Me and the Devil

45.

The house is too quiet when we slip back inside, that sharp, expectant quiet that hums louder than sound. Out across the marsh, sirens rise and fall, red and blue bleeding through the trees in stuttering flashes. Searchlights sweep the horizon in slow arcs, hunting shadows. John B is still out there. Still running.

Rafe’s hands won’t stop shaking as he fishes out the baggie, his pupils blown wide, his teeth grinding. He shakes the powder out on the dresser, makes a line jagged and uneven. His eyes flick to mine, a silent question, and before he can even ask, I’m already leaning in.

The burn scorches my nose and floods my skull, sharp enough to make my eyes sting. The world fractures and reforms in perfect clarity. Edges sharpen, colors hum. My pulse drums against my ribs like a warning I can’t hear. When I straighten, breath tearing in and out of me, Rafe’s mouth curves into a twitch of a smile that looks like it hurts to hold. He dips down and drags his line off the slope of my collarbone, the scrape of his nose hot against my skin, leaving me raw and trembling.

He kisses me like he’s starving, like the world is ending and he has to devour me before the flames catch. His mouth crashes into mine, clumsy and desperate, tasting of salt and blood and coke. I bite his lip hard enough to split it, copper spilling onto my tongue, and instead of pulling back he laughs, a low, manic sound vibrating against my mouth.

“Guess you finally cashed in on that promise,” he mutters, tongue sweeping the blood from his teeth. “Told you not to draw blood... till it meant something.”

We collapse into the bed in a tangle of limbs and twisted sheets, laughter breaking into gasps as our mouths find each other again and again. It isn’t sex—not this time. It’s sharper, messier, built on frenzy instead of tenderness. His nails scrape my spine, my fingers knot into his hair. Our lips bruise and cling until neither of us can catch breath. Every time the sirens flare outside, his mouth presses harder to mine, as if he can drown the world out with me.

Somewhere in the chaos, we topple sideways, sheets half-dragged to the floor. His forehead presses to mine, skin slick, breath hitching in his throat and mine. He’s trembling, muttering against my skin, words spilling out in fragments that barely make sense.

“They’ll catch him,” he says, voice rough, too fast, like the thought itself is chasing him. “John B. He’s not smart enough, not fast enough, nah, nah, they’ll get him. They’ll fucking get him.”

The sirens echo again, faint but endless, and I close my eyes. My throat tightens. I don’t know if I want him to be right.

We unravel into fragments. Half-sentences, broken laughter, declarations that fall apart before they can take shape. Rafe mumbles about family, about power, about proving he’s enough until his voice frays at the edges and dissolves into silence. His words turn to breath, to sound, to nothing but his pulse against my skin.

I brush damp hair from his forehead, watching his lashes tremble as if he’s fighting the weight of sleep. His skin is flushed, damp with sweat, his whole body buzzing like a live wire that hasn’t found where to ground itself. He shifts restlessly, a tremor running through him, and my hand stays steady, smoothing the ache he won’t name.

Beyond the walls, the night is alive. Sirens wail and fade, swallowed by the distance, only to rise again somewhere else. Red and blue flashes pulse faintly against the curtains, ghosts pacing just outside. I know they’ll never stop hunting him. John B is still out there. Running. Breathing. Defying.

But in here, the world has gone small. Sheets tangled, skin slick, breaths syncing in uneven rhythm. Rafe’s arm drapes heavy across my waist, anchoring me in the chaos, as if letting go would make me disappear. The house creaks, the storm outside breathes, and somewhere between his heartbeat and mine, I realize the truth: John B is still running, and that I’ve already chosen not to chase him.