T H R E E

Rafe yells a lot.

I use to take in each word, trying to stop him yelling again, but then I realised it was inevitable. No matter what it would always happen again, I'd fix the original issue and another one would just pop up in its place.

There was always something. I think he just liked to yell.

But people yelling at me scares me. My Dad yelled a lot when I was little, I would hide from him. Trying to make myself as small as possible, tucking myself away from his sight. He'd yell at my mother, then my brother for defending my mother.

Robbie is twelve years older than me, so we pretty much grew up separately. But I always adored him, he was the best thing since sliced bread, in my eyes.

When Rafe yells I want to do what little Frankie did, hiding under my bed, or in a cupboard. But I can't, that would no doubt make it worse. The implication that he scared me would make him fly off the handle—because he wasn't scary, he was just intense, or passionate, or protective.

Heaven forbid I even imply he may scare me sometimes.

My brain now almost zones out when he yells, the words are being picked up, looked at to see if it's important, and then chucked away. It's hardly ever important.

"Kelce saw you get into that fucked, John B's stupid car!" He shouts like it's new information for me.

I swear Kelce must have clones because there's no way he can be everywhere all the time. He seems to always catch me doing things I shouldn't be doing.

His words annoy me. My mind deems them important. "You left me on the Goddamn beach, what the fuck was I supposed to do? Make sand castles and wait for you to come to save me?" I ask with a laugh. Grabbing all my dirty clothes in my arms I walk to my bathroom, dumping them in the laundry basket. I may as well be productive while I get a verbal beat down.

I'm way too hungover for his shit, too. My mother must've let him in while leaving to hang out at the country club—she doesn't even like the women, they're stuck-up Facebook mums. One of the worse types of people, in my opinion. She just hangs out with them to appease my father, because you don't want him to be pissed off.

I continue to work around him, dumping my washing in the bin, watering my plants, doing all the tasks I put off that only take two seconds.

"I don't know, Franny. But you definitely weren't supposed to get into that fucker's car." He doesn't stop yelling. He knows we're home alone.

Don't shout back, Frankie. Don't shout back. That'll make it worse.

I stand before him in an old t-shirt I once wore while painting a room at Robbie's house, the pale blue is covered in cream flecks. And I'm wearing some shorts that I'm pretty sure have a hole in them. He, on the other hand, is dressed in the same clothes he wore last night. He mustn't have realised I was gone until this morning, probably woke up to a text from Kelce and stormed over before getting changed.

Don't do it, Frankie. Don't shout back.

I busy myself with making my bed, any more eye contact and I'll snap at him.

"Rafe," I talk to him in a controlled voice, the type of control that lets you know the person is about to explode. "I didn't walk across the entire island, through the Cut, in the middle of the Goddamn nice, because you quite literally forgot about me."

He grabs a handful of the back of my shirt in his fist, yanking me up from my position. I let him stand me up, I look him straight in the eye, and I don't show him fear. I'm too angry for that shit.

He forgot me. Now he's acting like he's the one allowed to be mad?

Screaming doesn't count as shouting—Frankie, do not scream at him.

I'm so beyond dealing with all his petty grievances. All his woe is me. How he complains like the entire world—every single person—is out to get him. The Frankie inside my head is skating on thin ice, ice that's soon going to crack under my feet, and I'll start screaming and shouting and yelling, all at once.

He lets go of the grip harshly, having me stumble back a step.

Don't shout, Frankie.

"You watch how you speak to me, Franny." He points his finger at me. "You do not know how lucky you are—"

"Lucky?" I laugh. "How am I lucky, Rafe?"

"I am the reason your father kept his job after that shit he pulled on New Year's, that is because of me. You keep running your fucking mouth and I can make sure you are homeless, so poor you couldn't even get a house in The Cut." He seethes, his cheeks getting red.

"How lucky I am that I have a boyfriend who cares so deeply about me he threatens to make me homeless." I pout sarcastically.

At this point fuck the consequences. The anger of months, upon months, or shit he's put me through has compounded to this one moment. This is the straw that broke the camel's back.

"You are a terrible person, Rafe. Truly fucking horrendous. You are the most selfish person I know. You treat people like doormats like they owe you their lives. Well, guess what Rafe! The world doesn't revolve around you!" The floodgates have opened. The look on his face is deadly, there's no turning back, so I may as well keep going. "You know what else, you're an abuser! You gaslight me, you belittle me and I won't fucking stand for it. You threw a fucking ornament at me! And, somehow the worst of all, you know what I asked for for my birthday? A bonsai tree. You know what you got me, something for yourself, a stupid pair of underwear! You couldn't even be selfless for my birthday!"

Memories keep crashing down on me, times he has gaslit me into thinking I'm crazy for having emotions. Times he's made me feel that I am worth less than a weed in his stupidly nice garden.

I step back from my, my hands grabbing at the roots of my hair. What the fuck have I let happen to me?

"You are drowning me in all of your bullshit. All your selfishness, all your anger, and all the drugs. You know what, I'm done with yo—"

My head whips to the side, and my cheek starts stinging. He cut me off, not with words, but with his hand.

He slapped me. He hurt me again.

All the tears, the pleas for forgiveness, and the insistence that it would never happen again, the assurance it wasn't him—Rafe Cameron wouldn't hurt a girl. It was all bullshit. Complete, and utter bullshit.

My hand reaches my cheek, pressing on the stinging skin. The shock dulls the pain, but it's there, it doesn't let me forget it happened.

"Y-you don't get to decide when we end." He stumbles over his words. The look on his face says a thousand words, I think he's slightly shocked at his actions, too. It wasn't a one-off event, it's now happened more than once. Rafe Cameron does hurt girls. "I'm the one that gets to decide, you got that? I'm going to give you time to calm down, then you're coming to Tanny Hill for dinner with my family." He decides. Then he stared at me, I can't figure out what to say. "If it bruises cover it up." He adds.

Then he turns around and walks out.

He crossed a boundary no one should ever cross. And then he crossed it again.

And yet, it somehow feels like my fault. An irrational part of my brain finds reasons it's my fault.

My hands move without my mind's consent. Grabbing my phone that was on charge on my bedside table, opening it up, finding the contacts app, scrolling down to the letter 'M' and clicking on his profile.

Mark Sloan.

The Grey's Anatomy reference is something that would fly straight over Rafe's head. He hated all the shows I watch—honestly, he hates everything I like. So, Mark Sloan is a safe contact name for someone I don't want Rafe to find out about.

Tapping on the call button I press the phone to my ear, anxiety and adrenalin pump through my veins. I need to stop thinking for a little, and I can't get black-out drunk right now.

Two rings and the call is picked up.

"I'm beginning to feel like you just use me for sex, sweetcheeks." I can hear JJ's grin through the phone. He's joking, the complete opposite of how he acted last night. That JJ scared me.

I guess that's the duality of mankind. There is good and bad in everyone, it's just the balance of the good and bad that make up a person.

No crying, Frankie. If I even get slightly choked up he'll know, JJ Maybank is a human lie detector. And I don't want questions, because that infers feelings, and the second that gets thrown into the pot I have to get rid of it; and I don't want to do that, really, really don't want to.

I don't acknowledge his for of a hello. "You free?" I cut to the chase. Efficiency is the key.

He doesn't even bother properly answering the question, he just rattles off an address. It's not his house, that address I know by heart. I know—from having driven around The Cut a few times—this house isn't that far from JJ's place.

Having up the phone without a goodbye I get going. Grabbing my car keys, kicking on some shoes and making sure I lock the door behind me.

I bend some speed limits on the way to the house and park questionably, but I need to be in and out quickly. No pun intended. Turning off the car I parked on the other side of the road than the house, like that'll throw them off the scent, I pray one of Rafe's spies doesn't spot me and run off to tell their Lord and Saviour. But, I think I'm pretty safe. The cookie-cutter, country club attendees aren't going to be here unless they're doing something they don't want anyone to know about.

Getting out of my car I walk across the street, I don't know this area, and I couldn't be bothered to find discreet parking. But, how much worse can my day get? There has to be a limit.

All I need to do is get out of my head for a minute—preferably longer, but I'll take every second I can.

The house isn't the American dream house, with no white picket fence, or neatly manicured garden, but it's definitely better than JJ's place. Walking up the stairs I get to the front door, before I knock it's swing open, the hinges creek and the fly screen is falling off.

JJ stands in front of me, leaning against the door frame, a smug look on his face. He loves the fact I keep coming back, and I hate that same fact. He glances down at a watch that isn't on his wrist, "We've got approximately—" He looked back up at me, and his face falls. "Why the fuck is your cheek bright pink?" He veers off the topic I want to stay on.

In my haste to get out the Godforsaken house I didn't check to see if he had made any marks. The patch of skin still throbs, but I was ignoring it before he brought it back to my attention.

My hand flies up to the side of my cheek, fingers brushing over the tender skin. My mind reels for an explanation. "It's a rash." I blurt out. Now he's really going to want to have sex with me. "It's not contagious, or anything..."

"Doesn't really look like a rash." He shakes his head, a hardened look on his face.

I'm making an unhinged teenager with a gun angry. This day apparently can get worse.

"Well, guess you've never had this specific type of rash. Should we get to the point, or should I call up the next side piece?" I try and cut to the chase.

"I know the rules, but you know you can tal—"

I clench my haw together tightly, slightly worried about my back teeth. Turning around I go to head back to my car. He was going to say I can talk to him, but I can't. My feet only make it a few steps before his hand wraps around my wrist, preventing me from walking any further.

What is it with men thinking they can just pull women around willy-nilly? It's driving me insane.

Don't shout, don't shout, don't shout.

I turn to look at him, mild concern painted across his features. "If it isn't obvious, I really, really don't want to talk about it."

He raises his hand, the grip he had on my worst burned, now the skin feels unnaturally cool. "Fine. We don't have to talk about it, but just stay."

I glare. He doesn't back down. "We aren't friends, JJ." I remind him of a fact he very well knows.

"Fine by me," he grins. "We can just share an extremely unfriendly blunt." He fishes a rolled-up joint out of his pocket as he offers.

I roll my eyes but walk through the doors into the worse-for-wear house.

"Do you always have a joint in your pocket? I ask him, rhetorically.

"Just for you, sweetcheeks." He winks, handing the blunt to me. He then produces a neon green lighter out of his other pocket. That has to be a fire hazard. Flicking it on he lights the end, "Ladies first."

I pinch the neatly rolled blunt between my fingers, waiting for it to catch before taking a bravely big inhale. Apparently, I really need it. After we sit down on a lumpy sofa we pass it between us, I take more than I usually do. There's a silence that hasn't happened before, hanging between us. Sex isn't going to happen, but I'm also not about to leave. We're just sharing an unfriendly blunt. Strangers (essentially) sharing a mutual liking for marijuana.

Bad mistake after bad mistake continues to happen. I shouldn't sleep with JJ in the first place, but now I'm spending time with him outside of sex. I'm inching toward the line I set on fire so I don't cross.

Mabel Francesca Marcus, get your shit together.

"Whose place is this?" I ask, taking the joint from the blond.

"John B's." He answers. With the blunt between my lips, I have a quick look around from my seat. Beer bottles are scattered on the surfaces, and takeout containers and pizza boxes are piled high on the counters.

This place screams teenage boy.

I pass the blunt back to him. "My Dad's back from his vacation. So if you ever need me, I'll be here." He explains, then takes a inhale of the intoxicant.

JJ isn't completely stupid. Just mostly. And I'm not stupid, my choices are just God-awful. So, I know, and JJ knows I know his father wasn't on holiday. He was either locked up or on the run.

I know Luke Maybank. I know what type of person he is. But it's none of my business, he has friends if he needs help.

I snort at his statement, waving off the blunt, allowing him to finish it. "I have never, and will never need you, JJ."

JJ raises his eyebrows, leaning forward he presses the butt of the spliff out into an ashtray. "Oh, so Rafe does that thing you beg for, where I lift your leg—"

"That's not even funny." I shake my head, shut my eyes and try to rid the thoughts that flood my head.

Inappropriate. Inappropriate. Inappropriate.

"Didn't fucking think so." He says smugly. I watch as he leans over and grabs a bottle of beer from the side, bringing it to his mouth he puts the lid between his teeth and cracks it open. The bottle makes a hiss, and he spits the lid off somewhere I don't see. Hygienic. "But don't worry sweetcheeks, that thing you do whe—"

"Enough! So very much enough." I clamp my hands over my ears.

"I'm just trying to be nice." He shrugs. He takes a few mouthfuls of beer then tries handing it over, "Want a little? No point giving a whole one to to you, you never finish the fucking things." I roll my eyes and take it from him, muttering insults under my breath. It's not like they go to waste, he's like a hoover, practically inhaling them.

But I do take the drink.

I try and look unaffected by the disgusting taste. But I know I fail.

He grins, a dimple popping up on the side of his face. He shakes his head and takes the drink back.

"You really as something Mabel." He mumbles before taking a swig of the disgusting beverage.

"And you're not?" I raise my eyebrows.

Slowly the glares turn into grins, and I may or may not laugh. I'm not admitting to anything 100%. My legs kick over JJ's lap, resting for pure convenience. Obviously.

"Where'd you catch the rash?" JJ asks, trying to sound uninterested. Prying for information in a way I think is attempting to be roundabout.

"One of my side pieces. You should probably get tested. Chlamydia is really treatable. Pop a few antibiotics and you're good as gold." I joke, trying to tell him in a roundabout way to stop the line of questioning.

"Sure you didn't catch it from the main piece?" He presses.

"I know where I got my pretend STD, and it is none of your business." I bring the glare back, but it's weak at best, and God awful at worst.

"So I don't need antibiotics?"

"I'm just saying I didn't give– this is getting really fucking weird. Let's stop talking about pretend chlamydia." I shake my head.

"Whatever you say, sweet cheeks."

There's another one of those stretches of silence that aren't usual. Comfortable—you could say, it'd be a little strong, but possibly apt. I came over to fuck the sadness away for a little while, not joke about fake chlamydia over a blunt. This is wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. I should leave. Right now. This ticking time bomb seems to be only expanding.

"I've got to do this... thing... but you can tag along if you want?" He offers.

"N-es... y-no." I fumble, each half of my brain trying to override the other wide.

He grins, "I'm sorry, I have no fucking clue what you just said."

"No... yes. But only this once, and because I'm high and am allowed to make bad choices." I justify.

"You seem to make bad choices while sober, too." He mutters under his breath, drinking back the final inch of the bottle.

"You saying you're a bad idea? Because we can agree on that."

"Nah, I'm a brilliant idea. It's the boyfriend who's a bad idea." I go to pull my legs away, and he grabs them, securing them from leaving. "I'll shut up."

I mumble insults under my breath, not entirely sure if they're quiet enough that he won't hear them.

It doesn't take long for John B to come back, and once he does he gives JJ and me a strange look. I can guess why. It's not like there is a single soul who doesn't know about Rafe and my relationship, and who doesn't know how stupid it would be for me to cheat on him. JJ throws my legs off him and walks over to John B, they talk, and JJ at one point points at me and says something that makes John B snort. Then John B looks at me and gives JJ a nod.

I have not a fucking clue what any of that was.

"Time to rock and roll, Mabel." He picks up a tattered hat from the counter and holds out a hand for me. I glare at him and stand up on my own. The hand swings around, aiming at him my arse, I catch it in motion. "You left me hanging, sweetcheeks."

"JJ, I swear I will castrate you." I threaten.

"But then—"

"I've got other side pieces that'll fill your position nicely." That's a lie. There is no other side piece.

With that, his hands raise and we walk over to the yellow combi called The Twinkie, which John B sits in. JJ slides open the door, and I get inside. He jumps in the front.

John B and JJ talk about Kiara, I listen in, because what else am I meant to do? Request they turn the radio on? I'd be shocked if the radio even works in this thing. There is a terrible clicking noise that's a little off-putting. Not a good sign. JJ is trying to convince John B that Kiara is hopelessly in love with him—that is really, very not true. John B is, rightly, telling him he's talking shit.

I lean forward in my seat, "Can I offer up some words of advice? Considering my lengthy friendship with the girl in question, I do know a thing or two about her." I finally speak up.

John B looks at me through the rear-view mirror. "Yeah. That'd be good." He nods.

I think about what I want to say, I had something in my head, but it's gone. "Look, I completely