S E V E N

sexually transmitted diseases.

He found it. The fucker found it. The Royal Merchant. A tale that most people rolled their eyes at, and decided the person talking about it had a few screws loose.

After the initial buzz of excitement wears off, the exhaustion of the long day kicks in.

John B retires to his room, and Pope and Kie take the pull-out bed.

JJ sits outside on the verandah, watching the water rippling with fragments of moonlight dancing on its surface. Every few seconds a ploom of smoke is deposited in the air from his lungs, and the end of his final cigarette of the day burns a bright orange.

I shift in my seat, not fully relaxing due to the burning sensation on my back.

"What's wrong?" JJ breaks the comfortable silence. We sit on the same sofa, a respectable distance apart. I'm sure nowhere near far enough for Rafe

"Am I getting a rash—like a real rash, not a badly covered up lie about sexually transmitted diseases," I ask, shifting to look away from him and out to the house sat abandoned in the plot next to The Chateau.

"Mabel, what the fuck?" He says.

"'What the fuck,' what?" My hand blindly goes to feel the damage, some automatic reaction. Like squeezing a cut on your finger, or grabbing a bone you think is broken. Is it helpful? Probably not. But JJ grabs my hand before I make contact.

"You've got a cut on the back of your shoulder, it's not a rash." He explains what he can see, and I was unaware of it.

"Oh. I don't know if that's better or worse. It can't be that bad, I didn't bleed out." I try and brush it off.

JJ gets up and I turn around to see what he's doing, "Get up, you need to clean that out, it's probably got particles of Olivia in it."

I cringe at the thought, we walk quietly through the house, and into the storage room, JJ chucked a bed in and declared it his bedroom. He riffles through drawers and pulls out a shirt, and then tries handing it to me. I don't take it.

"Yours is covered in blood, dirt and probably bits of Ol—"

"Let's not talk about that aspect of the night," I tell him.

"I'm just saying you probably want to change, that's all." He rephrases.

"It's all good, I think I'll just call my brother and crash at his, I'll borrow clothes from his wife." I turn him down. "I should probably call him now," I speak mostly to myself, trying to find my phone, and praying it has enough charge.

He doesn't look discouraged. "No, stay here, Rafe will expect you to go there. You can take my bed, I'll sleep out there." He offers, pointing out to the living room. I scan his face, once again trying to find out what his angle is. I'm definitely overthinking this. "I can show you the bathroom, you can take a shower." He continues after I don't say anything for a second.

He extends his hand out again with the shirt, urging me to take it. I do. "Where's the bathroom?" I ask.

"Right." He walks me through the house, then opens a cupboard and searches through it. "There doesn't seem to be a clean towel, but this seems absorbent." He pulls out a blanket and inspects it intently.

I can't help but grin as I take it from him, "I guess we'll find out."

"There's everything you need in there, so, yeah." He walks down the hall and leaves me with a blanket and one of his shirts.

This is so fucking weird.

I turn and walk into the bathroom. It's nicer than the one at JJ's place. Which doesn't really say all that much, that place is festering a world-ending plague. It takes me a second to fiddle with the lock enough that I'm convinced it won't swing open and show everyone my tits. The shower is quick and to the point, I try not to swear too loudly when I accidentally turn the pressure up instead of down when I wash washing off the cut on my back.

Once out I realise the towel is actually quite absorbent, I dry myself off and get into JJ's clothes.

The smell like him, cheap cologne, the sea and the slightest hint of weed. There are worse things to smell like. A rotting corpse, for example. There is no smell of rotting corpse on the shirt— or the shorts, for that matter.

I walk out of the bathroom and down the hall to where JJ's makeshift bedroom is. He's sat on the bed, a big plaster in his hand. "Thought you might need it," he says.

I nod awkwardly, kicking the door—gently—shut behind me. He tries to hand it to me. "You think I am capable of putting a plaster on my back?"

"Good point." He nods, and pulls it apart. I pull the back of the shirt up and stare at the door. Old wood, bubbles in the cream-coloured paint that I just want to pick at. I hear the plastic peel apart, then JJ's hand touches my hand delicately. Kinda. As delicately as JJ Maybank can be. "I just want to apologise for what I said earlier. Again. I don't know what came over me, I said shit that I don't believe."

"All good. I'm over it for the most part."

I feel him smooth both sides of the plaster down, sticking the material to my skin. I drop my shirt once his hands leave my skin. It feels cold without his hands there.

When I turn around he is staring at me. Men are only nice when they want something. And wanting to apologise doesn't count. Men don't think with the head on their shoulders, they think with the head in their pants. It's the only reason I get flowers, the only reason I for the presents.

JJ and I only know each other for one reason. I only show up at his place for one reason.

Rafe comes out with a lot of shit, it's mostly hateful bullshit I try and ignore in an attempt to keep my sanity. But occasionally he comes out with something I can't ignore, words that bury themselves deep in my psyche.

Women are only good for one thing, fucking.

Nothing else they do is important, as long as they will let you fuck them when you want, and they suck your dick at the end of a bad day, they're a keeper.

The moon casts light on JJ, I think it's a full moon. Or perhaps it's barrelling toward Earth ready to eviscerate all of mankind, which is why it's so bright tonight.

"You can sleep here," I murmur.

Rafe's words replay in my head like a broken record. That's all women are good for.

Men are only kind if they want something.

My brain overrides any attempt at reason, I lean in and crash my lips against JJ. After all, it's the only thing I'm good for. My hands grab either side of his face, after a second he reacts, a hand tangles in my hair, pulling it from its ponytail and letting it cascade down my back.

I move to the bed, not separating my face from JJ's. The back of his knees hit the mattress and he sits down. His rough palms slide down the dip of my waist, down to the back of my thighs, pulling me to sit on top of him.

This is what he wanted. This is why he wanted me to sleep here, I kind of left him hanging this morning. This is a make-do.

JJ pulls back slightly, "Stop." He whispers.

I immediately pull away from him, dropping my hands from his face, and pulling away from him. "What's wrong?" I ask, confused at the one-eighty.

"You're emotional, you've had a shit day, and I said awful things to you today and I don't think you've fully processed it." He tells me, it's concerningly emotionally intelligent.

"You apologised. Twice." I remind him.

"I did, and I meant it, but it doesn't take it back. This feels like I'm taking advantage of everything that's happened to you today. And I don't want to take advantage of you, Mabel." He explains. I get up off his lap, not in the business of making people have sex with me.

I'm now actually confused. "Then why did you want me to sleep here?" I ask.

"Because you're tired, and therefore need to sleep, and getting your brother is more work than crashing here."

"Oh," I mumble.

JJ moves down the bed, across to the far side. "Sleep."

"Can I have my hair band back?" I ask he hands it to me and I scrap my hair into a ponytail and get into the bed, facing away from him. I roll onto my back and stare at the feeling, a patch of black mould has infected the ceiling above me. It's probably shedding its toxic cells onto me, poisoning my bloodstream, or whatever it does. The air feels thick, I glance at the window, it's open. "You awake?" I ask at full volume.

"Am now," he mumbles, he clearly was not awake.

"Does the fan work? Like, it won't chop me into pieces or anything?" My fingers drum on my torso that's covered in the shirt.

"Power's out, you can open the other window if you want." He offers.

I can't seem to shut my head off, so I get out the bed and open the window. It takes a few tugs, but it does open. Looking out of it I can see the water, the bright moonlight dancing along the gentle ripples.

"What happens tomorrow? Like do I just head back to my place and we act like everything in the past forty-eight hours didn't happen?" I lean against the window sill.

"You're overthinking this, sweetcheeks. Lay down, close your eyes, and you'll fall asleep in about two seconds. I'm tired." He tells me, his face pressed into the pillow.

"Do you actually think I'm like them—the people in Figure Eight? Because you can be honest, I'm made of tough shit."

He sits up, his hair sticking in fifty different directions. "No, you're nothing like them. I was trying to hurt you because I was pissed off."

"You shouted at me. You don't get to shout at me. I don't like it when people shout at me." I admit. People shouting at me scares me. It makes me feel like the little girl whose Dad shouted at her mother, brother and when he was really mad, at her. He isn't a tall man, barely taller than me, but when you're six he felt like a giant. I always felt so helpless when he shouted I never did anything to warrant that, I was a good kid, my mother made sure of that. In hindsight I think it was so I didn't give him any reason to shout at me.

"I won't shout at you in anger again. Promise. Now I'm so fucking tired, it's three in the morning." He lays back down.

The promise is good enough for me.

I lay back down in the bed facing away from him, my phone turned off sitting on the floor.

He was right, in about two seconds I am fast asleep.

When I wake up and glance across at what is making a concerning noise beside me, it's not a broken electronic ready to explode, or a wounded animal crying for euthanasia, no, it's JJ Maybank.

There are rules. The rules make me feel better about myself and the shitty things I make a habit of doing.

Simple rules, that not even JJ could mess up. Except he did, and then I did. And now some of the rules have been broken—a few stay in place, and those will stay in place as long as I live.

Damage mitigation, that's the new goal.

"What the fuck, Frankie?" I whisper so quietly I can barely hear myself. I want to rip each hair out of my scalp, one by one until I am bald, but I need to get out of this bedroom before I can do that. I imagine it will take a while.

What was I thinking? I think I may need another psychiatric evaluation, the sertraline doesn't seem to be quite cutting it.

Perhaps I need some lithium. Apparently, heroin makes you relaxed, if all else fails I should keep that door open.

Getting out the bed, thankful he is separate from me I run out of the room. Almost knocking John B over. "Good morning, do you have a toothbrush—a spare one, if that wasn't obvious," I ask before letting him get a word in.

"Yeah. Did you sleep with JJ?" He asks, staring at me and then the room with the cracked door where you can see JJ sleeping on the bed.

"I, uh, slept on the floor. It aligns your back, or so I've heard. Would that toothbrush be okay?" I ask again, wanting anything but to continue that line of questioning.

He walks through the house into the bathroom and riffles through a messy drawer before producing a package with a toothbrush. "Is that his shirt?" He asks another question.

"Can I borrow some toothpaste, well less borrow and more take, I doubt you'd want it back." I ignore his question.

"Sure. That's definitely his shirt."

"He didn't want me sleeping in his bed with remnants of... your late relative." I try and soften my answer.

"So you did sleep in his bed?" He puts two and two together, but I don't accept it.

I put water on the brush, then the toothpaste, and then more water. "Well, that was the plan but then plans changed and I forgot to change back into the original shirt." I begin scrubbing my teeth.

"You're not a great liar, Frankie." He shakes his head.

"I'm actually alright at it," I mumble through toothpaste, not really talking to him.

After scrubbing for almost five minutes to delay the inevitable, I walk out of the bathroom. John B is nowhere to be seen, but JJ is leaning against the bathroom door that I closed because I didn't want to see him.

"Morning, sweetcheeks." He smiles. "You sleep well?"

"I always sleep well, one of the only things I'm good at," I get out of the bathroom so he can go in.

"Trust me, you're good at a few other things as well, like—"

"Brush your teeth. Go for a morning piss, and for the love of God, wash your hands after." I tell him

"I always wash my hands after," he scoffs.

"Sure." I nod and walk past him.

I turn my phone on and message after message pour in. Walking to the kitchen to give myself space from JJ I read through the important ones—not Rafe's is what I mean—the ones from my Mum catch my eye.

From: Mumma

Rafe's looking for you, is everything with you two okay?

He's knocked on the door a bunch, what do you want me to say? I can say you're out of town seeing your psychiatrist.

From: Frankie

Yeah, that would be amazing. I love you

The door to the bathroom swings open, JJ walks out. "What's wrong?" He asks.

"Nothing. Rafe apparently won't stop knocking on the door, my Mum covered for me so I think I'll hide out somewhere today," I explain.

"What was the story?" He sounds curious.

"Psychiatrist, my one is in Charleston. I shouted at the one here and she didn't want to see me anymore," I reply.

"You shouted at a psychiatrist? I thought they didn't judge. Whatever HIPPA is, you know, where you have to help?"

"That's not what HIPPA is, JJ. But I was fourteen and fucking miserable and didn't want help and she asked questions I didn't have answers to. So I called her a cunt, I got removed from the building and now I have to drive or do phone consults."

"I also knew you were insane," he grins.

"I'm medicated. And I was depressed, not schizophrenic."

I'm not ashamed of needing medication, I don't think anyone should be ashamed. Owning that you need help is brave, taking it out on other people—like when I called an old woman a cunt, or what Rafe does—is not okay. The more people talk, the more the stigma lessens.

"I thought you would tag along today, you're in now, surely you want to see it through?"

"I'm going to need to go by my house, get changed and take said medication so I don't start calling people cunts again." I smile. He goes to say something but I cut him off. "And you're not being subtle enough, we aren't friends JJ. Never have been, never will be. We're good at one thing, let's just be good at that."

He runs a hand through his messy, blond hair. He takes a second before answering, obviously contemplating, deciding what the best thing to say is. "We should probably prepare for the covert operation."

John B walks in thirty seconds later, the worry fills me that he could've been waiting for the conversation to end, and wasn't busying himself with something. "What are you doing today, Frankie?"

"I was hoping I could tag along?"

He nods with a grin, "You sure can."

"I'd just need to pop by my house, it'd have to be subtle because it sounds like Rafe could be camping out like a shitty FBI agent."

"Got it, the Twinkie is very subtle, and won't stick out in your street at all." John B points out.

"Maybe park down the road, I can climb a few fences and go around the back." I pose the idea. Like a cat burglar. Are those even a real thing? What does that even mean?

The constant, unpredictable sway of the boat doesn't sit well with my empty stomach. I can feel the bile swishing around like no one's business.

I hate boats—just the water in general.

Humans are land animals. Except for drinking cleaning—which is not done in an ocean—we don't need the water.

This is just asking for death.

The warm sun beats down on my sunscreen-covered body. I do not fancy melanoma, thank you very much. A bucket hat sits on my head, making me look a little like an oversized preschooler. I lean against the plastic interior of the boat, it cooled down after the initial feeling of my skin melting.

I'm attempting to ignore the blond boy. He does not exist, and even if he did I wouldn't have anything to do with him. I don't even know what his name stands for, it could be Jupiter Jorge for all I know. Realistically, I would bet my life it is not Jupiter Jorge, but Luke isn't renowned for stellar choices, so questionable names would be the least of his issues.

I can't tell if anyone knows I am blanking JJ, I won't even look in his direction, except for the occasional neck crack.

JJ whistles, then he tips his chin up in the direction of a boat chugging across. Much quicker than us. No offence to the HMS Pogue, but it's not fabulous. "You guys see that?" JJ says, admiring the sleek, black boat. "That's the Malibu 24-MXZ, the world's finest wakesetter." The words, letters and numbers fly so high above my head that it isn't funny. "Number one in luxury, quality and performance. Two-hundred k, easy."

"Hate to burst your bubble, but honestly it wasn't impressive when I went on Toppers. It's just a boat that goes quickly." I don't mind bursting his bubble.

"You went on it? And it wasn't amazing?"

"Frankie doesn't do boats, that's why she's a little pale." Kie smirks.

"I'm always pale, it's a severe iron deficiency. I need a transfusion." I mumble, leaning back against the edge. Trying to get comfortable, is a dangerous thing for me.

"We picked the wrong parents," Pope shakes his head as we get closer to the boat.

"I hate to break it to you guys, but that's Topper and his girlfriend," Kie grumbles, rolling her eyes behind her expensive acrylic sunglasses. Her distaste for the girl who happens to date Topper isn't hidden. My stomach sinks, there's no way Topper won't rat me out to Rafe. It's in his fucking blood. I just assumed there were a shit ton of rich boys with expensive boats. Why did it have to be him? I slide a little lower in the boat, trying not to make any sudden movements.

The idea of luck being on my side is unfathomable. Luck is never in my side. That would be ridiculous. I am forever doomed to be unlucky. I must've run through a mirror store and smashed every single one.

When we pass the black boat with all too familiar wooden accents Sarah pushes her own expensive, acrylic sunglasses on the top of her head. "Frankie?!" She shouts.

I sit up, putting a hand above my eyes, acting as a shield from the intense sun that suddenly feels a lot hotter. "Sarah!" I shout back with an uncomfortable amount of enthusiasm.

"Rafe's looking everywhere for you!" She yells back. I can hear her clear as day, but my denial of my dire situation decides the wind is too much. I cup my hand behind my