You Get What You Give
chapter o.
warnings: cocaine use, peer pressure,
underage drinking, sexuality
LAYNE HETFIELD WAS A GOOD GIRL. Rafe Cameron liked that, even if he failed to admit it. He would be lying if there wasn't a tinge of interest that peaked in their middle school years, and descended into a slightly unhealthy infatuation by the time they were seventeen. Nobody could really blame him—however turned off everyone would be by the idea of Rafe Cameron being even relatively close to a pogue of that caliber. She worked as an attendant at the marina, cleaned boats and sent tourons on charters for god sake.
Rafe knew his parents wouldn't care. His father was a man with a short fuse that lifted him off the ground with one hand and stabbed him with the other. He didn't know his mother, and he didn't even know if his sisters were even fully related to him—let alone a step mother who breathed down his neck and kept two eyes open at night ever since he was a child. There's something wrong with Rafe, he had heard her say one night, in Ward's study, when he was eleven. He didn't know what that meant. There wasn't anything wrong with him—he was the most popular boy in school, wore name brands everywhere and wouldn't be caught dead near the south side. There was nothing wrong with him. He was completely fine.
He liked the way Layne Hetfield would walk on eggshells around him. He scared her away after she dropped ice cream on his shoe in the sixth grade. Ever since then, Layne would hardly even look at him. It wasn't like she had to—they lived on completely different sides of the island, with different lives. She had two jobs, he had two houses and a yacht that she cleaned. (Well, she only cleaned it one time, during a recovery clean up after a hurricane in 2014. He was cleaning it too—but that was besides the point.) Rafe Cameron didn't understand why he chose Layne Hetfield out of all the girls on the island, but he just did. She was weak and couldn't take care of herself, and Rafe wanted to take care of her, and needed someone to take care of him. Layne wasn't like the other girls on the island. She took care of him when he needed her—and even when he didn't.
The sun was hot, and draining. It was the worst time of day to be under the sky—4:37 PM, when the sun was setting yet it still gave Layne the most blistering sunburns she would get that day. She had forgotten her sunscreen on the kitchen counter before she left that morning, and she was currently on her hands and knees scrubbing the fish blood off of Mr. Pocino's boat. He had given her one hundred dollars to clean off the fish stench and residue from the floors while him and his crew lugged the tuna back to get cleaned and gutted. Meanwhile, the tourons that paid for the charter vomited off the side of the dock from being seventy-five miles off shore and forgot to take Dramamine the night prior. Layne had pretty much seen it all up to this point, and as long as she was getting paid, she was fine with it. It wasn't like she hadn't scrubbed fish blood off of boat floors before.
The smell of fish didn't bother her anymore, but she still pulled the neckline of her tank top over her nose. Her earbuds were shoved deep in her ears blasting Bob Marley, too loud for her to even hear herself sing. We've got a mind on our own, so go to Hell if what you thinkin' is not right.....
There was a chorus of footsteps that rang out on the dock before something nailed her on the back, and when she turned around, it was plastic fish bait with a deformed hook on the end. Frantically pulling the ear buds from her ears she turned around and saw JJ Maybank and John B Routledge standing there with shit-eating smirks on their faces.
"You assholes, this has a fucking hook on it!" she picked it up and threw it back at them, but they dodged out of the way.
"We saw it on the dock, we figured we should return it to you," JJ chuckled, giving her double thumbs up. Layne was used to them and their antics since they were seven, and she was ten. They were like the little gnats that fly near your face and don't disappear unless you put your hands up. Ever since they turned fourteen a few months ago they had been around her constantly, and Kiara insists that they have crushes on her, but she decides to look past it. She thinks its just because she was the only one of their friends who could drive—she didn't mind their company, for the most part, but they always busted on her music choices when she would drive them to the beach in her 1995 Jeep Wrangler—that had a hole in the floor on the passenger seat and could hardly fit her surf board, let alone three—and a nearly permanently removed roof. JJ had a deadbeat father and a missing mother, and John B's father kept his nose in his work for ninety-five percent of the time. She felt sorry for the pair of them, no matter how annoying they were.
"What the hell are you guys doing here?" she threw the sponge down on the ground, pocketing her phone and wrapping up her earbuds.
"Saving you," John B smiled, and Layne shook her head, taking the bucket of—now bloodied— water off the boat and giving it to JJ, who emptied it in the water. "Well, 'save me' by helping me pump out," she nodded her head to the empty bucket. "Fill that with water," she ordered as she put on her gloves. "Yes ma'am," JJ saluted, and Layne rolled her eyes.
"You look red as hell," John B teased as Layne unraveled the pump from a few feet away. "Shut up and unscrew the cap," she pushed his shoulder before turning on the hose valve. It was quite, save for the humming of the pump engine, before Layne noticed the sound of a boat arriving way too close to the dock. JJ returned with the bucket of water like he just cured cancer, and Layne handed off the hose to John B. "Who the fuck is that?" she muttered, narrowing her eyes a bit to make out Rafe Cameron and his gang of dickheads stumbling around the outside of his daddy's yacht and heading towards the marina. Layne shook her head. "Motherfuckers. Hold this. Once you see no more waste coming through, turning this valve off and place the tip of the pump in the water and replace the cap, alright?" she pat John B on the back, who stared at JJ who was too busy cracking his knuckles as if he was going to fight the kooks in their own territory. Layne pushed his head away. "Relax, McGregor. Go help Johnny Boy,"
"Don't call me that!" John B yelled out after her, as she jogged toward the space to which Rafe planned on docking the boat, and she waved her arms to stop them. "Hey! Hey! Stop!" she called out, making a cutting motion to her neck. "Turn the goddamn boat around! You can't dock here!" Layne cupped her hands around her mouth, but none of them listened. Rafe stood at the end of the boat, hands crossed over his chest. "Can you help us out?" he yelled, grabbing the rope and tossing it over to the deck, but a boy Layne knew to be Kelce, and the others she didn't recognize, were already tying them down.
"You can't dock here," Layne muttered, her voice a bit lower than before. For some reason her heart stammered in her chest—maybe she was still a tad bit frightened of Rafe. The way he was staring at her also didn't help, his pupils dilated and a sheen layer of sweat over his skin. He kept sniffing and rubbing his face and nose, and Layne tried hard not to look into it. It wasn't unknown that kooks were, for the most part, a bunch of coke junkies—Layne tried not to believe it, but when you have the money for it, it wasn't a surprise. She noticed his chest heaving with rapid breaths. He blinked aggressively.
"What're you staring at me so much for, girl?" Rafe spat, sounding paranoid, and he sniffed harder.
"You—you can't dock here. Like I said,"
He narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms firmly over his chest. "What d'you mean we can't dock here? Do you know who I am?" Rafe fidgeted even more, readjusting his baseball cap on his blonde hair that looked as though someone had poured a bucket of grease over it. Layne was never a fan of him, but still found herself worried he might strangle her if he didn't get his way. Maybe that made her more interested in him, but she'd be caught dead before she ever admitted to it.
"It doesn't matter who you are. Dock's closed,"
"It's 5 o'clock,"
"Exactly,"
Layne shifted to put her hands on her hips, and she noticed Rafe mirroring her. She wasn't sure if it was out of mockery or coincidence, but either way, she wasn't having it. "Listen, the only way you could dock here is if you have your paperwork. I mean, don't you have a dock at your house?"
Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes, turning to his friends that were rallying up behind him. JJ and John B were too busy listening from a distance, and Layne knew she would hear it from Mr. Pocino about his boat not being properly pumped. "Give her the uh . . . the paper thing. Kelce, stop being a fucking dickhead, go get it," he turned to his friend, who stared at him with widened eyes and eyebrows furrowed to the point that Layne thought they might fall off. She tried to keep her face stone but it was hard when a gaggle of coked-out high schoolers (one who happens to be the son of the richest man on the island) can hardly take themselves seriously and would jeopardize her job like it was another ant hill on the side walk.
"We don't have any fucking paper, man," Kelce muttered to him, and Rafe shoved his shoulder away. "Can't you just do this one for thing for me, Layne?" Rafe stuck out his bottom lip, and she sighed loudly. There was a beat of silence before she helped tie the boat to the dock.
LAYNE WASN'T SURE WHY SHE CONTINUED to do whatever Rafe asked. She was the type of girl Rafe chewed up and spit out, yet she let him. Her friends always mocked her for finding solace in boys with rotting braincells and a disposable relationship with their parents. She was only seventeen, yet had an incredible infatuation with fixing people. Layne knew it was from the idea instilled into her at a young age that everyone was inherently good. She sought after damaged people because she knew they could change. Or, better yet, she thought they would change for her. Maybe it was selfish of her to think anyone would change for her, but he gave into it as much as she did.
Layne thinks there is something wrong with her. The next time she sees Rafe, she feels a lump in her throat, and there was a reminder in her chest of how stupid she was. She wasn't sure if she was blushing or had the urge to cry. They hardly encountered each other, but each time they did, she felt as though he was staring into her soul. When her palms turned sweaty she wanted to throw up—she also noticed how much she would sweat under her arms. Rafe wouldn't want anything to do with a girl who sweat through deodorant just at the sight of someone who made her nervous. Layne still couldn't understand why he made her nervous. She thinks there is something wrong with her.
Rafe tries to remember what it felt like when he first saw her. They both were twelve. He remembers seeing red when she dropped her ice cream on his pearly white sneakers. He remembers seeing what everyone else saw.
It was bad enough being a pogue—but she wore white Converse with doodles on the toes and ice cream dripped onto the laces. Her hair was knotted and she had bruises up and down her legs and scabs on her elbows. Layne always had scabs on her elbows. But, he didn't really think that. She had blue eyes like his own, too. Rafe remembered hearing it was special to have blue eyes. She also had a few freckles on her nose, but he couldn't tell if they were actual freckles or from the dirt she had noticeably been rolling around in. Her hair was also wet from swimming under the waves.
But Rafe didn't think that either, when he first saw her. He remembered being embarrassed for her, and the way she looked. How she tried so hard to be different than everyone else. Rafe wasn't used to outsiders, no matter how long she had been living on the island—he remembered feeling poorly for her, for only a moment. How he had heard her say she saved up her money to be able to buy three scoops instead of one. The small tinge of commiseration dissipated abruptly when he slapped her cone out of her hands.
The next time she sees him, its June. One month since she let him slide and park at the dock. She hadn't seen him since, not enough to start a conversation, and she let her nerves subside. It almost felt as though she was creeping around the island, trying to avoid him, but also slightly hoping she would see him again. He would probably make fun of her clothes, maybe her name (she was named after Layne Staley from Alice in Chains. Her father loved Alice in Chains, maybe more than her or her mother) or maybe he wouldn't say anything. He probably wouldn't say anything.
Contrary to popular belief, Layne did in fact have friends—Claudia Smith and Marian Lu. Both pogues that acted like kooks. It made Layne snarl her lips and bare her teeth, but many people could say the same about her. Mainly pogues that never brushed their hair, skateboarded and had a joint hanging from their lips. Mainly pogues that looked like (stereotypical) pogues. Was that offensive? Layne honestly didn't really care. She could be a pogue and still wear dresses and makeup. She could try her hardest to not look like her neighbors who Layne was about 100% sure were cooking up meth in their underground bunker.
Marian Lu and Claudia Smith were less pogue than Layne, however. They both worked as waitress at the country club and hung around more kooks than deemed normal. Sometimes, Layne wondered if said kooks even knew if the pair of them were from the south side. She thinks they'd rather be dead than be caught with kids from the Cut, but boys will stick their things in anything that moves.
Marian, in all her glory, was considered an "it" girl of the Cut and Figure Eight combined. She had dated nearly eighteen boys combined in their Junior year, had ghosted around five, and slept with two. (However, apparently, her and William Park only made out in the pool, and he didn't, quote on quote, stick it in her, like everyone was implying. Claudia told her to report it to the police since Marian insisted she was blacked out drunk while it happened, but Layne doesn't believe her. Its not as though she didn't think William would be the type of boy to do that, but Marian has a liver of steel and hasn't gotten drunk since the sixth grade.) Claudia Smith has had three pregnancy scares since her sophomore year, and wears pretty flowers in her hair and no underwear under her pleated skirts. Rory, Layne's mother, insists the girls aren't a good influence on Layne—but it was hard to find any kid on the island that was.
It was hard for either Claudia or Marian to keep any sort of secret. So Layne resulted in not telling them anything. She didn't tell them how she was uncomfortable going to kook parties when she hardly had running water half the time, and how she couldn't recycle the same two dresses consistently without any of them saying something. (Claudia and Marian both had older sisters who lent them their clothes that didn't fit. They also both worked as waitresses at a rich peoples safe haven, and were pretty, meaning they never had to worry about not having gas money or money to buy clothes. Layne envied them.)
They insisted on Layne "expanding her horizons" and leaving the Cut to go to a party on Figure Eight, but Layne had never been to a party beside on the Boneyard, and she thought she might be sick at the thought of it. Pogue parties and kook parties were two very different things, and mingling with kids who didn't even know how lucky they were was an astronomical level of difficult. But this was going to be her senior year of high school, before none of this would even matter anymore. Those girls made her self conscious. It felt like every inch of her skin was itching. She didn't know how to talk to rich kids—she clammed up every time Rafe Cameron even looked in her direction. But then again, that was Rafe Cameron. He wore khakis, played golf and snorted coke. He also had Layne in some sort of chokehold. He was stupid.
She could hear the music from a mile away, and Claudia told Layne to park three streets down. She covered it up by saying it was in case the cops came, but Layne knew she just didn't want anyone seeing them pull up in a car that had anything above 50,000 miles and sounded like a jet when she lightly hit the gas. Even if the cops did come, they could track her down just by the cloud of black smoke that engulfed everything when she drove ever. Kiara always told her it couldn't be good for the environment, but then would never complain when she was giving her rides. (Also, Layne didn't understand how those boys would even think of letting an actual kook join their posse. But she didn't push. They probably just were excited that a girl was actually interested in them.)
It was June, and the weather changed like a drop of a hat. Sweat was already starting to dampen Layne's hair and made it stick to the back of her neck. Her mother had dabbed vanilla extract on the backs of her ears and legs, because according to her, it was cheaper than perfume and smelt just as good. Layne never objected, because her dad always told her to never second guess her mother, and that was good enough for Layne.
Marian had always said to never be on time to a party. It supposedly started at seven, and they arrived at nine. Layne had left the house at six-thirty anyhow, so her mom didn't think she was driving at night. She had to pull her dress off of her back, because even though the sun had set, the humidity still lingered like a heavy blanket. Plus, her nerves were sky rocketing with made it feel like she was meandering the streets with a cloak on.
By the time they arrived at the house (she wasn't sure even whose house it was. Some kook that obviously didn't have a memorable name) she could practically feel herself shaking. She had to grip onto her hands as they walked up the front lawn, that still looked perfectly pruned despite teenagers rolling around in the blades and solo cups dispensed over the landscaping. Layne was sure she had never seen the inside of a house this big, and thought she would have burst into flames the minute she stepped foot into the Figure Eight. But, so far, she was in tact, and she heard the Killers playing throughout the house, and she forgot for a moment that rich kids could have good taste in music.
Claudia and Marian, the great friends they were, were quick to vacate the foyer until Layne was stuck standing, hands foolishly clasped in front of her, and she fiddled with the—fake—sapphire ring around her finger. There were three options—one: go over to the drink table, and loosen up. Two: hide away in the bathroom, or find an empty room upstairs to seek solace in, or three: run back outside and drive back home until Marian texts her that they need to be picked up. She decided to combine the first two.
When she reached the table, which was glass and made Layne mentally do backflips at the rings of liquid stained from people who wouldn't use goddamn coasters, she looked for a bottle of Diet Coke. Maybe a can, because it always taste better from a can—but there was nothing resembling soda. Besides cranberry juice, which was already halfway gone and made her throat sore unless she mixed it with Sprite. The Yeti coolers on the hardwood were filled with beers and seltzers that made her stomach churn, and everything else on display was hard liquor, save for the bowl of punch in a very expensive looking, crystal bowl. Layne weighed her options—try not to get drunk and just have a cheap beer. That seemed to be the best option. (Although, what party didn't have soda? Or water? Kook parties. Actually, any high school party for that matter. God, she was stupid.)
It's not that she hadn't drank before, but it wasn't anything that went over well. She was only seventeen, and had been to enough pogue parties to know how to hold her alcohol, but something about drinking around a bunch of teenagers she didn't know, wasn't exactly comforting. Not to mention that Claudia and Marian had run off almost instantly. Layne didn't mind being alone, but being alone in a house full of rowdy teenagers felt cowardly.
The bowl—of punch?—seemed to be tangible to a certain degree, so she only poured herself a bit, sniffed it, before taking a sip. It was sour, and whatever juice had been added to the vodka was not enough, and Layne had to stop herself from coughing in front of the swarm of people reaching over her to pour themselves a drink. To stop herself from being even more of a coward, she filled her cup about halfway before vacating the area, and heading towards the staircase, which was further away from the main scene. There were a few people littered on the stairs, making out with kids they will never see again, exchange saliva as though it was air. Layne nearly wanted to vomit. She had kissed enough boys in her short seventeen years of living that kept her satisfied for years to come. All she needed was her surfboard and her Jeep. Maybe her parents and her friends. Maybe.
The upstairs, in itself, was bigger than her entire house. Layne was more impressed with the architecture than socializing—although she would've painted the walls a greyish-blue with white trimming instead of cream—and the paintings that were hung up on the walls were nearly torn down from the amount of movement throughout the house. She guaranteed the carpet she was walking on was worth more than her car, and part of her felt as though she should've taken her shoes off. But, another part of her felt like she should dirty up their carpet even more, since they were rich.
All the doors looked the same, although a few had socks on the handles, and she wondered how people were already fucking, two hours into the party. But, then she remembered where she was, and wasn't surprised.
One room she walked into, was obviously a teenage girls room. There was a tiny dog, one that all the basic kooks had—white, black beady eyes, and gross brown crust around its mouth, paws, nose and eyes. No matter how many times you washed those dogs they would never get clean. It yapped at Layne before scurrying past her, and she quickly shut the door behind her to try and evade the possibility of being blamed for it getting out.
The only remaining door that didn't have a sock on it was around the corner, away from the bathroom. Layne felt like a loser that she got excited of the possibility of it being the master bedroom, and being able to look around. When she rattled on the door handle, it took a moment before she could open it, and low and behold—Rafe Cameron, his posse of assholes, and a blonde girl were huddled around the bedside table, separating lines of cocaine with a credit card.
Nearly all of the looked over, but hardly tried to hide it, except for Rafe nearly jumping at the sound of the door opening. Layne quickly held her hands up in surrender. "Shit, sorry," she whimpered, and nearly cursed at herself before moving to shut the door. Rafe had jogged over and put his foot out to stop the door from closing. "Don't be shy, come in," he beckoned her, and Layne nearly felt week in the knees. God, she felt stupid. Pathetic. Layne didn't understand why he made her feel that way. He was attractive, probably the most attractive kook on the island, but he also gave her a bad taste in her mouth. He reeked of entitlement and was simultaneously the biggest piece of shit she had ever laid eyes on.
"You still with us?" he waved his hand in front of her eyes, slightly pulling on her arm to pull her further into the room, and closed the door behind her. The thumping of the music downstairs matched her heartbeat. "Uh—"
"Whatcha got there?" he used one finger to tilt the top of the cup towards him, and nodded. "You want something even better?" he nodded toward the table, and Layne tried to make it less obvious how thickly she swallowed. "I'll stick to this," she cleared her throat, looking back to the few kids still hovering over the table. Layne wondered if she had ever seen Rafe sober within these past few months—now she was beginning to question if he had been sober at all throughout high school.
"Is that Layne Hetfield?" the blonde girl had slurred from the table, narrowing her eyes as if she was trying to zoom in on Layne's face. She felt scrutinized and embarrassed. That girl was definitely going to make a comment about a pogue being at a kook party. "Shut the fuck up, Delaney," Rafe had waved his hand to quiet her, and Layne tried to step away from him. "She's hot for a pogue, isn't she?" a boy, who Layne again did not recognize, announced from the other side of the bedroom.
Rafe did think Layne was pretty, even through his high. He would be an idiot to think otherwise. She had nice lips. Maybe it was a pervy thing for him to acknowledge first—but they were right in front of him. They were pink and looked soft—and, she had a birthmark right above her top lip. He also noticed how she had slight dimples ever time she would laugh nervously. Her hair was soft, and she smelt of vanilla. He hummed in pleasantry—Layne was sweating more under his gaze. "I uh—I have to go find my friends," Layne excused, backing up into the door, and nearly tripping over her foot before she pulled it open and made her way out. She felt itchy—that girl was definitely going to talk about how much of a dirty pogue she was for showing up to a kook party—and Rafe was totally looking at her like she was a piece of meat. His eyes nearly looked black from how dilated his pupils were, and his nose was red and running. She tried to shake off the site, and almost immediately disposed of her drink in the garbage.
She waited for Claudia and Marian in her car for—almost—the entire night. Could you get second-hand high from cocaine? Is that why she was sweating profusely and had to turn up the—hardly—working AC to try and calm herself down. A nice cruise down the shoreline helped her clear off the heat that engulfed her like a sweaty hug. Why didn't the goddamn party have soda?
LAYNE HAD SUCCESSFULLY AVOIDED any kook that was in that room for months. August came around, and she was teetering on her eighteenth birthday. The day was a wash, mainly clouds in the sky, but it was an hour after low tide and an hour before high, and hardly any beach goers, which made for the perfect four hours of waves. Layne had been surfing in the same spot since she was eight, and it never disappointed. She knew the tide chart like the back of her hand, and her dad always wondered why she just didn't become a lifeguard. Layne wondered the same thing as well. Her board was freshly waxed, and she had slipped on her wet suit like second skin and got into the ocean right at five PM. The sun was in and out of the clouds, and her hair flipped in front of her eyes when she paddled out. There was a certain quiet that always made her calm. There were a few other regular surfers, since most of the surf lessons took place on Figure Eight—and most of the kids that surfed in the same spot have been doing so since they were eight, as well.
It took her about five minutes to swim as far off shore as she normally did. Some guys who she had never seen before were out there with Go-Pros on their helmets, documenting what looked to be a touron vacation. It was weird knowing people came to her home for vacation. She didn't understand why anyone would want to come here in the first place—even though her parents and everyone around her always said how beautiful it was.
Layne saw the storm clouds rumbling in from a distance—she heard the thunder, and couldn't count to ten in between each rumble. That wasn't a good sign—however, Layne had surfed during multiple storms before. It didn't help that her house was a good fifteen minute drive, and driving during a storm with a half broken Jeep wasn't exactly ideal.
The rain started slowly, but it was enough to lure Layne out of the water. The clouds were dark enough to be mistaken for the night, and Layne had to wonder if there was any sort of hurricane watch on the island—although, that wouldn't really stop any of the surfers from the Cut. Maybe if they were twelve. Although, when Layne was twelve, she surfed through one of the hurricanes that hit the island—she was grounded for two weeks and had an infection on her leg from getting cut from a seashell. She had to wear a makeshift cast on her calf for a month—which, also meant no surfing for a month. Layne told her mother she hated her after that and she was pretty sure Rory cried. (Layne probably should've felt bad, but she didn't. She was twelve—her mother was smart enough to know that she didn't mean it.)
The storm intensified by the time she got back to shore. The waves were more aggressive, and the thunder and lightning were hardly five counts of separation from each other. Layne frantically shoved her board in its bag and grabbed the other items she had hidden in the grass near the trees before—slightly—running back to her Jeep, and praying to God that the soft top would stay on through the wind.
Once she started the car, the storm came down even harder. Layne was slightly terrified of her windshield wipers flying off, and as she drove through the main town, she could hardly see in front of her. The traffic lights were swinging in the wind, and the colors were blurred by the hard rain on her windshield.
Layne haphazardly pulled into the parking lot of a random store, not even bothering to put on proper clothes before she ran out of her car and into the store. She always remembered her mom and dad telling her to never drive through a heavy storm, and to always pull over and ride out the rain if you can. So, despite being soaking wet, she went in the custard shop, that seemed to be filled with tourons who all had the same idea as her. They all stared at her with furrowed brows, and some of the children looked at her dripping wet suit. The workers rolled their eyes.
"You can't come in here like that," one of the teens called out from behind the counter, who was swirling vanilla custard in a kids size cup.
"C'mon, can you just let me ride out the storm? Its a shit show out there," she nodded her head out the window, and a mother of three scoffed at her language. Layne mouthed sorry to her and moved toward the counter. "What if I buy some ice cream?" she pleaded, tapping anxiously on the counter. There were a few more people to ran into the store—fully clothed, however.
"Fine. What do you want?" the girl had muttered, plugging in some things on the cashier after handing off someone's ice cream.
"Uh—kid sized cup of peanut butter chocolate,"
"You got it," the girl walked back to the machines, and Layne tried to remember her name. They definitely went to school together, but she thought the girl was a year older than her. Layne went to turn around, but saw that the other person that walked in was fucking Rafe Cameron. How in hell is it possible that every time she tries to avoid him, he keeps showing up like a pimple on the bridge of her nose. She resented him for looking good, even after running through the storm. He must be working out—his chest was broader and it seemed as though he had grown a few inches since the last time she saw him. Or maybe she just felt smaller. He liked the way she looked at him like she was scared of him.
"Hey," the girl from behind the counter interrupted her chain of thinking and, embarrassingly, her stare at him.
"That's 3.29," she nodded toward the cup that was outstretched over her, and Layne took it. 3.29 for a fucking cup of ice cream? She pat down her legs, before realizing she left her wallet in her car. The rain was still coming down in buckets. "Motherfucker. I uh—"
The girl sighed audibly. "You're holding up the line. No money, no ice cream, and no shelter," she went to reach for the ice cream back, before someone held out a ten dollar bill. Layne sheepishly looked up, despite knowing who it was going to be, and saw Rafe give the girl a lopsided smile. "Keep the change,"
"Uh—thanks?" it came out as more of a question, and Layne nearly hit herself over the head. "No problem," he winked, and Layne felt like throwing up before pushing past him to sit down on one of the stools near the window.
"You know, you shouldn't sit near the window when there's lightning," he muttered, stuffing his hands in his pockets. She swallowed, and shook her head. "Whatever," she picked away at her ice cream, but every time she would lift up the spoon, she would just put it back in her cup. Almost as if she didn't want to eat in front of him. "Do you want this?" she held it out to him, and he looked between the cup and her. "I haven't touched it,"
"I'm allergic to peanuts. You tryna kill me?" he joked, but Layne flushed, and tried to rub away the blush marks on her neck, but it only seemed to make it worse. "Sorry," she looked down at her lap, and ate small spoons. He shook his head. "Why are you always apologizing?"
"Sor—I mean, I don't know. Why did you pay for me?"
"Because I can,"
Layne shook her head. "That's not a good enough reason,"
Rafe shrugged, resting his forearm on the counter. "Dunno. I like looking at you," his eyes scanned her, and Layne felt vulnerable, but no one had ever really said that to her before. She knew she was pretty, and she heard it from adults left and right, but it was unsatisfying unless it was from peers. Hearing from a boy, especially a kook boy, for some reason, gave her the satisfaction she was craving. "You bought me ice cream because you like looking at me?"
"Don't act like a boy has never bought you anything on that basis,"
"They haven't,"
"I don't believe you,"
Layne nearly slammed her spoon down back into the ice cream, but resulting in gently placing it on a napkin. She wasn't going to act like she didn't enjoy the notion of a boy thinking she was attractive enough to buy ice cream for—but it still made her slightly uncomfortable. She wasn't sure if she thought Rafe Cameron was handsome enough to buy ice cream for.
THE NEXT TIME LAYNE SEES RAFE CAMERON, it's at a boneyard party, and Layne isn't entirely sure why he's there. She knows that these parties are notorious for being the underlying middle ground between pogues and kooks—alcohol and the beach is enough to meddle their differences and settle any disputes. Layne never held a personal vendetta against kooks as a whole, but growing up on the Cut made it easy enough to resent them. Especially when she worked for kooks, and had friends who were so desperately trying to be them, it wasn't an easy pill to swallow.
Her Jeep wasn't ruined from the storm a few days prior, but it was almost as if she could still feel the ice cream lingering in her stomach. And, she thought she might have hurled it the moment she saw Rafe, hair hanging in front of his eyes, a solo cup in his hand while the other fidgeted with the edge of his shirt or rubbed his nose. Layne cursed at herself for thinking he looked attractive—but, it wasn't really her fault. She kind of wanted to lap up the small drop of beer that was running down his jaw and neck. God, she was stupid.
She walked in with Marian and Claudia, who were dolled up to the nine and wore sundresses that were far above their knees. She wasn't sure if either of them were wearing underwear—probably not. Both of them hardly ever did, and the winds gusting on the beach were working in their favor, apparently.
Layne saw JJ and John B perched on a trunk, around the fire, consistently refilling their cups from the keg. Layne shook her head and walked over to them, hands on her hips. "Hello malady, can I interest you in some Milwaukee beverage?" JJ waved his hand over to the keg, and Layne scrunched up her eyebrows. "Since when do you two run the keg?"
John B filled up her solo cup. "Because we are hot and very, very cool,"
"Shut up," she snatched it away from him and took a sip. She hated beer. It tasted like piss, and the color yellow. She shook her head and pushed away JJ's head, who was already trying to flirt with the obviously uninterested senior pogue girls who were just trying to get their boyfriends drinks. Layne meandered around and tried to find Claudia and Marian, but they were already off flirting with boys who were feeding them shots and joints. Layne hated the taste of weed, but she didn't mind the side affects. She decided to walk to the water—it was high tide, anyway, and they were playing rap music that made her ears bleed. She wasn't sure who had the aux but it was definitely a kook.
Rafe saw her from afar, and he didn't feel embarrassed for her. She was wearing jean cut off shorts, which were his favorite—and they weren't the kind that you could see the pockets. He liked that when she wore sandals, her toenails were always painted. Her shorts were short enough that her legs looked long, and smooth. He scanned her body without a beat. Her butt looked cute in them, too, and her bikini tan-lines showed beneath her blouse that hugged her just right. He felt like a pervert, but he was too high to care, besides, a girl like that is just asking for it. She had good posture, slender shoulders, and smelt of vanilla all the time. Rafe liked that. Despite being a pogue, once she grew a few inches and entered high school, she was like a new person. He also liked the chokers she wore, the lacey ones with floral cutouts and pastel colors. He liked when he would catch her biking home from work before she got her license. Her hair would blow in the wind, and if he was lucky, her dress would too. And, Rafe loved her hair. It was soft, and nearly reached her butt. It was wavy enough to show that she didn't care about it, but brushed enough to show that she did. She walked like she knew he was watching her.
Layne didn't know. She only wanted to escape everyone and their loud voices and sweaty bodies. It was August, hottest month of the year, and Layne tried to hide her sweat as much as possible. She also hated the way the beer tasted on the way down.
The sand was soft when she sat down. She wasn't close enough to the water to get wet from it, but it was close enough that it was cold against her skin. The moon reflected the water and was bright enough that it seemed like it was day time. She could still see the clouds and every star in the sky. Part of her wanted to lay back and count them out, maybe find the Big Dipper, but she didn't want to get sand all over her. She hardly even heard Rafe approaching.
"You owe me ten dollars,"
Layne jumped, releasing a heavy breath as she turned to watch him sit down next to her. "You scared the shit out of me," she placed a hand on her chest, burrowing the bottom of her cup in the sand so it wouldn't tip over.
"My apologies," he did the same, and placing his forearms on top of his knees. "Why aren't you up there?" he nodded toward the party, and Layne shrugged.
"Dunno. I don't like it,"
"Then why do you come?"
"To make my friends happy,"
Rafe looked at the group of kids further up the beach, and then turned around to look at her. "Where are they?"
Layne laughed, and shrugged. "I don't know,"
Rafe smiled in return, his chin lifting up slightly. "What d'you mean, you don't know?"
"They kind of—leave me, all the time, when we come to these things,"
He nodded, accidentally reaching to sip Layne's beer. She didn't care, however, although she thought she might need to be drunk in order to be around Rafe and carry conversation. "You're friends with Marian and Claudia, right?" he murmured, still drinking her beer. It took him a moment before he realized it was hers, and tried to hand it back, but she waved it away. "Uh—yeah. That's who I came with,"
"They're hot. I mean—they're nice, you know," he chugged the rest of the beer before chucking the cup out toward the water. Layne widened her eyes. "You can't do that,"
"Oh come on, it's just fun,"
"I don't want to have fun,"
"That's depressing,"
Layne rested her head in her hands and stood up, turning to him. "Why do you keep talking to me? Like, you always try to talk to me. You don't know me,"
Rafe licked his lips, turning to his own drink and nearly drinking it all in a sip. "Because I like you," he admitted, trying hard not to look at her legs, that were hovering right over him. God, she was definitely asking for someone to look at her.
"We're kinda similar, you know," he watched her carefully, and she squirmed under his guise. "No, no we're not,"
Rafe raised his eyebrows. "Nah, nah we are. Neither one of us has many friends,"
"You have plenty of friends,"
"No, like—genuine friends,"
"What does that mean?"
Rafe sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Doesn't matter. Why don't people like you?"
Layne never thought people didn't like her. Obviously, kooks didn't like her, but that was a given. She hadn't really questioned her amount of friends, or their level of sincerity, until Rafe mentioned it. Maybe she should have contemplated it more—but, her mother always said that her lack of friends was because most girls were jealous of her. Jealous of her beauty. That never made sense to Layne—she thought people befriended others because of their beauty, not envy them to the point of ignorance. It made her uncomfortable to think about. Layne had friends.
"I don't know," she muttered out, and Rafe rearranged himself on the beach, and pat the seat next to him. She was hesitant before sitting down, and he pushing himself up to get something from his pocket. It was a gold tin case, with engravings on the front that Layne couldn't make out in the dark. He popped it open, and there was a rolled up dollar bill, alongside a tiny bag of white substance. Layne knew what it was, but her heart stammered a bit at the thought of the word. Cocaine. Layne had only smoked weed before, and the thought of snorting something made her chest burn. She thought of the photos of coke heads they had shown to them in gym class—and the burnt nostrils. She didn't even realize her eyes widening, and Rafe laughed at her. "Have you ever tried this before?"
Layne nervously itched her shoulder. "Uh—yeah. Sure. Sometimes," she lied, her mouth going dry. What the fuck was she doing? If anyone else had offered her coke, she would have run away. Maybe even called the cops and rained on everyone's parade. But Rafe Cameron made her nervous, made her sweat, and she feared what would happen if she said no.
"Oh really?" he knew she was lying. She couldn't even look at him when she said it. "C'mon, try it. It's not bad. Just one line, I won't even make you pay,"
Layne swallowed thickly, and looked back at the beach. She saw JJ and John B dancing with young girls. What kind of influence was she, sitting hear snorting coke with Rafe Cameron? Then again, its not like they had better influences at home. She wouldn't be surprised if JJ had tried it already. Was that prejudice? Maybe. But Layne was trying to think of what would happen if she did it. Would she become addicted? Probably not—she didn't even have the money for more coke.
Rafe had dabbled out some of the coke, in a line, on the bottom of an empty solo cup. Layne felt her palms sweating, and he handed her the dollar bill. She didn't even really know what to do, but she remembered seeing it in the movies. Just plug the other nostril and sniff the line—easy peasy?
She coughed heavily afterwards, and felt like a loser. Why was she coughing? She didn't even smoke anything. Her nose trickled a bit with blood, and Rafe laughed, before pulling his sleeve down over his hand and wiping it away, his thumb trailing over her lip. "I gotchu," he whispered, and Layne was still trying to recover. God, she felt great. Better than being high off weed. Her head felt light, and after about five minutes, she felt as though her whole body was vibrating. Off of just one line. Rafe had done about three within her span of just one, yet she felt like she on top of the world. But the euphoria seemed to be short lasting before the paranoia set in, and it felt like everyone was out to get her. That boy, god that boy over there, by the bonfire, was looking in their direction—he looked to be a pogue . . . he dressed like one . . . he probably knew her dad. He was going to tell. She was going to get addicted.
She was sweating more than before, her hair sticking to her neck. Rafe was repeatedly rubbing her arm. She didn't even notice when he kissed her—they had been sitting there for an hour, and he was talking, talking, talking . . . Layne thought they were there for fifteen minutes, and she nearly bit her nails to the bottom before he pulled her towards him. He was a good kisser, though . . . probably the best she's ever kissed. But she'd never tell him that.
She'd also never tell him he was the first boy to touch her like that. Or the first boy she went all the way with. He told her she was safe, and maybe she was—or maybe she only felt safe because he was telling her so. Like he had some sort of hold over her.
But, Rafe knew Layne was a good girl, and Rafe liked that.
authors note: soooooooo not the 8000+ word prologue ... IM SORRY i got so carried away. yes this was a little (very very) bad, but oh well? i am so bad at prologues. but yes their relationship is toxic, and yes he gives (kinda) nate jacobs vibes to me. idk. we never see what he is like in a relationship,,, so im kinda winging it? idk. leave me your opinions!