Me and the Devil

47.

The Jeep’s engine ticks as it cools, metal hissing in the morning heat. Barry’s trailer squats at the edge of the woods, windows blacked out, the air heavy with the smell of oil and something burnt. Rafe’s bike is already there, parked crooked, still humming like it hasn’t cooled either.

Rafe doesn’t knock. He doesn’t even slow down. He slams Barry’s trailer door so hard it rattles the frame, the whole place shuddering with the force of him. He’s already sweating, pupils blown wide, every movement jerky, twitching like he’s seconds from tearing himself apart.

“Where’s it at?” he snaps, voice high and ragged. “C’mon, man, don’t fuck with me. I need more cocaine. Right now.”

Barry doesn’t move at first. He’s perched at the counter, a line already spread like it’s waiting for him. He bends low, snorts it slow, then tips his head back with a sigh that sounds more like mockery than relief. “Well,” he drawls, grinning at Rafe with lazy contempt, “that was the last of it. I'm all out, man.”

I can feel Rafe’s breath quicken, the air around him tightening. He laughs once, harsh and humorless, and starts tearing through the trailer. Bottles crash to the floor. Drawers rip open. A chair skids across the linoleum and hits the wall with a dull thud.

Barry stands, sharp now. “Rafe. I said I’m out.”

“Bullshit!” Rafe roars, sweeping everything off the counter with one violent motion. The sound is deafening in the small space, glass shattering, something metal clanging against the floor. “You’re full of shit.”

“Rafe!” I bark, stepping forward. “Stop—”

He doesn’t hear me or he can’t. He’s too far gone. Barry moves fast then, grabs a handful of Rafe’s shirt, and shoves him toward the door. Rafe stumbles, hits the frame hard, and crumples onto the floor.
For a second, everything stops. Then he breaks. The sobs hit like convulsions, sudden and violent, shaking through him as he folds in on himself. “Have you ever done something,” he chokes out, voice splintering, “something you never thought you would? And then you can’t take it back? You can’t—fuck—you can’t fix it.”

I drop beside him, knees hitting the floor. My fingers slide into his hair, down the back of his neck, trying to ground him as he trembles under my hands. His face presses against my leg, breath hot and erratic. I grab his jaw, make him look at me. “Rafe, breathe. You’re losing it.”

“I did something,” he stammers. “And now I’m fucked. For life. There’s no way out.” His words tumble apart, broken by sobs.

I cup his face, thumb brushing tears and sweat. “Hey,” I whisper. “Look at me. We’ll figure it out.” I press my forehead to his for a heartbeat, just long enough to steady him.

Barry drags a chair around and straddles it backward, elbows braced on the backrest, his tone flat but edged. “Don’t come onto my porch and say there’s no way out. Imma tell you right now there's a way out. If you’ve got a problem the only thing you can do is fix it.”

He studies Rafe, then me. His eyes are cold. Calculating. “I got a damn big problem too,” he says. “But you don’t see me cryin’ in my room about it. “See, your sister and her little friends still got my cabbage. And the hammer’s comin’ down on them.”

I snap my head toward him. “You think now’s the time to talk about your money?” I gesture at Rafe, still shaking, choking on air. “You got anything in this dump that’ll calm him down?”

Barry’s grin widens, slow and cruel. “You got fire when you’re high, huh?” he says. “Didn’t think a Pogue like you had it in her.”

I glare. “Don’t call me that.”

He laughs, quiet and cutting. “Ain’t you? Far as I know, you were right there in the ditch with those dirty-ass Pogues when they robbed me.”

Rafe wipes his face with the heel of his hand, streaking tears and dirt into something almost feral. “You know it was John B that stole that 25K from you, right?” he rasps.

Barry studies him, tongue pushing against his cheek. The silence stretches long enough that I can hear Rafe’s breath starting to even. Then Barry smiles, slow and dangerous. “That’s the point I’m talking about, country club. When they get a hold of John B, he’s gonna start snitchin’. On me, on my operation, about the robbery, all that shit. It’s gonna be a lose-lose on me, homey. Unless I get to him first."

He leans forward, voice dropping. “So what do you say we go get him?”

Rafe’s nod is almost a shiver. He pushes off the ground, one hand finding mine, gripping too tight like he’s daring the world to pry us apart. I squeeze back, because I won’t be the one who lets go.

Barry snorts, heading toward his bike. “So that’s it, huh?” he says, voice dry, almost amused. “You’re ridin’ with him now?  Hope you know what you’re gettin’ into.”

Rafe swings his leg over the bike and looks back at me visor half-up, eyes bloodshot but burning. “You coming or what?”

“Yeah,” I say, though my voice doesn’t sound like mine. Barry’s words hang in the air, thick and heavy as the morning heat, but I don’t look away.

I climb on behind Rafe, arms locking around his waist. His pulse thrums under my palms, fast and uneven. Barry revs his engine, and Rafe answers like it’s a challenge.