He Must Love You
chapter iv.
warnings: VERY light smut, drug use,
groping, mentions of overdosing
LAYNE DREAMT OF RAFE THAT NIGHT, even as he was lying right next to her. She woke up in the middle of the night, at exactly 3:33 A.M, only to turn over and see him soundly sleeping beside her. His chest rose softly while he breathed, and he stuck one leg off the side of her bed. His one hand was still limply holding onto her wrist, while the other laid on his chest. Sweat made his hair stick to his forehead, and Layne wondered if he was having a nightmare. Sometimes she would gently place a hand on his chest to see if he was breathing. He would twitch slightly and then roll over, and she would place her cheek in her hand to stare at his back. Then, eventually, she would press her face into his back and wrap her arms around his torso. He was too deep in sleep to notice or pull away.
At one point, Layne woke up to notice her face in his chest and his arm wrapped loosely around her. Her heart nearly skipped in its beats and she had to blink multiple times to make sure she was awake. She couldn't tell if it was hot in her room or it was just the pair of them—the cicadas and crickets chirping outside her window made her feel slightly less self conscious of her sweat. Rafe didn't seem to care, either—although she was nervous about what would happen when he woke up in the morning. Or how she would sneak him out when her parents started to move at six in the morning.
"Fuck," she heard Rafe grunt, as the sun was peeking through the blinds, and she could hear the water settling outside. There was a brush of a tail against her face, and she opened her eyes to see Luna stretching across his chest. A small smile stretched onto her lips, but disappeared when Rafe moved his arm from under her head to wipe the sleep from his eyes. Luna rubbed her face against his hand, and he moved to pet her head. Layne moved so her arms were leaning on her chest. She thinks this might be the first time they've spent the night together without having sex—maybe there were other times, but they were outweighed by the times he'd come to her house and couldn't get his hands off of her.
He never seemed to enjoy it, either. At least, that is what it seemed like to Layne—whenever she could look at him, he would try and close his eyes or look away from her. Almost as if he was hiding something, or he was too scared to. Layne never mentioned it to him. She suddenly remembered him telling her how he loved her the night before, and how she felt as though she were wading through water. Her response came out forced—he probably noticed. Layne didn't think he meant it, although she couldn't help but feel herself grasping onto him tighter at the thought of him actually loving her. It would make all the bad parts worth it if he loved her. Although, she wouldn't know what to do with it when she had it. Maybe she could blackmail him—or maybe she could love him back. Layne didn't know if she loved him back—maybe she just loved the idea of him loving her.
It was overcast in the morning, and the brief sunlight that shone on his face disappeared behind a heavy, gray cloud, and there were more incoming. He tried to roll over and go back to sleep, but Layne could tell he was just avoiding talking to her. Maybe he was regretting what he said last night—or maybe he felt bad for putting his hands on her. It wouldn't be the first time he did it, but it definitely wasn't the last. Layne checked her arms to see if she had any bruising—there wasn't any, but her arms were red. She ran her fingers over the band-aid.
"What time is it?" he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. Layne placed a kiss to his jaw. "Good morning to you, too,"
"Nah, Layne, I'm serious—what time is it,"
She sighed, rolling away from him and pressing on her phone. It was eleven o'clock. "Eleven,"
Rafe groaned, sitting up in her bed. Layne held onto his forearm like she was going to lose him, or lose anything that happened the night before, and even early this morning. He pushed back his hair with his right hand and reached forward to grab her leg with the other. "D'you think you could drive me home? I promise I'll make it up to you,"
She sat up, and Layne felt the sweat beading on her forehead. How was it this hot, already, in May? She felt as though she might melt into the comforter.
"I mean—why do you need to go home so soon?"
"I'm supposed to go to the course with Topper and Kelce. I also gotta deal with—some other shit, you wouldn't get it,"
Layne huffed and subtly crossed her arms over her chest. "Really?"
"What?"
"Can't you stay for a bit longer? It's only eleven," she leaned her face on his shoulder, but Rafe tried not to look at her. Layne tried not to assume that he was avoiding eye contact, and just was tired. But, he turned his face to her to push a piece of hair behind her ear, and ran his thumb along her cheekbone. "Won't your parents wake up?"
"Since when have you ever cared about my parents?"
He gave her a small smile, grabbing her chin to place a kiss on her lips. Layne thought his kiss was more addictive than the coke he pulled out of his pants pocket, that was discarded on the floor. "Already?" she questioned, moving slightly as he pulled a key. She wasn't entirely surprised that he needed some in order to get out of bed, but it was scaring her that she wanted some as well. She even got a bit excited seeing him pile some of the edge of the key, press it up to his nostril and throw his head back. Layne held onto his wrist, and Rafe poked the side of his cheek with his tongue. "What?"
She almost felt as though someone was pouring hot water down her back. Suddenly she could feel everything sticking to her, even the air, as if it was a blanket that had been drenched in water and swaddled around her. She contemplated negating her idea of snorting some for herself, but ultimately took the key from him and did it herself. Layne forgot she had to drive—but Rafe didn't seem too concerned. "Shit . . . you like how it feels, huh?" he laughed, his hand on her head, moving to hold her face. He kissed her again, but Layne couldn't really feel it. There was regret that stirred in her chest, but it quickly dissipated, she felt safe next to him, even as he fed her something so toxic. But, she couldn't blame him for it—her head was light, but she thought about the first time she got high. Nothing felt as good as that.
Layne reached forward for the bag again, but Rafe pulled it away, a smirk still on his lips. Layne felt like he was laughing at her.
"Slow down, girl," he teased, sniffing and wiping his nose with the back of his hand—the other moved down to her leg and squeezed gently. "You still gotta drive, c'mon," he lightly hit the side of her face, and Layne was too busy trying to regain herself to notice it. He had done it before—it different circumstances—but she felt too fragile, and the feeling of his rings against her cheek felt cold and uncomfortable. He wasn't supposed to touch her like that, even if it was a joke, and even if it wouldn't leave a mark. But, her limbs felt heavy, and she felt as though she might collapse if she moved too fast.
Rafe didn't seem to notice how she wasn't moving until he went to put his clothes back on. For some reason, Layne felt as though he was running away—she liked whoever he was these past few hours. She hated him now.
"Layne, c'mon, I was just messing with you," he sniffled again, pulling his shirt over his head. She didn't have the effort to tell him to lower his voice, but she didn't even know if her parents were still home. "Why are you mad at me?"
"I'm not mad at you,"
Rafe rolled his eyes, running both his hands through his hair and over his face. Her head hurt and she kept regretting snorting off his stupid key, from his stupid bag, and letting him sleep in her bed.
"Obviously you're all pissy. I can tell by the way you're not looking me in the eyes,"
Layne laid back in her bed, her head propped up on her one hand. She could feel herself frowning at him pulling his pants over his long legs. She had the urge to climb him.
"Do you remember last night?" she asked, picking at the string on her comforter. It was still there even a few days later. She hadn't noticed she was picking at the skin around her nails, and it was bleeding. The skin was tender and Layne winced when she touched it again. "What kind of question is that?" he laughed, looping his belt through the loops on his shorts. She felt sickly looking at him, as if he made her a smaller person, and her shoulders seemed to tense up by her ears—she had to reposition herself to stop it.
"You don't remember what you said?"
"Uh—I was high as fuck. Not really," he slipped his feet in his shoes, and his hair was greasy around his face. Layne wanted to wash it. She wished he would take a shower with her, maybe wash her hair, too. Her throat hurt as if she was going to cry, but the tears were dry and crocodile. It was almost as if she could feel her pupils dilating, and she had the urge to scream and act as though he broke in. She hated him so much that she felt like she could kill him, but she stayed on her place on the bed, and wallowed in invisible pity, like it was a kiddie pool. He didn't bat an eye—she knew why she felt dirty when he said he loved her; because it wasn't true, or sincere. Nothing he ever said was sincere.
"Okay," she muttered, as he sat down on the edge of her bed. His hand went to her leg again, and Layne wanted to melt when he started to circle his fingers over her ankle, like his canvas was her skin and he was drawing and painting over it with his hands. She could stare at him for hours—her throat still hurt, as if she was going to cry. Layne wasn't sure if the sweat on her forehead was from the cocaine or from nervousness—she didn't understand why he still made her nervous. He had seen her in her most vulnerable states—sometimes, she thought that he enjoyed that; her being vulnerable. He used it to his advantage, too much. Layne wondered if he lied about not remembering that he said I love you just to keep her wrapped around his finger. Almost like he could sense her tears.
He crawled over her, placing a few kisses on her neck and her face. Layne felt as though she couldn't help but smile—almost like it was being drawn on for her. She could taste the sweat on his lips, but didn't mind it, and when his hand swiped over her stomach beneath her shirt, it was like someone had lit her skin on fire. The feeling of isolation from his obliviousness and ignorance vanished when he always remembered where to touch her, how to do it, and Layne felt special—cherished enough for him to remember. Her bliss was short lived when she started to question whether she was just like other girls, girls he slept with, and he did the same with all of them—her body grew stiff at the thought. Rafe didn't seem to notice, wanting to take her shirt off, but her phone rang, and she had to push him off by his chest.
It was her mom—it bold letters on her phone—and Rafe didn't stop running his hands all over her as she would run away. Layne had placed a finger over his mouth to make sure he wouldn't make any noise when she answered the phone.
"Morning," she muttered, moving her forearm to her forehead. She was sweating like a nervous virgin.
"Finally, you're awake. Why was your door locked this morning? I tried to get in to tell you that we were leaving for the shop,"
"Uh—sorry. I don't remember locking it. Maybe I did it when I was getting changed and just forgot to unlock it," she breathed, trying not to stare at Rafe and his annoyingly gorgeous face on her chest. Her hand went to brush through his hair, and he closed his eyes. Layne wanted to smash his face in and make out with him at the same time.
"Okay . . . well. Make sure you remember to go to the Wreck today, like Kiara said. Also—you should probably stop by the marina to tell Alberto you're not working there this summer. Maybe go and visit those high school kids that you are friendly with. Remember, most of these people haven't seen you in a year,"
Layne sighed, anxiously pulling at the sleeve of Rafe's shirt. He tried to pull away, annoyed, and the throat pain returned. "Yeah, yeah . . ." she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. Layne half expected for herself to hang up the phone without even speaking a word, but felt guilty. She knew her mom was just trying to be a good one, but it was insufferable, and for a moment she thought she could see her vision going red. Rafe placed a few kisses on her chest and neck, and Layne swore she might have melted if he wasn't holding onto her like a vice.
"Don't yeah yeah me, Layne, I'm serious. You need to stop spending all your time in your room,"
"I've literally been home for like, a day, mom," she breathed, head pushing back into her pillow. She could hear Rory sighing from the other side. "Okay, okay. I love you, alright?"
"Yeah, I love you too,"
"Layne,"
She raked a hand through his hair. Layne hated how pretty he was—she wished she could listen to a song without thinking of him, even having him in front of her, she wished she could stop thinking about him. She wondered sometimes if he sat in his room enamored by the thought of her, like she was with him. How she remembered the little things he did, like the way he picked at his nails when he was nervous or twitched his nose when he was sleeping. Layne latched onto things too quickly, and she knew that, and even thinking of the idea of loving him was draining enough to push him away. Layne didn't think she could handle that.
"Layne," her mother said through the phone again, and she snapped out of whatever daze she was in. "Yeah?"
"I thought I lost you for a minute," Rory breathed, and Layne adjusted herself further up the bed. Rafe followed suit and sat next to her. Layne tried her hardest not to touch and hold his hand, even how close it was to hers. "Mom, I gotta go,"
"But—"
"Mom," she whined, before tearing her phone away from her ear and hanging up. Part of her wanted to scratch her legs until they bled for treating her mom so bad, but she also thought she deserved it. The thought made her wanted to scratch herself even more. She saw a text from her mom pop up nearly right after, but she ignored it, and flipped her phone over on the comforter. Her chest hurt slightly and she had to itched her forehead to try and distract herself. Rafe ghosted his fingers over her thigh.
"You're so beautiful, you know that?" his other hand went to rest beneath her chin, directing her gaze so she was looking at him, and not the way her legs began to shake even just by him slightly touching her. She felt so dumb, feeble, even. Like if he tried hard enough, even looked at her hard enough, she could break in half. Layne felt like it, too—almost like she was hardly a person around him. There was a heavy weight on her eyelids, and she wasn't sure if it was slumber or a haze—either way, the way he moved his hand up and down her thigh made her nearly fall straight through the bed and into a mushy pile on the hardwood.
His hand moved further up her leg, closer to her shorts. He brushed over them as if they weren't even there—and they might as well not have been. She wrapped a hand over his wrist as if she silently tell him to stop, but no words came out, and she ended up just encouraging him more. His rings were cold against her skin, and she hadn't even noticed he kept them on, but she wasn't wearing any underwear, and Rafe liked that. Maybe that was the one tip from Marian and Claudia that actually was useful—but even as he touched her just right, she felt dirty. He looked down at her with a smirk that made her feel vulnerable, almost as if she was displayed in front of entire room of onlookers. This was a common thing for her to feel, when she was intimate with Rafe—like everyone was watching, or that she shouldn't be doing what she was. Sometimes she believed that he liked seeing her like that, or knowing that she felt that way. As if he could read her mind. Rafe just liked looking at her, regardless of how she felt—but knowing that she was helpless unless he was there made him want to be with her even more.
Once they finished, Layne was out of breath and trying to fan herself to combat the humid air flowing through the windows. Her clothes were still on, but she felt naked, and pulled the blanket over her body. Rafe leaned over and placed a kiss on her lips, as if to keep going, and Layne tried to push him away. "What? What did I do now," he whined, throwing up his hand. Layne sat up and placed her hands on both sides of his face.
"No, no, you didn't do anything," he tried to pull away, other hand moving from his belt buckle. "Nah, I get you off and now you can't do the same for me?" he grunted, leaning back on her bed. Layne watched a trickle of sweat fall from his temple to his neck. "I mean, I just—I don't know, I'm tired, that's all, I'm sorry,"
His hand went to the back of her head, as if to guide her down toward his crotch, but she resisted. "Rafe, come on,"
"Jesus Christ, Layne," he threw his hands up again, and tossed his legs over the side of the bed. "If you loved me, you'd do this for me, come on, I had a shitty night last night," he beckoned her over, and she leaned over his shoulder, placing a kiss to the nape of his neck, and littered a few over his shoulders. Layne felt guilty, suddenly, as if what he was saying was rational at all—and ran her hand over his upper thigh. Part of her liked how pathetic he was—how pathetic all boys were when it came to sex. She had some sort of reign over him in these moments, when he was the powerless one, and she had the control. It almost felt satisfying—so when he leaned back against her headboard, eyes screwed shut, Layne felt like she was some sort of goddess. Maybe she was being irrational, but it felt good to see him like that.
He picked up one of her shirts that was discarded on the ground to clean himself up. Layne winced and nearly wanted to take and slap him with it. It was one of her favorite blouses, too—it probably had been discarded out of her suitcase when she came home the other day. It was an off white, with a pattern stitched over the chest, and short tassels. Layne thinks she remembers getting it at a Goodwill one dollar day, when certain colors would only be a dollar. She didn't even know that day existed, but the price tag was originally well into the twenties, and she got it for a dollar.
"Shit, we gotta go . . . can you take me home real quick?"
"Will I get to see you tonight?"
Rafe readjusted his pants, buckling them and moving to put his shoes back on. "I dunno. Maybe. Why?"
"Uh—there's a party tonight, at the boneyard,"
Rafe chuckled, running a hand through his hair. Layne didn't understand what was so funny, but she went along with it anyways. "I don't know if I want to be caught dead at a pogue party,"
She stared at him for a moment, but he looked at her before looking away. "No offense," he ran his hands through his hair so much, Layne wondered if that was why it was so greasy. Oftentimes she thinks of the possibility of waking up one morning, and he is on the ground, neck bent inhumanely, but still breathing. She would stand over his body, perhaps she would feel guilty, maybe she would just stare at him until his chest stopped moving. Layne wanted to harm herself for thinking of something so morbid and horrible. No one liked thinking those thoughts, at least she assumed so, and they felt like poison searing through her brain.
Rafe fiddled with something in his pant pocket—Layne could assume what is was—but when he retrieved his hand from his pocket, it was an empty bag. She could practically smell the disappointment from off his sweaty skin. Layne felt a pain in her chest, that could be identified as guilt, as if she had anything to do with him running out of his cocaine. Her mind went back to her science teacher in eleventh grade, whose son had died from a cocaine overdose when he was nineteen. Maybe that was why her chest was hurting, but then the pain went to her stomach and pins and needles spread to her limbs. She felt vulnerable, then, like she was standing on a stage with the spotlight shown on her eyes to the point where she couldn't see—and when she regained her vision, she would hallucinate and see items that weren't there. But she would blink and they'd go away. Layne isn't sure what his has to do with Rafe and his lack of cocaine, but suddenly she was gripping the same loose string from her duvet.
"Fuck," he cussed, craning his neck until there was a brief crack. Layne winced and shifted uncomfortably on her bed. "D'you think you could drive me somewhere real quick?"
Layne knew where this was going, and even though she had the slightest inkling to abide, she tried her hardest to fight it. It wasn't going well, and she had to bite her tongue to prevent herself from screaming. Maybe if she hid under her covers enough, she would melt into her bed and he would forget all about her.
"I thought you were quitting," was all she said, and her voice squeezed out small and quiet, as if someone was trying to push out the last of the toothpaste from the tube. Rafe kept rubbing and picking at his chin and jawline as if he had a beard. Layne thought maybe he was too coked out, and was hallucinating. Maybe she was hallucinating.
"Layne, it's harder than it looks, okay, Jesus Christ . . . can't you just do this one thing for me? It'll take like two minutes, tops,"
There were two options—go, drive semi-high, and get caught at a drug dealers house, because she knew wouldn't just "take like two minutes"—or not go, and have Rafe retreat away again. Layne probably wouldn't hear from him for days, maybe even weeks. (If he could go that long without fucking her. He never did. Layne would sometimes tally mark the days and see how long he could go—he had only reached ten days, before he came crawling back. That was the one area of their "relationship" that Layne had control over.)
"Where?"
Rafe tapped anxiously on the side of his leg. "Just over to my guy Barry's. You don't even gotta come in . . . just, please,"
Layne waved her hands before she changed her mind. "Okay, okay, fine," Rafe went forward and kissed her hard on the lips, that Layne thought it might leave a bruise. It was just a peck, yet she felt his tongue graze her lower lip, and wanted to punch him in the stomach. Sometimes she contemplated if Rafe brought out the violent tendencies in her. It wouldn't be far fetched.
The ride over was relatively quiet, besides Rafe telling her where to go. He said Barry didn't live far from her, which made her upset for some reason. She couldn't remember if enhanced emotions came along with a coke high, but going to a dealer's house made it wear off. Almost, at least. She nearly cursed herself out at the idea of going in public with such big pupils. It dawned on her that she had to go into the Wreck today with her paperwork, and she nearly crashed her car into a basketball hoop that was set up on the street. Her heart stammered a bit and she questioned whether she should just go back to the marina. Her parents, and Alberto, would love that.
Barry's house was small, and Layne wasn't sure if house was really the right term. She wasn't being judgmental—but nearly everything was falling apart, and Rafe instructed her to park on the grass, and she ran over multiple bulky items that she couldn't identify. She parked near one of the dying trees and let Rafe get out. "I'll be back in like . . . ten minutes,"
"You said it would take two tops," she emphasized the tops in a horrendous impersonation of his voice. He didn't really laugh, except squeeze her leg, and there was a hand print even when he pulled away.
Layne sat in her car, and listened to the dull noise of the radio. There would occasionally be an interruption of static, and she would have the urge to plug her ears, as if they were bleeding. Sometimes she would get the urge to lay on the gas and drive straight into his house. It had been well over ten minutes, and she was getting nervous—maybe they had gotten into a brawl and Rafe was laying, unconscious, on the ground. Maybe he was dead. Layne had heard things about drug deals going wrong, too many to count—maybe this was one of them. For some reason, she didn't get sad at the idea of Rafe being dead. Just bothered. Getting out of the car didn't seem like a good idea, and if Rafe was alive and just stuck snorting as many lines as he could inside, he might get angry with her. Maybe touch her. She didn't like to think about it, but the idea of him potentially being dead inside a drug dealers house just sounded like a pathetic way to die—a Rafe Cameron way to die. Probably the way Rafe Cameron was going to die.
Layne forgot how humid it was outside, and when her feet touched the blade-like grass, instantly she felt sweat beading on the back of her neck and gnats started to swarm in her eyeline. There was music playing from the house, and she could tell there were quite a few people there—when she emerged from behind a tree, she could see a group of men, young and old, betting on the side porch. As she got closer, she saw beers in their hands, and saw one man who looked familiar—it was JJ's dad. The familiar hurt in her chest and throat spread like the plague, and for a moment, she couldn't breathe—he didn't even notice her when she pushed open the noisy screen door, and was in the process of tossing down a few bills on the table. It was glass, and covered in coke residue, rolled up dollar bills and credit cards. The other men looked at her for a brief moment, almost as if she was some sort of enigma that they needed to capture in a vile and sell on the black market. She felt on display—like they had never seen a woman, here, before. Layne cleared her throat, scanned the crowd, and didn't see Rafe, so pushed inside.
The inside wasn't as bad as she thought it was going to be. There were a few more guys littered in the kitchen when she passed them, and then she got to living room, and saw Rafe sitting down on one of the sofa's, talking to the man who she assumed was Barry. He had a ponytail and a silver tooth, and didn't even noticed Layne walk in until one of his buddies nudged him, and Rafe looked at her like she had just held a gun to his head.
Barry looked her up and down, and Layne subconsciously wrung her hands together and pinched her legs.
"This your bitch?" he asked, nodding his head toward her, eyes flickering to Rafe. He sat up straighter in his seat, as if he was trying to size up Barry from across the room. "Somethin' like that,"
Layne wanted to spit in his face and kick him in the dick. Now, she was partly hoping that whatever was taking place in the living room was him getting in trouble. That would make her feel better. But she still wanted him to protect her under Barry's scrutinizing and, generally scary guise.
"Huh. Hey girl . . . my name is Barry. Pleasure to meet you," he reached out to grab her hand, and Layne was scared not to give it to him. He didn't look like an intimidating person, but she knew all drug dealers in movies had guns and scary guys to back them up. He was about her height, maybe a bit taller, but smaller than Rafe. However, she didn't know if Rafe would even try to protect her if Barry tried anything. The though scared her more than Barry actually hurting her.
Barry placed a kiss on the back of her hand, as if they were in some formal scenario. Layne saw it as patronizing, but perhaps he saw it as charming. His other hand waved to the sofa opposite Rafe. "Sit," he suggested, but it sounded more like a demand, and she hesitated before moving to sit down. Layne felt rigid in her seat, and when she made eye contact with Rafe, he was starting at her like he was stone. It hurt when she swallowed.
"Ayo, toss me that bag," Barry yelled to the other guy, who picked it up off the wooden counter and tossed it to him. Neither Rafe or Layne moved—they didn't know what was in that bag.
He took out a large plastic bag from inside, that had smaller plastic bags inside them, with a multitude of things. "Aight check this. I got Xannie bars, Addys, I'm low on Vikes but I got some of 'em, so you better cop 'em fast before they sell . . . but I gotcha blow, don't you worry country club," he looked at Rafe and winked, and then smirked at Layne, as if she was going to reciprocate. "I copped some of that Cali medicinal, alpha molly . . . your pick, brotha," he threw each of the items on the counter, and Layne had turned her head to look. Barry's friend laughed at her widened eyes, and Layne wasn't sure if even Rafe knew what all these drugs were—and, part of her wanted to break down in tears. How had she managed to get herself in this scenario?
"If you lookin' to grab some of each, I got some fentanyl,"
Rafe sat further back on the couch and sighed. "Nah man, I'm cool off that shit. Too many OD's," he shook his head, and waved his hands. Barry scoffed, itching the back of his neck. "What about yo' bitch, huh?" he rounded the corner of the couch, sitting down next to her. "You ever try fentanyl?"
Layne's throat went dry—of course she had never tried fentanyl. She hadn't done anything other than weed and coke, and even then, she thought she was pretty hardcore. Her ignorance was bliss, for the most part. His presence next to her made her close into herself. "No," she muttered, which almost came out as more of a cough, and she wasn't sure why.
"She's good, bro," Rafe shook his head, leaning his elbows on his knees. Layne knew he was scared, too, by the look in his eyes—for some odd reason, it comforted her. "What, you her daddy or 'sum? You gon' let your daddy speak for you?" he leaned in a bit, and she cleared her throat.
"I—I don't know—" she stammered, looking to Rafe for some sort of salvation, but he seemed to be just as frigid as her. "Nah, don't look at him, look at me,"
He was touching her hair, pushing it off her shoulder, tucking it behind her ear, twirling it around his finger. "You ever try it before?"
She shook her head no, and Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose anxiously. "For real, bro, I don't want her fuckin' with that shit, alright?"
"Ain't nobody talkin' to you, country club, now shut the fuck up," Barry nearly yelled, and Layne tried not to jump. She felt stupid, and like someone could pinch her and she wouldn't feel it. "I know she gon' love this," he had taken a patch out from his pocket, and picked up a droplet on the blade of a knife. Layne thought she might die if she took it, so she kept herself in place, and kept looking at Rafe and his widened eyes. he moved and held the more dull side of the blade to her lips.
She shook her head. "I'm uh—I'm good actually,"
"What, you don't trust me?" he muttered, and Layne wondered why this was happening in broad daylight, to her of all people. She imagined the cops barging into the house at this time, and wondered if she would get arrested. She was high off coke, so maybe she would. Maybe they would think she was willingly about to take a lick of fentanyl. The though haunted her a bit.
Rafe shook his head. "Come on, man, she said she's good—"
"Shut the fuck up, bitch. Tell your daddy I'm not talkin' to him,"
Layne screwed up her face at the notion of him being her daddy. It made her uncomfortable, and she thought of her dad in that moment, which made everything worse. Layne acted more like a daddy than Rafe did. That thought made her even more uncomfortable.
"Tell him to shut the fuck up," he egged on, and still tried to get her to take it. "Come on now, it won't bite you. Come on. Try it,"
Layne weighed her options. Of course, she had heard of fentanyl before—and how incredibly deadly it was, and how only two milligrams of it is considered lethal. She didn't know what two milligrams looked like off the top of her head, and she stared down at the droplet against the silver blade. That looked close enough for her. Then again, dying didn't seem to terrible if she thought hard about it, and dying of a drug overdose might be the easiest way to go. Better than drowning or bleeding to death. Of course, she had never overdosed and died, so she wouldn't know—but, Google was free, and sometimes she'd catch herself looking up what an overdose felt like, and it wasn't the worst thing.
She thought about her family. How they would grieve. How would Rafe grieve, if he did at all? Would they bury her and have a big funeral service? She imagined him crying at her gravestone, before her family. They wouldn't even know who he was or why he was there. He was the boy who made her overdose. No, she was the one who made her overdose. Layne wanted to hurt herself thinking about something morbid again, and thought of herself. What if she got addicted? No, she wouldn't. Positive intentions. How could you have positive intentions when ingesting a lethal drug? She found herself praying to God. Something that was a rare occurrence. Layne didn't even really believe in God, but she spoke to whatever high power was up there. I know I've been a bitch, I am one, and I lie to my parents and my friends, just to stay with this douchebag of a boy, but please, please God, don't let me die tonight.
She softly took the blade in her mouth, and took off the droplet. Rafe hung his head low like he was a guilty dog. Layne felt her eyelids growing heavy, and she felt like her tongue was expanding. Her head felt like water had been poured to the brim, and she couldn't even hold it up anymore. She didn't realize how quickly it would hit, and she could see Rafe with his head shaking. He was teetering on the edge of the couch and writhing his hands together anxiously, as if she was going to explode. It looked as though he was contemplating springing into action or keeping his spot, cemented, on the cushion.
"It hits fast," Barry mused, but it sounded like they were underwater, and Layne had felt the need to close her eyes, as if that would help decipher their words better. Rafe was looking at her like if he didn't, she might disappear into the ground. Layne could almost feel his line of vision going through her like a pair of lasers. The silence sounded like a ringing in her ears. "You like how that feels?"
In truth, Layne did like it. Her brain felt fuzzy and her limbs felt like they were twenty pounds, and when she tried to talk, her words just came out as gibberish. It was like she went from one high to another, feeling frigid and frantic and then like she couldn't move, no matter how much she tried. Barry seemed to move closer to her on the couch. "You wanna couple patches, girl?"
Layne closed her eyes, and her mouth was dry. She tried to swallow some of her spit to coat her throat but suddenly she couldn't produce anything. "Y . . . yeah," she stammered, adjusting her heavy head on the couch pillow. She opened her eyes again when he stuffed a few patched into her shorts, gingerly, and suddenly she was afraid if she fell asleep she may not wake up.
"That's gonna cost you three hundred," he smirked again, looking Rafe in the eyes. Rafe frantically ran his hands through his hair and readjusted on the edge of the couch. "C'mon, pay up lil girl,"
Layne didn't even know what three hundred dollars looked like. "I—I . . . I only have . . . five dollars . . ."
"Nah, I said three hundred,"
Layne felt pins and needles in her legs, and they were slightly numb. "Why don't I . . . why don't I just give . . . give it back,"
Barry shook his head, looking between her and Rafe. "I have a strict no return policy,"
Rafe finally chimed in from the opposing couch. "Aye, Barry, let me pay for it,"
"I thought you was too good for fentanyl, country club? What, now everyone changin' they motha fuckin' minds on me? If she can't pay for it, she gonna have to find another way to pay me, straight up,"
Layne hardly stirred in her position, and Rafe was getting anxious. His feet were tapping on the ground and his palms were sweating. He felt stupid, responsible. He wondered what would happen if he didn't pay. He cursed at himself for even considering it. "Nah, man, just let me pay for it," Rafe wiped his hands off on his shorts, before reaching into his pocket to pull out a wad of cash. He got up, and went over to hand it to Barry, who counted it. "Damn, he must love you," he patted Layne's leg, and she stirred gently. Rafe felt a slight wash of relief, and sorrow at the same time. He didn't really know how to articulate how he was feeling, even in his head.
"It's gonna cost you six hundred now," he chuckled, and his buddy laughed too. Rafe didn't. "You really gonna do me like that, man?"
"Yeah I'm gonna do that to you,"
Rafe sighed, fiddling in his pockets again before pulling out another few bills. There was still the triumphant smirk on Barry's face, like he had just done something spectacular. Rafe stared down at a limp Layne who, unless he looked close enough, didn't seem like she was breathing. He simmered that down to just his mind playing tricks on him. There was a pit in his stomach, and he rubbed gently at his abdomen to try and suppress it—it didn't help. Perhaps it was the fact that he was using his daddy's money to buy drugs, or the fact that his technical girlfriend was laying down on a drug dealer's couch, high off of a potentially lethal dose of fentanyl, but either way, he didn't really think it was his fault. Layne could've refused to take the drug. Barry was unpredictable, and Rafe felt even more guilty when he still bought the drugs off of him.
"Its always a pleasure doing business with you," Barry snickered, pocketing the money and getting up off the couch. Layne felt the dip beside her and tried to move, but she was so overwhelmingly tired that it felt like a lifetime away that she would be able to sit up straight again.
Rafe carried her out to her car, and scrambled her pockets for the keys. The guys sitting on the porch didn't even say anything to him when he walked by—almost as if an unconscious girl was a normal thing. The hair on the back of his neck stood up and he tried to get out of there as quickly as possible.
It was broad daylight, and nearly one-thirty—he tried to think of someone, or someplace, he could Layne, where she would be safe. He drove past her house, and saw another car in the driveway that wasn't there before—and decided that the coast wasn't clear. Bringing her into her house when her parents were home wasn't the smartest idea—not only would she get in serious shit for doing drugs, it might interfere with his own drug use. Not to mention, they'd never let him see her again. Rafe didn't know if he could live with that.
He drove into town, rolling up the windows. He hoped no one looked inside and thought of anything suspicious—especially with Rafe Cameron driving a beat up, 1995 Jeep. His hands were sweating and he would occasionally have to wipe them off on his shorts. At a red light, Rafe reached for Layne's phone. He tried to remember her password, but it seemed as though his face identification went through. He had forgotten he had changed her settings one time, so he could get into her phone when he wanted to. Rafe never told Layne that—it wasn't exactly morally correct, but he didn't particularly care. He wanted to make sure she wasn't talking to other guys.
He went into her contacts and scrolled through until he reached Claudia's name, which came first. M came after C.
The phone kept ringing, and ringing, and ringing. He was growing impatient and sped up quickly through the newly green light. "Fuck," he cussed, when her voicemail came up. Layne was stirring in the passenger seat, mumbling nonsense to herself. He was just glad she was still breathing, and sometimes would reach over and tap or shake her leg to make sure she didn't fall asleep.
He clicked on Marian's name, and after a few rings, she answered. "Hello?"
"Marian. Jesus. It's Rafe,"
"Rafe? Why the fuck are you calling me off of Layne's phone,"
"It doesn't matter, are you home?"
There was a beat of silence on the other end. "What?"
Rafe slammed his hand on the steering wheel. "Are you home? Alone?"
"This sounds creepy as hell, you know,"
"Something happened with Layne—I gotta take her somewhere, to stay, make sure she's safe,"
Marian sighed on the other end, and Rafe couldn't tell if that was in concern or annoyance. "Why can't you take her to your house?"
"I just can't, okay? Please, Marian, I'm begging you, if you cared about her you would do this,"
"Do you care about her?"
"Jesus fuck, are you home?"
He sped through a red light. He didn't even notice, but his face grew hot as he turned a random corner, hoping to find Marian's house somewhere in the cut. "Yeah. Just—God, just bring her here. Fuck. What happened?"
"I'll explain later . . . where do you live?"
"153 Springwood Lane,"
That was the opposite way he was going. He remembered Springwood Lane, because that was where he would park his car when he went to pick Layne up from her house. He felt a wash of sorrow and oddly wanted to start crying. His mouth went dry as he rolled through a stop sign. Marian stayed quiet on the other end. Layne wondered if Rafe did care about her.
authors note: DAMN the much awaited fourth chapter . . . and it was absolute shit!!! but i'm tired af and have been working on this thing for WEEKS so enjoy!!!! i'm going to bed now.