Me and the Devil

29.

The morning sun filters through my curtains, casting golden streaks across the room. For a moment, I’m caught in that dreamy haze where the world hasn’t quite settled back into focus, and the events of the night feel like fragments of someone else's life. Then I hear Rafe’s soft breathing beside me, and reality sets in.

He’s sprawled across my bed, one arm draped over his forehead, his chest rising and falling with a calm rhythm that feels out of place with the chaos we’re caught in. His hair is still slightly damp, and the faint scent of my lavender shampoo clings to him.

I sit up slowly, careful not to wake him, and let my eyes linger on his peaceful face. It’s a rare moment seeing him like this, stripped of the sharp edges and the weight he carries around like armor. But even now, the gold bar sits heavy in my backpack at the foot of the bed, a stark reminder of everything I have to face today.

Sliding out of bed, I grab a tank top and my worn cargo shorts, throwing them on before carefully slinging my bag over my shoulder. I glance back at Rafe as I head for the door, letting myself linger for one selfish moment longer.

Downstairs, the house is eerily quiet. My mom’s car is gone, and there’s no sign of anyone else. I pour myself a cup of coffee, the bitterness grounding me as I stare out the kitchen window.

“Running away?”

I jump, nearly spilling my coffee, and turn to see Rafe leaning against the doorway. His hair is a mess, his shirt rumpled. His smirk doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Just needed caffeine,” I say, holding up my mug as evidence.

He crosses the room, his movements slow and deliberate, and takes the mug from my hands, taking a sip. “We both know that’s not all you need,” he says, his tone teasing but his gaze serious.

I roll my eyes, snatching the mug back. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here I am,” he says with a smirk that fades almost instantly. His eyes drop to my bag, his expression hardening. “You’re going back to them, aren’t you?”

I hesitate, the truth stuck in my throat. “They’re my friends, Rafe. They’re like family.”

“And what am I?” His voice is quiet, but the question cuts deep.

I glance at the clock desperate for an escape. “I have to go,” I say, the words heavy with unspoken apologies.  “I need to be there to get our cut of the gold.”

The word “our” hang in the air, a weak attempt at reassurance.

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The Pogues are already waiting at the Twinkie when I arrive, their excitement electric as we load up our pulley contraption for the extraction. JJ shoots me a quick glance but doesn’t say anything. The distance between us feels like a canyon, and I don’t know how to bridge it.

The pawn shop is tucked away in a dingy strip in the old part of town. It’s neon sign flickering like it’s on its last legs. As we get out of the van, JJ complains about Kiara’s handiwork of melting the gold down.

“I could have done better,” he grumbles, holding up the lumpy uneven bars. “I took a welding class once.”

“When?” Kiara snaps her hands on her hips.