Me and the Devil

32.

I wake to the sound of birds outside the cracked window, their soft chatter a harsh contrast to the weight sitting on my chest. My clothes are still damp from last night, clinging to me like a second skin. The faint hum of the hot tub drifts in through the open window, a constant reminder of just how far JJ spiraled and how far I let him fall.

I push myself up from the mattress, wincing at the ache in my back. Last night’s events replay in my mind: JJ’s laughter teetering between manic and broken, his drunken slurs that cut sharper than he realized, the way he collapsed against me like I was the only thing keeping him afloat.

When I shuffle into the main room, JJ is sprawled on the couch, his arm thrown over his face, hair sticking up in every direction. Vulnerable. Unshielded. But even like this, there’s a distance in him that wasn’t there before, like he’s reminding himself to stay guarded.

He stirs as I pour myself a cup of coffee, mumbling something I can’t quite make out.

“Rough night?” I ask, aiming for lightness but knowing it’ll land flat.

JJ peeks out from under his arm, his lips curving into a lazy smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You try running a five-star spa on a two-star budget.”

I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth twitches despite myself. This is how we used to be, quick banter, easy smiles, but now it feels more like walking a tightrope, unsure when or where it’ll snap.

He sits up slowly, groaning as he stretches. “Thanks for... last night,” he mutters, his voice quiet, edged with something I can’t quite place. Gratitude? Hesitation? Trust?

“You don’t have to thank me,” I say, though the words feel heavy in my mouth. “I’m here.”

His silence stretches out, weighted with everything he isn’t saying. Finally, JJ stands, brushing past me toward the door. “Let’s deal with the aftermath of my genius.”

Outside, the yard is a warzone of JJ’s making. Empty champagne bottles litter the grass, soaked towels hang over tree branches, and the hot tub sloshes pitifully, still half-full. JJ moves through the wreckage with purposeful strides, avoiding looking at me directly.

I grab a pile of towels, trying to find a rhythm that feels natural. “You know, this isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever had,” I venture, forcing my voice into something playful.

JJ lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “High bar, huh?”

“Remember when you tried to make a pool in my dad’s truck bed with trash bags and duct tape?” I ask, hoping to pull him into familiar territory.

He pauses, his shoulders stiffening before he snorts. “Yeah, until the tailgate popped open and flooded the yard. My dad lost his shit.”

I wince, instantly regretting the mention of Luke. But JJ keeps going, his voice lighter, almost like a shield. “We did get one killer slip-and-slide out of it.”

“Which ended with you breaking Pope’s bike,” I add, tossing a towel into a pile.

“Details,” JJ says, waving a dismissive hand.

The banter carries us through the cleanup, but it feels strained, like he’s letting me close just enough to keep things civil but not enough to forget. I feel it in the way his answers come slower, the way his glances dart away when I catch his eye.

By the time Kiara and Pope show up, the yard is mostly cleared. They both glance at the hot tub but say nothing, though the tension in their shoulders speaks volumes. Pope hoists a pulley and bucket out of the Twinkie.

“We’re ready to extract the gold,” he announces, but there’s no excitement in his tone.

The four of us work in near silence, Kiara and Pope rigging the contraption to a tree while JJ and I finish draining the hot tub. I try to meet Kiara’s eyes once, but she turns away, focusing on tying off a rope. The walls between us feel insurmountable.

The sound of heavy footsteps breaks the silence as John B storms into the yard. His face is set like stone, his jaw tight, his eyes blazing.

“John B?” Kiara calls cautiously, but he doesn’t answer. He barrels into the house, slamming the door behind him.

The four of us exchange worried glances before following him inside. John B tears through cabinets and drawers with a manic energy, muttering under his breath.

“John B, what are you doing?” Pope asks, his voice laced with unease.

John B doesn’t answer. He rips a cushion off the couch, grabbing something from beneath it.

JJ’s gun.

JJ steps forward, hands raised in a calming gesture. “Whoa, whoa. What do you need that for, man?”

He shoves JJ back, hard enough to send him sprawling onto the couch.

“Hey!” I yell, rushing to JJ’s side. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Ward knows about the gold,” John B growls, his voice shaking. “He killed my dad.”

The words hit like a bomb, sucking all the air out of the room.

“What?” Kiara whispers, her voice trembling.

“He killed him,” John B repeats, his voice cracking. “And now he’s gonna get away with it unless I stop him.”

JJ moves closer, his hands still up. “Look, man, I get it. But going in guns blazing? That’s not the move.”

John B glares at him. “You don’t get it, JJ. You don’t know what it’s like to lose your dad and know who did it.”

JJ flinches, his jaw tightening, but he doesn’t retaliate. “I know what happens when you don’t think things through.”

John B doesn’t respond. He storms past us, gun in hand, and heads straight for JJ’s bike.

“John B!” JJ shouts, running after him. “Come on, man, think about this!”

But John B doesn’t stop. He revs the engine, his eyes burning with rage. The roar of the bike echoes as he speeds away, leaving us standing in the dust, the cracks in our group growing deeper by the second.