbones. He seems to remember where everything was headed before he got stuck on my soft legs – a compliment which I'll take. I see his chest stop moving, but I can feel his pulse shoot up through my hands.
"Wanna keep talking about my legs?" I ask.
"Not really, got sidetracked," he mumbles, his eyes not lingering on one place for very long. They dart from one place on my face to another, my eyes, my hair, my neck, my lips.
My nerves begin to wake up when his hands slide up my body slowly, seemingly enjoying every second of their movements. I haven't done anything whilst high for a while, so I forgot how it's different. Not strictly better or worse, just different. Your mind gets stuck in different aspects: drunk or sober. It's similar to the difference the relationship you have with the other person has on the experience. It being a one-night stand feels different than it being someone you deeply care about.
When his hands move slowly up from my hips they don't skim over my shirt, they instead tuck themselves underneath. I cut the movement short, grabbing the hem of the tank top and pulling it right off and throwing it back and onto my bed.
I can't stand the slow build-up anymore, I just lean forward, grabbing either side of his face as I meld our lips together.
His hand moves to my thighs, tugging me closer to him.
Now, it will come as no shock that I'm not someone overly sentimental. I don't want a love letter written to me to celebrate every week I've been with someone. I don't need constant reassurance because if I trust someone, I trust them until I have a good reason to believe otherwise. I can hardly stand slow build-up to anything, I'm someone who needs to get to the point and enjoy myself once I'm there.
My hands tangle in his hair as his hands can't seem to make their mind up on where they want to hold. They grab at the flesh of my bum, and slide up to the back of my neck, once again trying to get me impossibly closer to him, he runs his blunt fingernails down my back, and that makes my nerves burn.
He tastes like strawberries from the laced sweets and his lips feel hot against mine.
My mind seems to be in a daze, the fog of THC weighs heavy, but the bliss of something simple and good is further blurring any logic. Any time I get a break from my own head it's welcome. It's why I went to JJ in the first place, he has an amazing way of making time feel like it's stopped for a little while.
I lean into the kiss further, enjoying the last few seconds before I need a breath of air. My lungs burn, but my need for JJ seems to outweigh my body's desperate cries for oxygen. I can't bring myself to pull away, knowing that a little bit of the break will crumble, but JJ does it for me.
His eyes seem darker than normal, full of want and lust, not to mention how bloodshot they are. His cheeks are deep red that pops on his tan skin. His lips are puffy and a rosy pink. I imagine I'm in a similar state.
There are a few seconds of us both catching our breath before JJ grabs the scrunchie that holds my hair in the ponytail it's always in, and he pulls it out and throws it where my shirt is behind me. He grabs some of my hair and tilts my head to the side, his lips begin attacking my neck. Lingering too long on the patch of skin behind my ear.
"You give me a hickey, and I cut your dick off," I whisper unconvincingly.
I can feel his grin against my neck as he moves faster, peppering kisses against the delicate skin. My head tips back as the fog clouds any reasoning.
Fuck what I said earlier, about drunk sex and sober sex both being good – high sex, that's the best.
I'm so aware of my body, I swear I can feel each individual nerve and how it reacts to JJ's mouth.
He lifts back up, his thumb and pointer finger pinches my chin and pulls it back to kiss him. I swear I melt into him, my hands taking their position tangled in his hair again. His teeth nip at my bottom lip and my hips roll forward. His spare hand that isn't holding my face takes a firm grip on my hip, stilling my movements; he seems to get lost in the second of friction because his lips slow. It takes a second of me controlling the kiss before he catches back up, the hand on my face drops to my shorts.
I pull back, just a centimetre, my eyes still shut very gently. "JJ," I whisper, trying to convince myself I need to open my eyes. He hums as he yanks the bow to my shorts open, I swallow when he readies to pull them down. "JJ, stop," I manage to convince myself to say the word that should make him listen.
He stops, his face coming back to reality, his eyes wide, "What's wrong? Did I do something wrong?" He asks quickly.
I shake my head, "No, you didn't do anything wrong, you're good. I– there's no condoms here," I whisper.
He, somehow, looks relieved at my answer. "What about that pill thing?" He asks, his breathing heavy.
"Are you crazy? The last time I took that awful thing half the island found out and I got a stomach ache so bad I thought I had stage four cancer."
He clearly feels bad at the suggestion – he was the one that was so worried the thing didn't work, now he's throwing Plan B at the problem. He looks back down at my shorts, tugging the string back and tying up the string into a bow. "Maybe not then," he looks back up at me, leaning in to press a chaste kiss against my lips. "Can I have a shower? Trust me, it really won't take long." He asks, his voice rougher than usual.
I nod in response to the question.
He pulls me to stand up with him, "I'll bring some next time I'm over because at this rate you're going to get my dick to fall off," he jokes. He leans behind me and grabs my shirt, handing it to me, putting my scrunchie in my other hand. "First elbowing it, then kicking it and now giving me the worst case of blue balls known to mankind, give the guy a break."
Despite how badly I want to take the words back, the promise of not getting pregnant is very fresh on my mind. I made it less than an hour ago, as did he, it's way too soon to hit up a Planned Parenthood saying 'Oops I fucked up.'
His response to my telling him to stop gives me so much reassurance. He stopped without thought and without any hint of annoyance. That's not what I'm used to, there was no blackmail, no accusing me of being a tease or a prude, he just stopped. He stopped and made sure I was okay.
He flicks my forehead lightly, "You good?" He asks again, bringing me out of my head.
I lift my chin and roll up on my heels just a little to get on the same level as him, pressing a simple kiss to his lips. "All good. Go have your shower, I'll be downstairs," I whisper.
With unsteady feet I walk around my bedroom and down the creaky steps, my hand gripping the railing while I try and get my head back in a space where I'm not on edge.
I'm too stoned for this shit.
I open the bread bin and pull out the bagels, cutting two of them in half without cutting off my finger. My concentration is unwavering. I shove them in, grab two plates, the cream cheese and a knife.
I hum a janky tune as I lather my bagel with cream cheese and squeeze some lemon on top for good measure.
The shower turns off – it really didn't take long – and I sit down to eat my bagel. I think about every bite and wonder if bagels are bad for global warming. JJ comes down the stairs, his shirt sadly on. I was hoping it wouldn't be. This day is quickly getting worse.
"I made you a bagel," I point to the slightly blackened bagel sitting on a plate next to the four-hole toaster. One side was clearly hotter than the other, so I chose the nicer bagel. First come first serve.
His eyes widen when he sees the bagel, "Sweetcheeks, that's a little bur–"
"Perfectly done. There's cream cheese and lemon next to it, there's also butter if you're a freak," I offer.
"I'll take cream cheese," he mumbles, grabbing the knife I left up there and begins to put a thick layer of cream cheese on.
As I watch him I realise how burnt it is as a chunk snaps off. "You don't actually have to have it, it's a little... crisp. It was meant to be an apology bagel," I explain after swallowing a mouthful of my actually perfectly done bagel. I don't feel bad enough to offer him the other half.
"It's not mouldy, which is an upgrade from what I usually eat," he explains while slathering on cream cheese. Then the second half of my statement sinks in and his eyebrows scrunch together, "You don't need to apologise, Mabel. I don't want to have sex with someone who doesn't want to. Not the kind of law-breaking I'm into."
My feet kick the counter as I enjoy my not-burned bagel, "Can you get me a Diet Coke, please? They're just in the fridge – you can have one too."
He nods, eating the bagel and shockingly not looking too put off. He opens up the fridge and just gets out one Diet Coke, sliding it down the counter to me.
I crack it open and just stare at him for a second, or maybe more, or maybe less, my sense of time isn't great. "You know what, JJ." He turns to look at me. "I'm actually rather fond of you – and I'm not just saying that because I'm really stoned and I like anyone that isn't mean to me."
"Thanks, sweetcheeks," he smiles. I notice half the bagel is gone, he must be starved.
Another little while goes by of me trying not to moan eating the bagel because it feels like every bite tastes better than the last. Another thought I feel the need to share pops into my mind.
"If we don't work out I want to let you know I'm turning to lesbianism," I nod, agreeing with myself, resting my elbows on the cool counter. "I give up on men," I gesticulate with my hand holding the last bite of my bagel.
He leans back against the counter, still smiling. "That's a lot of pressure."
I throw the bit of bagel in the air and catch it in my mouth. I'm not allowed to do that around my Mum, apparently, I'm going to definitely choke and die. "We all know how well you perform under pressure," I say after swallowing the bagel.
His eyebrows knit together, clearly not knowing if he's supposed to be offended or not. "What's that supposed to mean?" He asks.
"Means whatever you want it to mean," I shrug.
"I'm taking it as a compliment." He puts the final piece of the burnt bagel in his mouth.
With the bagel digesting in my stomach I know there's one thing I need right now – a nap. It aids in digestion. "I really need a nap," I tell JJ, my fingers play with the rings sitting on my fingers. "But you should stay," I continue uncertainly, not sure enough he'd want to stay to be confident. Even stoned I second guess how much he cares. "I can put Grey's Anatomy on, if you want."
He smiles and nods, putting his plate in the sink. "Sounds good." He doesn't sound like he's just doing it because I asked, he seems to just want to because he wants to.
I stand up, walking into the kitchen. I put my plate in the sink, stacking it on top of his. JJ's hand grabs my forearm, near my elbow.
"What's that?" He asks.
I turn to look at him, confused as to what he could possibly mean. I see his gaze is trained a few inches above where his hand holds my forearm. A fading bruise wraps around the skin. I immediately know what it's from and decide against upfront honesty, admitting it was him grabbing me during the whole shit storm with Barry; something tells me it wouldn't go over smoothly.
I decide to be snarky.
"That, JJ, is a bruise."
He lets go of my arm. "Yeah, Einstein, got that much," he seems annoyed. Me annoying JJ. This is totally new territory. "How'd you get it?"
The words, like so many others, come out of my mouth before I think about them. "Bondage with my side piece, tied me up like a roast chicken," I blurt.
His jaw clenches and he runs a stressed hand through his hair, he seems to be walking a very thin line of frustration. "You think you're so funny," he shakes his head.
"It's one of my many good qualities," I mumble.
"Was it your Dad?" He begins to guess.
"Nope."
"Rafe?" He switches between looking at my arm, which I now feel very self-conscious about, and my face.
"No," I answer honestly. "It really doesn't matter. It's a bruise, not an arterial bleed."
"You're dodging the question," he accuses.
I really don't want to be honest, I'm trying to do him a favour, I don't want him over-thinking and sending himself down a spiral of pity and self-loathing, because I doubt I'll be able to handle that with grace.
"The question is boring," I push, hoping he sees that I don't want to answer. But my avoiding the question seems to only make him want the answer more. I'm not going to lie to him, that never gets me anywhere– actually, it gets me into trouble, it's disastrous and historically painful. So I'm just trying to annoy him enough that he drops it.
"It's a weird bruise, Mabel. Just tell me where you got it," he presses.
I take a second to think it over, I'm realising he's not going to just drop it. "You really want me to be honest?" I ask.
"That is what I'm trying to get you to be," he snaps.
"It's because of Barry," I say plainly, hoping we could leave it there. We can't, of course.
He somehow becomes more serious. "When did he touch you?"
"Thankfully he hasn't touched me in a few months," I mutter. "When you were pulling me out of the car – to relative safety – you really didn't let me go anywhere."
"So I hurt you?"
"You're not Hercules, JJ. It's a bruise, one that's already half gone."
"No." He shakes his head. "I promised I wouldn't hurt you – I promised like a fucking week ago. Because you said–"
"I didn't mean it like that, so don't go down that rabbit hole," I state, he's doing exactly what I didn't want him to do.
"You're only just starting to trust me," he looks betrayed by himself.
"Robbie broke my leg once, when I was a kid. He was pushing me on a swing and it went too far, I fell out and hit my leg wrong and it broke," I explain, wanting him to see where I'm coming from – the realisation I actually have a bruise from him doesn't scare me. "I trust Robbie with my life, his hurting me wasn't on purpose, it wasn't malicious and doesn't make me scared of him. You grabbed me to pull me away from a madman with a gun, that's so different to Rafe throwing me into a coffee table. Capiche?"
He doesn't look like he fully believes me. "Why didn't you say anything?" He asks.
"Because I was having a heart attack due to the fact someone was holding a gun at me, then I didn't even notice the bruise until now."
He drags his hands down his face, visibly frustrated. "I'm really trying to make sure you're not scared of me, that shit isn't helping."
"JJ, the bruise is pretty much irrelevant. It doesn't even hurt, you're fine," I try to assure him. "You're going to go bald if you keep stressing."
"Pretty sure the saying is going grey," he seems to somewhat snap out of his self-loathing rabbit hole, I think he at least half believes me.
"Not for you, baldy," I shake my head.
"But you're okay?" He asks once more.
"JJ, I'm chiller than a pillar," I grin. God, whatever was in those sweets was strong. I started talking about bondage, it reminds me of when I told JJ I had hypothetical chlamydia.
"What does that even mean?" He asks, thinking way too deeply about the phrase.
I smile, "Just go with it, champ."
He cringes at the new nickname. "Did you drink something?"
"No," I scoff. "Shocked you didn't ask if I was pregnant."
"You're pregnant?!" He pales.
He literally asked me that less than two hours ago. When did he think I found out between then and now?
"What– no! It was a joke. And don't shout that, I don't need someone hearing that and spreading it around."
"So the thing definitely worked?" He acts like he didn't want me to take it again.
"Yes," I sigh, sick of the conversation.
"You're sure?"
"JJ, do you know how periods work?" I ask, not giving him a second to answer. "They mean you aren't pregnant – it's like the only good thing about them."
"Oh," He nods. "And you did one?"
I can only look at him with a shocked expression. "You are fucking hopeless."
"And yet you like me," he smiles.
"Regretfully," I mutter, grabbing his hand and leading him up the stairs before he starts another conversation I want no part of. I grab the remote for the TV set up across from my bed and climb onto the bed, JJ getting on beside me. After five minutes of figuring out how it works, I get Grey's Anatomy on. Opening a window while I'm sitting up.
I'm high, remember that.
I lay down, firstly against a pillow, then I shuffle to put my head on JJ's chest. I can feel his heart rate immediately pick up, I decide against making fun of him for it. Seems like a low blow, and hypocritical due to the fact I doubt mine is steady.
His arm slides out from underneath me and slides to my back, his thumb mindlessly brushes up and down.
He watches as Derek is annoying; but in a mildly sexy way. He can't help the fact he's disgustingly good-looking. Should be illegal.
I purposely avoid the seasons Mark Sloan is in, because I lied to JJ that he's old and fat and bald and ugly. He's not. Very much not. And I don't want to admit that, so he doesn't get to see his seasons, which, unfortunately, are the best seasons.
My eyes fall shut, the bickering on the TV, JJ's breathing that finally steadies, the gentle brushing of his thumb all help send me into a deep sleep. The THC helped, too.
My phone that sits on the bed begins to buzz and I want to throw it at a wall, I was dead asleep, a certain bliss you only achieve with naps.
"Who is it?" I ask, not bothering to lift my head or even open my eyes.
JJ's warm hand leaves my back and grabs the phone, "Kie," he answers.
"You gonna answer or let her ring out?" I ask, very much moody at the wrong person.
Fuck Kie.
That was mean, I take it back.
"Do you want me to give it to y–" He asks.
This is the Sarah call all over again. It's weird, I would never let anyone answer my phone, but for some odd, disturbing reason, I don't care that he does. "Just talk to her, I've got faith in you," I say through a yawn. I don't even pay attention to the conversation, only just staying awake.
He says goodbye and puts the phone down, "We need to head over to the dock," he explains.
I don't move
"Like now, or after I finish the nap?" I ask.
"You've been asleep for two hours," he says like that holds any weight to me, like that would be enough for me. "Get up, I've got faith in you," he uses my words against me. Creativity clearly isn't his strong suit.
He gets up and I stare up at the ceiling, debating just turning around and falling back to sleep – I am a chronic pessimist, but I have an awful feeling about today, one that I simply can't shake. But that just may be because, upon awakening, I was immediately faced with a cyborg.
The fucker tosses shoes at me that hit my stomach. I glare at him.
"That could've hurt the baby," I tease, sitting up.
He shakes his head, "Not funny."
I finally get up and follow him down the stairs and to the front door, only then do I put my shoes on. Then wait until JJ finally gets his shoes on; maybe that's why he made such a fuss about my generosity by letting him get his shoes on, because it takes forever and a day to do so. I don't comment for fear of there being some tragic backstory of his father not teaching him and then I feel bad and want to hang myself off the fan with a fuzzy dressing gown belt. You never can be too careful with tragic backstories.
I tap my back pockets to make sure I have both my key and phone, thankfully I do have both, because the door is already closed and locked when I think to check.
I wander down the streets, just following where JJ is leading me. He could be leading me into a forest where he chops me up into little pieces and feeds me to pigs so there's no evidence. But that's probably just my stoned imagination. Gets a little out of hand.
I stamp on crunchy leaves and try not to go too far into my imagination that I trip over and break my nose.
The air is thick and smells of rain – I saw a thing that said rain is one of the most potent and recognisable smells, but that may have just been in a dream. I glance up at the sky which still looks pretty harmless. Perhaps that's where my sense of foreboding comes from, it's about to piss down with rain.
Whatever Kie wants better be quick because I don't want to get drenched, I'll be in a foul mood if that happens.
JJ and I walk in a comfortable silence, both of us content in our own minds. My incessant need to fill silence with words so I don't think too much, is taken away with the fact I can't seem to do my eight times tables.
Maybe I have dementia? Like, really, really early on-set.
"Do you think I have dementia?" I ask, the comfortable silence is broken.
He looks across at me, I finally recognise where we are, he takes us a strange route, although it's no doubt quicker. "Mabel, you don't have dementia," he states with enough confidence I let my mind relax.
The pier finally comes into view, extending over the tranquil water, the small wooden roof provides a small amount of shade, but even still the hot summer is still going to make me want to rip my skin off and feed it to fish. We walk down the wooden planks, eventually hearing Kiara scolding John B for removing the cast that held the break in his arm steady.
I'm no doctor, but I doubt you're meant to pull those off yourself.
"It's a hairline fracture. Who cares?" John B retorts, sounding miserable. He throws the cast in JJ and my general direction, it thumps against the wood.
"Hey," He greets us with about as much enthusiasm as someone getting a colonoscopy. I smile back at him, continuing walking down the pier, debating on jumping in the water – it just looks so inviting. But I really don't like swimming, or the water in general, so I'd regret that the second my toes hit the water.
My mind wanders as I sit down on the end of the pier, laying back and putting the crook of my elbow over my face.
The news we so desperately needed to hear was never going to be good. The second JJ got the call whatever happiness he had deflated a little, despite him pretending it didn't. He shouldn't become an actor, he's not great.
I try to pay attention to the news, but one only wants to hear so much depressing news.
But I think I get the gist: Ward stole the gold.
I sit up, huffing at the fact that no matter how I lay I can't seem to get the thought of falling through the worn planks of wood.
"It's fine," John B says, referring to the hand he just freed. "See," he wiggles his fingers back and forth like that proves much more than he isn't a quadriplegic – which is great news, but something we'd already put together.
Maybe my mother was right, maybe I am grumpy when I'm tired.
Kiara opens her mouth to lecture him, but I can feel movement from down the other side of the short dock; no, I'm not a superhero, if you were wondering, the movement just ricochets through the old wood, and I can hear whoever it is, is very out of breath.
I turn and look behind me, a smile makes its way onto my face when I see its Pope.
"Guys!" He yells, "Oh! Oh! Oh, God. I ran all the way here," he pants. I want to tell him we all can tell, but I can barely run so I don't. The fact no one really bats an eye at the chaotic entry just proves that life has been nuts.
"You good? You don't have asthma, do you?" I ask as he seemingly can't catch his breath.
"No, Frankie, I'm okay," he answers.
"How was the interview, Pope?" JJ asks from where he's leaning against the wooden rail.
With his hands braced on his knees he shakes his head as he still desperately tries to catch his breath. I think he needs to be tested for asthma. "Don't ask," he replies after a few seconds. "JB. Look, I'm sorry dude. About everything," he apologises.
John B waves him off, "It's fine," his tone is bland. The boy really is down in the dumps.
"I don't have a lot of time, and– and I have information that is tactically relevant," he explains. I really hope it's not complicated because my brain will not be able to follow. "So, before I had my interview, my Dad said he was going to the private airstrip to cut palms for Cameron's big plane. Because it was too heavy, it needed a longer strip to take off," he speaks normally, having caught his breath. "So, I'm sitting in my interview, thinking to myself, 'Hm. Why would Ward Cameron need a longer airstrip to take off?'"
As he speaks I can feel everyone's interest pique.
"Gold," JJ answers.
Pope gesticulates like JJ just told him the meaning of life. "Exactly!" He agrees. "Guys, this is our chance, but it leaves tonight, and we have to go," he hurries.
"We can't give up now," Kie rallies with a new sense of hope.
"What's the plan, big man?" JJ asks.
"We're going to steal that shit back," John B answers. That's really a very vague plan.
JJ walks in front of me and sticks his hand out for me to grab, I take the help and he pulls me up. "You ready, Mabel?"
"Let's hope this goes slightly better than everything else we've done. Our track record is atrocious. If no one dies it'll be a ficking miracle," I mumble, my words only intended for him.
"Come on," he pulls my hand before dropping it. We walk quickly to catch up with everyone rushing down the pier.
As it turns out, John B's house isn't far from the dock and by the time JJ and I catch up John B's running out of the house with the keys to the yellow monstrosity that's on its last legs– wheels? I don't know.
As we all get in I realise how much the mood has lifted, a small flicker of hope has been restored.
JJ is sitting on the floor of the van, the gun sits in his lap as he fiddles with the parts. Seemingly checking and rechecking that everything is in order. He seems much happier. "We go in there, guns a-blazin', make Ward Cameron beg for mercy, abscond with as much gold as possible and rapidez, get the hell out of there," JJ extends of John B's plan without a singular detail, adding his own ideas which somehow is less likely to work.
The adrenalin seems to be kicking in, and the fog of being stoned is being taken over by the buzz of excitement that our gold hopes have been reignited.
"Send that shit down the intercoastal," I grin. Now I'm complicit in the awful plan – the vibes are good, sue me.
"Wait for the weather," Kiara adds.
"And exit to Cuba," Pope finishes with an uncharacteristically wide smile.
JJ looks up at Pope, "Cuba?" He shakes his head. "Nah, man, Xcalak, Jewel of the Yucatan." Now, I'm no geographer, but I have never heard of Xcalak. But everyone else nods, so I pretend to know. "Lobsters so thick, mangos, and no word for money," he finishes with a smirk.
I don't quite understand the point of being multimillionaires and moving somewhere where money doesn't mean shit. But who am I to disagree? ...I travel the world a– I need to stop.
Now I think about it, the rest of the song actually seems relevant to the whole mission – at least what I can remember. The song's going to be stuck in my head for the next seven to ten business days, now.
Sitting in the driver's seat John B drives like a madman. "Let's do this shit," he taps the steering wheel like this is a done deal.
I glance down at JJ who's finished fiddling with the gun, it now sits in his lap, looking as intimidating as ever. I hate those things, they're way more harm than good. They feed egos, and egos kill people. They make people feel invisible. They make people hurt before asking any questions. JJ seems to sense me looking at him because he looks back at me, he smiles, I don't know whether it's meant to comfort me because I know I'm beginning to look uncomfortable.
The gravity of the situation is and has never been lost on me, it always feels heavy.
Everyone in this car would stop at nothing for that gold, and that's dangerous – desperation makes people make awful choices, and that kills people.
But I'm a pessimist so don't listen to me. And I am tired, so definitely don't listen to me.
JJ's hand grabs my ankle, his thumb rubs up and down as we get closer to the airstrip. All the windows are down and I try to focus on the air hitting my face and not the ever-growing put in my stomach.
The car eventually comes up to the rusted wire gate that encases the airstrip.
JJ slides open the door and I climb out first, enjoying the fresh air that hits me. I glance around at the situation, trying to assess anything, but I don't know what I'm meant to look for. Something I notice is that there is no one working on clearing the airstrip, no Heyward or anyone else he's paid pennies to move millions, which means they're done, which, in turn, means Ward can just whisk off whenever he likes. Now there are only people loading the small plane.
"What's the plan?" Kiara questions. I look at her, the same question has been heavy on my mind, none of the 'plans' have answered that.
John B runs a hand through his hair, "I don't think we got that far," He seems to realise.
Shocker.
I watch them as they load each box onto the aircraft, no doubt having no clue about the gravity of what they're doing. They'd probably demand a pay rise if they knew. John B lowers a set of binoculars from his eyes, a pale, shocked look painted over his face.
"What?" I ask.
He wets his lips as he processes what he sees. "It's Sarah," he explains quietly. He seems to not know what to think of what he's seen – at first thought Sarah being with them could mean she decided to stick with her family, or, because I've recently found out the Camerons are completely insane, could mean she was taken.
"She's with him?" Pope sounds surprised.
John B lifts the binoculars back up, taking another look at the unfolding scene. "Wait a minute," he says, the torn tone he had a few seconds ago is replaced with something different – he sounds pissed. "He's hurting her."
I take another step toward the fence, looking down the airstrip. I can hear the propellers start to whirl as the plane readies for take-off.
Whatever we do needs to be done quickly.
John B moves quickly toward the van, clearly acting before thinking.
"Where are you going?" Pope asks as John B gets into the van, backing it up a dozen metres before driving straight forward without holding back, hitting the chain-link fence. He doesn't stop when the gate falls down with a crash, he just keeps driving.
I stand near the broken fence, my hands raise on top of my head and my fingers knit into my hair. I yank at my roots harshly, trying to figure out what to do makes my head hurt.
I'm going to have a heart attack.
Sirens wail terrifyingly close to us, responding to God knows what. How does Ward even know we're here? Even if it's not for us, being here next to a freshly run-over gate isn't a great look, no matter what.
Pope glances between the three of us, looking like he's walking on the fine line between a psychotic breakdown and just having a stroke and dropping down dead. "I can't get arrested," he sounds very, very stressed.
"I'm on probation," JJ seems to remember.
Meeting my mother and getting arrested again mere hours apart is not a good look.
"We're no good if we're all in jail," I try to reason with both everyone else and myself. My brain wrestles with going and helping Sarah, or saving myself and understanding that we truly are no good all in a jail cell.
"Yeah," Pope nods, more confident in what we need to go – leave. "Come on," he mumbles, beginning to walk away from what is no doubt an impending disaster.
We all walk in silence until we get somewhere hidden, some hoarder's back garden.
We sit around rubbish, plastic chairs, TVs and old furniture. Then I hear the noise I did not want to hear, the sound of an aeroplane flying overhead, we all glance up knowing exactly what's happened.
We lost.
"There goes the gold," JJ shakes his head, hands grabbing at his hair as he watches the machine fly across the sky. There's absolutely nothing we can do now.
Pope stands up from where he squatted right next to me and grabs a plastic chair, throwing it across the concrete, I watch it shatter as he shouts every swear word he seems to know.
I just sit back, realising that this time it really is all over.
That money would've changed so much for me, it would've helped my Mum get a good divorce lawyer and therefore get the settlement she deserves – and keep me the fuck away from my father. And it would've given me enough money that I wouldn't need to spend every day of my life from now until I die stressing about money. Because that's what is going to happen.
I would've rather have never known about the gold, I would've been fine without the hope of riches that would last generations. Of course, getting away from Rafe being a result is not something I'd give up, but having the gold stolen from our fingertips time and time again hurts. It hurts and feels unfair that someone with immense wealth gets yet more when they don't need it, Ward Cameron is rich enough that he doesn't need that money. He sits in Tannyhill – that stupid fucking house – while other people, like JJ, live in houses that are one phone call away from being condemned.
I know life is unfair, it's one of the first lessons life teaches you, but this is a blatant display of that.
I hear wood crack and glass smash, turning around I see Pope using a bat to smash I'm everything he sees. "God fucking damn it!" He shouts, and another swear word escapes him each time the bat hits something else. An old mirror, a chest of drawers, another chair; he hits it all with unrestrained anger.
It's a heartbreaking display of the unfairness of this. I wonder if he too would take the opportunity to wipe the gold from his memory.
He stops eventually when his chest heaves and sits down on a chair he didn't smash.
"Pope," Kiara whispers gently.
JJ walks away from me and toward Pope. "I was wondering when that was going to happen," he says calmly. As he walks over he digs a spliff out of his pocket and offers it to Pope who glances at it for a few seconds, not knowing what to do. "A little weed never hurt no one," He says with a small smile.
Kiara glares at him as she watches as Pope contemplates. "JJ, you know he doesn't smoke," Kiara doesn't seem to just be reminding JJ, she seems to be trying to remind Pope.
He reaches out and takes it from JJ, putting it between his lips JJ lights the end. I watch him almost cough up a lung on his first drag, going far too long – not that anyone offered any advice. Learning curve, I guess.
Pope looks at Kie dead in the eyes, a look of loss on his face. He looks like a boy who has nothing left. Exhaling another choke of the blunt he pulls it from his lips. "I lost my scholarship. I walked out in the middle of the interview," he explains, it's like he's talking about himself, he doesn't sound attached to the story. "Every– It's gone. It's not gonna happen," his voice cracks.
"You did that for us?" Kie asks in disbelief.
Pope shakes his head, taking one more drag before he answers the question that doesn't seem appropriate right now. "No, not for us. For nothing."
"Welcome to my world," JJ mutters, stealing the blunt from his pinches fingers, sticking it between his lips
Kie glares at the blond, "JJ," she tries to argue.
"What, Kie? He's right! It doesn't matter anymore," JJ shuts her down.
I just sit silently, not knowing what the right thing to say is, because everything seems wrong, nothing seems like it's going to do anything but hurt. Nothing I say will magically give Pope his interview back, and it's not going to get that plane to turn around. Sometimes the bad guy wins, the underdog is kicked and kicked until it doesn't want to get back up.
That's what this is, the underdog giving up, throwing in the towel. Enough is enough. I don't want to hear any suggestions on stealing missiles and shooting down the aircraft or travelling to each stupid vacation home the Cameron's own, no more far-fetched and naive plans.
We lost.
Pope's eyes widen when he looks past me, my heart drops as I hear laboured breathing. I turn slowly, and my heart sinks impossibly further when I see John B, covered in sticky blood. It's all over his hands and his shirt.
What the fuck happened.
•
So, that was long. If it's poorly edited (what's new) it's because it's over 10k words and I didn't want to split it in two because I just didn't, don't question me.
Do you all prefer split chapters that are a little shorter, (although still about 4/5k words,) or one big, fat, juicy chapter?
Me a few chapters ago: I'm not a big weed gal, not really for me, I prefer prescription pills (definitely totally always prescribed to me)
Me yesterday when I was offered weed: yes, and I will smoke so much I don't know my own name
One time I smoked weed laced with meth. That shit was good.
Not again though. Also I swear I didn't know, nor did my friend (at least she says that. We aren't friends anymore and she's now a raging alcoholic, so she's not the best source of information)
I finished a story and I miss it so much. I wish I could read it again for the first time :(
I didn't realise Timothee Chalamalamamay was such a big deal, like people thirst after him so hard. And I admit my taste is questionable, but I don't see him as anything beyond normal good looking, you know? Like he's not ugly, but he's not Jefferey Dean Morgan... speaking of him.
Introducing... Jefferey Dean Morgan!
Even my Mum agrees with me on this. And she is constantly concerned about my taste in men, (rightly, I only seem to like inappropriately old men)
I watched two episodes of The Walking Dead and haven't gotten to his part but my Mum said he looks goooood, and she's always right (unless she says the men I love are ugly, she has poor vision) (love you Mumma, no shade)
He's also a Dad, and I love dads.
Anyway, hold onto your underwear here comes the evidence:
Disagree with me. I dare you. I will block you (I won't, you're allowed your opinions)
Anyway, stay safe and don't snort wizzfizz. Love ya