038 !! PETERKIN

Pope completely melts down right then and there, losing all his sanity and patience — every single thread of maddening emotions unraveling as the uncertainty and bleak prospects of their future slowly descend on him.

He curses and throws stuff around the tiny abandoned garage they sought refuge in as soon as the Cameron plane left the bounds of their eyesight, their angered footsteps hollowing out the silence of the only private space nearby.

It's too much — all of it, down to the very fact that they couldn't keep their gold safe neither could their friend retrieve it.

The police. It must've been something they did, some disturbed action that prevented John B from persuading them that Ward Cameron is a lying, thieving monster.

That rattles their exhausted minds even more, that not even the law can be trusted now.

Ignoring Pope's breakdown and Kiara's constant shouts aimed at JJ demanding for him to stop offering their friend weed as a solution, Georgie steps out into the fresh air fumbling with the cigarette pack in her back pocket.

She plucks one out, cursing when she realises she still hasn't purchased a new lighter after her last one got lost somewhere on the beach on of their designated early summer 'Pogue Days'.

She lingers by the entrance of the garage quietly eyeing the darker skinned boy sighing miserably and settling down on the ground, the three others cautiously looking at him.

"Here you go, chief. A little weed never hurt no one", JJ offers him a joint igniting it for the distressed boy who happily accepts it.

"JJ. You know he doesn't smoke", Kiara mumbles.

JJ shrugs, "Well, maybe not until today".

"Pope", Georgie sighs out earning a head shake.

"I lost my scholarship. Walked out in the middle of the interview. Every . . . . it's gone. It's not gonna happen".

Her mouth goes dry, pain and hurt setting in at the thought of what this means for him — someone who's dedicated all his life to trying his best and attempting to make a good life for himself separate of the madness of everything that comes with being a Pogue in Outer Banks.

"You did that for us?", Kiara whispers unbelievably.

He looks up sharply, "No, not for us. For nothing".

It feels so real right now, with her best friend losing what he considered to be the most precious thing in the world with her friends all surrounded — faces downcast and a look of pure disappointment lining their expressions.

All the more reason to light that damned cigarette and take a time out.

"J . . .", Georgie nods at him signalling the unlit cigarette between her fingers.

He steps up, quickly lighting it and lets her tread back out into the glowering afternoon sun, inhaling deeply as the cigarette dangles from her lips.

She fidgets around her pocket to grab her phone and open up her message string with the one person truly capable of distracting her from life's disappointments.

The fact that his father is the reason they're in this position in the first place doesn't even cross her mind.

Her thumb hovers above the keypad willing her mind to think, think in words, type them out and send them in.

Frantic running footsteps alarm her, her hand instantly pocketing her phone as she turns to the source of the sound.

Her breath goes awry when she sees John B stumbling into the garage, his hands laced with something so deeply red it could only be blood.

"Oh my god, John B!", Kiara rushes to him, JJ and Pope glancing at each other with eyes the size of giant saucers.

"Is this yours?", Georgie takes the cigarette out, terror once again finding its way into the aquamarine of her gaze.

John B remains mute looking around with a distant look in his eyes, shock — the only thing reflecting through his irises.

"John B", Georgie swallows the bile threatening to rise up at the strong metallic smell of the blood oozing off his fingertips.

She rubs at her eyes, pressing her lips together.

"Whose blood is that?", Pope saunters over to them on shaky feet.

John B's body shakes as a slow string of shock induced tears escapes past his eyes, his friends stiffening at the sight of him crying with bloodstained hands.

Georgie steps forward, tentatively wrapping her arms around his neck in a side hug letting him rest his head against hers and cry his eyes out.

Her own body shakes at the sight of the red liquid his hands are so carefully soaked in but she chooses to purse her lips and screw her eyes shut rocking them back and forth while he continues to sob.

"Bro . . . .", JJ sighs, throwing an arm around his waist and hugging him from the other side, Kiara and Pope watching the Maybanks comfort their distraught best friend.

He tries to blink his tears away, clearing his throat.

Pulling his head up from Georgie's, he inhales voice cracking as he begins, "He . . . "

"Hey. You're okay", the golden haired girl squeezes his shoulders.

He shakes his head, momentarily glancing at her with pain threaded honey brown pupils that ache every inch of her body.

"Peterkin, she . . . she tried to arrest Ward and—and then she was—".

Pope takes a step forward, "Ward did this?".

He furiously shakes his head, pulling away from his friends' embrace.

"It was Rafe. He showed up out of nowhere and—and shot her. He thought she was gonna hurt Ward but she was only arresting him and he took Sarah with him—".

Disbelief. Shock. Panic. Terror. Fear. Disbelief, again.

"So you're saying Rafe Cameron shot the Sheriff?", JJ's practically yelling now, raking his hands through his hair.

John B sighs tiredly.

"He's insane. I tried to help but he was ready to shoot me too so I had to run—fuck, I left the Sheriff there all alone. Shit", the realisation only now dawns upon him, his hands coming up to his already disheveled hair leaving small streaks of dried blood behind.

She doesn't dare look around for fear of giving herself away seeps through her skin, her heart echoing in its cage clawing to be let out and shattered a million times over and over again.

No.

Not him. Not him.

Anyone but him. No.

Never him. Never in a million years.

She breathes shakily wrapping her arms around herself, eyes fixed on the floor and mind rattling loudly, a deadening headache thumping out against her skull.

She left him, just hours ago. She kissed him just hours ago, she laid in his bed just hours ago.

He was there, it was him. He was fully present and he'd looked at her as if she was the best fucking thing in the entire world.

It was only a deal, but somehow her heart had started to sow its vines in refusing to forego the concept of 'not feeling' and diving headfirst into the ocean of joy and satisfaction his touch lathered her with.

She'd seen a rare side of him that wasn't so bad, he's been treating her well after all.

But now, thinking about how the blood on John B's hands is that of an innocent — someone she admired — shed by the man who kissed her so gently earlier this morning, who touched her as if she's the only real thing in the world, is fucking terrifying.

She's spent hours with him, she's slept in his arms and this revelation pains her to the very core of her heart.

But the thing is, Rafe Cameron is incapable of touching gold without burning it.

***
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