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The truth at the heart of it all is this – if JJ is honest with himself (which he avoids with every beer drunk and every joint smoked and every punch thrown) – he’s kind of a shitty person.
Not shit in the way his dad is – not yet. Or shit in the way the Kooks are – not ever.
But he’s so fucking far from good that he can’t think of another word for it.
His momma called him good – good and beautiful and smart and brave.
“That’s momma’s good boy,” she whispered as she held up her hands for high fives.
“Oh, baby boy, look at those eyes.” Her lips in his hair as she breathed, “You are so beautiful, J.”
Her eager clapping when he tapped his fingers against his lips and counted to ten, “My boy is so smart! A little genius!”
Tears as she knelt down in front of him and kissed all over his face, “Oh, JJ, baby. My sweet, brave boy.” Her choked whimper when his tiny arms locked around her neck and wouldn’t let go, “I need you to be brave for me now. For Daddy, okay?”
The truth is, JJ’s momma was a bit of a liar.
Because JJ isn’t good.
Good people, JJ knows, don’t lie. But JJ can’t even remember the last time he told the whole truth.
Third grade, maybe. When he told one John Booker Routledge that his bandana was kind of stupid… but he liked it. Or fifth grade, when he looked Pope Heyward in the eye after taking a punch meant for him from that Kook asshole Kelce and said, “You’re really freaking weird, man.” Then grinned and asked, “Do dead bodies really do that?” Or eighth grade, when his fingers brushed Kiara’s as he passed her the joint and breathed, “It’s really, really gonna fuckin’ suck when you leave us behind.” And it did. Suck, that is, when she went ghost just four months later.
And the thing is, JJ doesn’t like lying; it’s just that he’s gotten really, really good at it.
Like, when he turns in an assignment late – or not at all – he says he’s been sick, he says the power was out, he says he lost it. Which translates to: my bruised ribs kept me up three nights in a row, my dad used the cash for the power bill to buy drugs, I didn’t bother because the letters move too much when I try to read them.
And in between all of those lies are the others. The – I crashed my bike, I fell out of a tree, I’m helping my dad with a job this weekend.
The – I’m fine, I’m okay, I’m all good.
Or lately:
“My dad made me. He told me Captain Leo kept his cutting torch. You know, after he got fired. He said if I didn’t get it for him, he was gonna… he was gonna hit me again.”
They walked away with the drone and JJ didn’t get eaten by a dog, so hey, what’s one little lie in the face of $400 mil?
Or even more recently:
“No! Kie, I didn’t bring the gun, alright? Everything’s fine, okay?”
It’s not the lie itself that twists up his insides; lies are the threads that hold JJ’s whole world together. Deny, deny, deny. It’s the disappointment on Kie’s face. It’s that same look she wears when the boys share stories from the year she was gone – the year she was more Kook than Pogue – and no matter how many times JJ knocks his knee against hers, John B shares a beer with her, or Pope stares at her with stars in his eyes, she still doesn’t seem to believe she belongs.
But JJ – despite the liar he is to his core – doesn’t break promises. So, as much as he wants to tell her the truth, about what happened, about what they did – “JJ, you can’t tell anybody. No, I’m serious, dude. Not Kie, not John B, nobody.” – instead, he’ll do what he does best. Deny, deny, deny.
Another thing good people don’t do is steal – and JJ steals all the fucking time.
It started with a candy bar tucked into his waistband – because his pocket had a hole in it – and then little baggies of off-brand Cheez-its he shoved into his backpack beneath the homework he had no intention of doing. A pack of cigarettes from behind the counter for his daddy.
A turtle charm for Kiara with a ‘K’ carved on the bottom – he’d chipped his pocketknife, but it had been worth it to see her smile. (Then, he’d had to steal himself a new pocketknife – a Swiss Army Knife this time). A nautical compass and a hula dancer for John B – she still sits proudly on the dash of the Twinkie, but he’s pretty sure the compass is at the bottom of the marsh now from the day they crashed the Pogue into the dock. A book on decomposition for Pope – he took it right back to the library and scolded JJ for stealing a book that was already free – but he promptly checked it back out and spent the entire weekend reading it, so that was still a win.
Food was both harder and easier to steal. Easier – because it was impossible to feel guilty when he saw John B disappear into the kitchen at the Chateau and come back out with a full belly. Harder – because he hated taking from the grocery store on the Cut. Harder still – because it was nearly impossible to even get in the doors of the grocery store on Figure Eight without several pairs of eyes keeping an eye on ‘that Maybank boy.’
Cash and clothes are necessities; he’s got a drawer full of Kildare’s finest merch as proof. Weed, he admits, is purely for his own benefit. But it numbs the ache after fights with his dad, lets him smile easy with Kiara even though her absence last year still hangs in the air between them, makes him funny when John B needs a laugh or Pope is this close to drowning in his dad’s expectations.
The gun. Well. JJ kills teddy bears and tells himself (and everyone else) that the gun will protect them against those square groupers. He brings it to the OBX Summer Movie Series and says it’s for protection. Against the Kooks. Against Rafe Cameron.
He doesn’t tell anyone – not even John B – that he tucks it under his pillow at night. Strokes his fingers over the smooth handle. Touches the trigger. Practices his grip as he watches his bedroom door and listens for the creak of the floorboards.
No, he doesn’t tell them that.
Good people don’t fight. Well, they don’t fight the way JJ fights.
Good people – like Kiara – fight for turtles and the ocean and equality for all and shit like that. Good people – like Pope – fight for their future, for a chance at a life outside of this island’s expectations. Good people – like John B – fight for survival, for their friends, for a chance to bring their father home alive.
People like JJ, well, they fight for anything. Everything. Nothing.
JJ fights to hide existing bruises, to distract from the wobble in his chin, to make sure no one stares too hard at his ripped clothes, rumbling belly, or sad eyes. He grins, snarks, throws a punch.
He takes a hit meant for Pope, throws a punch for Kiara, holds a gun against Topper Thornton’s head for John B and thinks – this is love. And when Kiara breaks up the fight with his lighter and then throws her arm around Pope’s shoulders, when John B snaps at him for pulling a gun on someone, when Kiara shakes her head in disappointment that he got himself in trouble again, he just takes it, shrugs, keeps moving. Because they don’t get it. Even John B – who gets it the most – doesn’t get it.
Sometimes, when he’s curled up in bed after a fight with his dad, when he’s got a chair propped beneath the door handle to keep it closed, when the buzzing of his phone has finally gone silent, he thinks – this is love too.
And sometimes, sometimes the immediate quiet that fills his head after he takes a hit is nice. It hurts, yeah, but sometimes, for just a second, he’s not thinking of groceries he can’t afford, the friends who will leave him someday, the inevitable jail cell waiting for him in his future. Sometimes, when he spits out blood, he’s not thinking of anything at all.
So, he fights. Anything. Everything. Nothing.
Another thing his momma got wrong is this: he’s not smart.
He doesn’t need his teachers to tell him that – though they do anyway – and he doesn’t need to stare at the A+ on Pope’s paper and the F ‘see me after class’ on his own.
Sometimes he wonders if it’s his dad’s fault that the letters dance on the page when he tries to read them. If he’s taken one too many blows to the head from Rafe Cameron to read as quickly as his friends. Or maybe – and this one hurts to even think about – he really is just as stupid as his dad says.
And JJ has no idea what his momma was talking about when she called him brave.
See, JJ will take on any fight. Doesn’t mean he’ll win. In fact, he rarely does.
It’s not really about that though. If it were, JJ would have given up a long fucking time ago.
He doesn’t fight because he’s strong or because he’s brave, because he’ll win; he fights because it’s the only thing in the world that he knows how to do. Because he’s been fighting the current his whole life just to hold his head above the water.
And he’s terrified to find out what happens when he finally stops trying.
He’s not brave at all.
At the heart of it, he’s not any of the things his friends are. Pope is smart – so fucking smart that just hearing him speak makes JJ feel like an idiot. And John B? He’s so good that it makes JJ’s heart ache that someone like that could care about someone like him. And Kiara. Fuck. Kiara is brave. Brave in ways that even she hasn’t realized yet. She’s got one foot on each side of this island, her whole identity split somewhere down the middle, but it doesn’t scare her, not the way it scares JJ. The way it’s always scared JJ. JJ doesn’t think it scares her at all.
But JJ? He’s stupid and bad and fucking terrified.
He’s the worst of them. Of the Pogues. He’s the trouble that clings to them, that holds them back, that threatens to destroy the best parts of them.
He wants to be good enough, smart enough, brave enough to walk away, to let them go. But the worst of it, of him – the part he’s most ashamed of? – is that he loves them too damn much to let them go.
JJ’s momma was wrong about most of it.
But his momma got one thing right. He is beautiful.
It’s what the women at the Island Club tell him as they tuck cash into the waist of his faded work pants. It’s what they giggle as their hands linger on the edge of his belt. As he laughs nervously and backs away with his bus tub. As they ‘tease’ and ‘joke’ about what time he gets off work. As he grins and winks and dodges their hands; it’s what he hears when he doesn’t always succeed.
And the girls at The Boneyard breathe it into his ear as his lips and hands wander. As he kisses them between cups of warm beer. The Kooks whisper, “My dad would kill me if he saw me here with you tonight. But God, you’re beautiful.” And the Tourons, with their wide eyes and dazed smiles, whisper, “You’re the most beautiful guy on this beach,” as JJ pulls on the ties of their bikinis and tugs them into the water with him.
Rose Cameron whispered it to him just yesterday as he set her groceries on the counter. Her sharp nails slid down his chest as she backed him against the counter and smirked, “You’re beautiful, JJ. Has anyone ever told you that before?” He thought of his momma with her big brown eyes and blonde hair and grinned. Easy, flirty – because JJ can always do easy and flirty. What he can’t do is see his momma in the face of monsters, so he sidestepped her wandering hand and smirked, “All the time, ma’am.”
It’s what Kiara called him at her first party back with the Pogues a few months ago. Her finger poking into his dimple, she draped herself over him from behind and breathed as if just realizing, “Shit, JJ. You are unfairly beautiful.”
He jumped a little at the sudden contact, then leaned back into her; she smelled like coconuts, weed, and dreams that would never come true. One glance back at her told him, yep, she was crossfaded.
“God, Kie, you’re high as shit right now,” he laughed in pure delight. She pressed her chin into his shoulder and huffed out a breath as her arms looped around his neck.
“I know I’m hot and all,” he goaded as he tugged at the long, dark curl that fell over his chest, “but you know the rules. No Pogue-on-Pogue mackin’.” Then, because he could never leave well enough alone, he smirked and wiggled his brows at her, “Oh, what the hell, Kie. I’ve never been a fan of the rules anyway.”
Kiara groaned, pushed her whole hand into his face, and plopped down next to him on the half-rotten log. She snatched his warm beer from his hand, the cup sloshing a little as she glanced inside. She made a face as she sipped it, then whispered in a tone far too sober for how drunk he knew she was, “I missed you.”
She meant the Pogues. Obviously.
It wasn’t a full year, but it was close enough. It had started with late replies. Later and later and later. Missed parties. Then unanswered messages all together. And though she would never ignore them in person, they just didn’t really see her that often. And when they did, it was JJ who ignored her.
Not for bailing, not really. He’d seen it coming from the moment he met her – no one with hair that pretty, clothes that clean, or parents that rich would ever stick around a lowlife loser like JJ Maybank. So, he wasn’t mad, not really. He wouldn’t stick around for him either; if he could get away from himself altogether, he would.
But it hurt. The soft smiles she’d shoot them. The way she looked like she wanted to come over. The way he wanted her to.
So, yeah, she meant the Pogues.
But JJ missed her. So, because he’s a selfish son of a bitch, he pretended. For one moment, he let himself have it. He stole her ‘I missed you’ and made it about himself. He let himself feel it, let it warm his chest the way the first sip of whiskey did when his dad offered it to him.
Then, he tossed his arm over her shoulders and pulled her in sloppily. She fell against him as he dropped an obnoxious, loud kiss against the side of her head just to get her to shove him away.
She did, laughing as she shoved at his side and made a face of disgust.
They
- We- I- “Missed you too, Kie.”
JJ doesn’t even really think about his momma much anymore.
Okay, that’s a lie. He thinks about her pretty much every single hour of every single day. She pops into his thoughts when he sees creepy Rose Cameron, when his dad’s steps get louder from the other side of his bedroom door, when Kie’s fingers brush the hair from his forehead, or when Pope scolds him for doing something dangerous.
But he doesn’t talk about her. Pretty much ever.
Mentions of his momma are reserved for nights with John B where there’s too much weed and too many bandages, when his head is a little too hazy and he can almost pretend the hand sliding through his hair is hers. Or, you know – and JJ’s not proud of this fact, though it doesn’t exactly stop him from doing it – when he and JB need a few extra brownie points with Kie or Pope. Then, instead of defensive changes in topic, it’s all John B eyeing the last cookie and reminding everyone that his mom hasn’t written in months. “Try ever!” JJ adds, trying his best to look pathetic. Then, because – for as tough as Kie is – she’s also a giant softie at heart, there’s a cookie split in two. And if JJ somehow always ends up with the slightly bigger half, well, he’s sure it’s a coincidence.
So, again. Yeah, he’s pretty much a shit person.
But the cookies are Mrs. Heyward’s recipe, so they’re always worth it.
Pope rolls his eyes and calls JJ a faker when he shoots the darker boy a smirking wink over Kie’s shoulder. And this, too, is a lie. A deflection.
Because JJ’s momma doesn’t exist in the dingy house on Rogers’ Point Road. Her pictures have all been burned, her things broken and then thrown out, and her son, well, he’s being held together with saltwater, cheap weed, and the three absolute best people on this island.
He’s nothing. But they are everything.
So, in the end, it’s easy – deciding to take the fall for Pope.
Because Pope is good.
Not good in the way seafood tastes or Kiara’s coconut shampoo smells. Not good like the waves JJ rides to forget the world or the hugs John B gives when he’s a little high. But good in a way that is real and tangible and important.
Because, unlike JJ – who will live and breathe and die in Kildare – Pope is meant for more. He was born a Pogue, yeah, but he’s meant for life far, far away from this island. He’ll study and be a fricking genius and do his weird dead body stuff back on the mainland.
And JJ will miss him when he’s gone – he’ll be an ache that never heals, like JJ’s momma – when JJ’s the only one left who even remembers what it means to be The Pogues. But if JJ is good at anything, it’s living with permanent aches.
So, when Heyward walks in and says, “Hey, Pope. Someone here to see you,” and JJ looks up to see Deputy Shoupe. All he can think is one thing.
Fuck.
All JJ can see is the back of Pope’s head as he shakily says, “Evening, officer.”
And JJ knows they’re fucked.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Because unlike JJ, Pope is good. And honest. And smart. And going places.
Pope is – in so many ways – the best of them.
So, when JJ hears ‘felony destruction of property’ and Pope turns his wide, terrified eyes on him, he mouths ‘deny, deny, deny’ and wills his quick tongue to find a solution. To find a lie. To find the perfect lie.
Because JJ can talk his way out of anything – detentions, awkward situations with girls, tickets for driving without a license (well, as long as it’s not Deputy Shoupe or Sheriff Peterkin who pull him over).
And also not, you know, that stuff with his dad; he’s never been good at talking his way out of that.
Right now, though, JJ can’t think much of anything over the racing of his heart. He follows them out of Heyward’s – his eyes locking onto the cuffs currently dangling from Pope’s skinny wrists – and he doesn’t know half of what’s coming out of his mouth: accusations of payoffs and dirty deals, maybe.
But all he can hear in his head is: Pope is good, Pope is good, Pope is good.
JJ’s not the guy you go to when you need a fully-formed plan with all the possible endings laid out – that’s Pope. He’s also not the guy you go to when you need pure optimism – that’s John B. And he’s definitely not the person you go to for the fucking truth, the reality check – that’s Kie all day.
But when you need a plan quick, when you need a hasty one-two-punch ridiculous and crazy enough that it just might work? JJ’s your guy.
“It wasn’t him!” The words burst from his mouth, sudden and strong.
Every person outside of Heyward’s freezes. Hell, time itself seems to freeze as Pope turns to him with a wide-eyed shocked expression. He looks dazed, like the time he fell off his board and hit his head on the way down. Like the time Kiara’s hand grazed his as she was handing him a beer on the HMS Pogue. Like the first time JJ showed up at The Boneyard with hickeys and winked at Pope with a raunchy, “Had a lot of fun with your mom last night, Pope.” He’d only looked dazed for a few seconds on that last one before scowling and punching JJ in the shoulder. It had been worth it for the howl of laughter that escaped John B before he fell backward off his log.
Kiara is staring at him too. She looks confused. Scared. But JJ can’t let himself focus on her. He can’t focus on anything except – Pope is good. Pope is good. Pope is good.
“It was me.”
He points to himself and can’t help the quick glance at Kiara. Their eyes meet for a beat too long as he steps closer, then he focuses on Pope. On his fear.
JJ’s the best liar on the island. He can sell any story to any person. So, he does.
He points to Pope and adds, “He tried to talk me out of it.”
He can feel Shoupe’s eyes on him as he gets closer. And though JJ doesn’t look, he can imagine his blue eyes are narrowed, judging. Because, like everyone else on this island, Shoupe knows the Maybanks. He knows Luke – he’s had him in cuffs enough times that he should by now – and he knows JJ. Better than JJ would like, if he’s honest.
“But I was mad because he’d just been beaten up.”
Kiara’s forehead creases in surprise. Or is it confusion? Disbelief? Heyward watches him now too. They’re trying to piece it all together, he knows. To find the truth hidden in JJ’s lies. Or the lies in JJ’s truth. But JJ keeps his eyes on Pope.
Because the words coming out of his mouth are a lie, but the sentiment is real. It’s true.
“I was so sick of those assholes from Figure Eight that I lost my shit.”
Shoupe looks fed up – whether it’s from the bullshit JJ is feeding him or the situation overall, JJ doesn’t know – so, JJ doubles down. He stares right back at him, lifts his chin a little as if daring the deputy to call him on his lies.
Then, he locks back on Pope, “I can’t let you take the blame for somethin’ I did.”
And that’s just it, really.
JJ may not have taken the plug out of the boat, but it’s his fault. It’s all his fault.
He pulled the gun on Topper with his, “Yeah, you know what that is. Your move, Broski.” And, “Okay, everyone, listen up! Get the hell off our side of the island!”
He looked at Pope’s swollen, bruised face and encouraged, “What are you gonna do?”
He grinned proudly at Pope as he helped him back onto his dad’s boat, consequences be damned, “I am so proud of you right now. Holy crap.”
He blew off Pope’s concern with his, “They hit us, we hit them. It’s the law of the jungle,” bullshit.
Then, it was him who forgot the gun at the drive-in, who got Kie all wrapped up in this too.
Because JJ, for all that he loves his friends, is the worst kind of poison. He’s the kind that gets into your blood, that takes pieces of you bit by bit. Like the poison his dad sniffs, like the poison his momma used to shoot up. And he sees it in his friends, in the way they trust him even when they shouldn’t. In the way they stay even when they should run.
In the way they love him even though he’s slowly dragging them down into the depths with him.
But JJ’s too selfish to run away himself. And he’s just shit enough of a person to stay.
Pope stares at him now the way he did when they were 11 and JJ stepped between him and that asshole Kook Kelce on the beach. Wide-eyed, terrified, hopeful.
JJ took the hit that day. Stepped right up to Kelce, who stood a full head taller than JJ, and looked him right in the eye. Because when you’re getting beat down by a grown man whose eyes once looked at you with love, some pussy in a pastel polo shirt really isn’t that scary.
Even when he gave JJ a black eye and kicked sand in his face. Even when Pope stared at JJ both like a hero and like just the sight of him was breaking Pope’s heart.
So, JJ smirked. Got to his feet. Called Pope weird with so much affection. And then pulled a wad of stolen cash out of his pocket and asked, “Wanna get ice cream?”
JJ stares back at Pope. They’re both pleading with each other now.
Please don’t do this.
Please let me do this.
“You’ve got too much to lose.”
And this is all I have to give.
“JJ, what are you doing?”
“I’m tellin’ the truth,” he shifts his eyes to Deputy Shoupe. This is it. This is the moment to sell it. To make it more than a story. To make it real.
He smiles, something self-deprecating, something Shoupe won’t want to stare at for too long, and nods, “For once in my Goddamn life, I’m gonna tell the truth.”
For once in my Goddamn life, I’m gonna do something good.
Shoupe looks away, as predicted, and settles his eyes on Pope. And this is it, JJ thinks, this is the moment he needs to sell like he never has in his life. He needs to settle all loose ends, kill all doubts. So, he adds, “I took his old man’s boat too.”
“What the hell?” Heyward looks at him like he’s the no-good boy he is. Like JJ is everything Pope’s dad has always suspected. Like JJ is the thing that dragged his son into this mess.
It’s true.
More importantly, it’s working.
He just has to remind them what’s true, what’s right. He just has to remind them that he’s trash. That Pope is made of literal gold and that JJ is just the dirt that sticks to him.
But Pope… Pope is so fucking good and pleads, “JJ, come on.”
He’s too good.
“Just shut up, Pope! Just shut up,” he shakes his head. But he can’t help the way his eyes go wet. Because, well, shit, he never wanted to live up to the family name. He never wanted to be Maybank trash. But he’ll do it. For Pope.
His split lip aches as he purses his lips, then shifts his eyes back to the deputy. The breath he takes is so small that it’s invisible as he nods, “He’s a good kid. You know where I’m from.”
He’s from the house in the marsh. The one with trash in the yard, cracked windows, dirty siding. He’s from the house that gets domestic disturbance calls. The house where grown men get dragged out in cuffs and little boys get taken by DCS.
Shoupe looks him up and down. JJ almost wonders what he sees, but then Shoupe nods, his voice too soft when he says, “Yeah.”
And, oh. That hurts. That fucking hurts. In all the ways it’s true, it stings.
JJ steels himself against those hurt feelings before they can settle too deep beneath his skin; this isn’t about him or his stupid frickin’ feelings.
He looks at Pope with watery eyes, but his expression is sure. Almost pleading. Go along with it, he tells Pope. Please.
“This was all me.”
Pope wants to cry, to beg JJ not to do this – JJ can see it. So, he nods, just a little. Just this slight tilt of his head, softening of his eyes. Let me do this. Let me save you, he pleads silently.
Deputy Shoupe is more observant than JJ ever realized. More observant than JJ can handle right about now.
He looks from JJ to Pope, locking his eyes on the other boy as he asks, “That’s the whole truth?”
JJ sees the fear on Pope’s face. The regret. And he jumps in, “Whole truth, swear to God.”
“I know what you think, damn it,” the deputy snaps. There’s something in his expression as he eyes Pope, like he’s trying to undo all of JJ’s hard work to dig the truth right out of him, “I’m asking Pope.”
Pope looks at JJ though, not Shoupe. The expression in his dark eyes is telling. He’s asking permission, JJ realizes. Asking if it’s okay. If JJ actually wants this, if it’s okay for Pope to want this. And he hates himself for it – for wanting it. For wanting all of this to go away for him, at the expense of his friend.
Unlike Pope – whose goodness runs bone-deep – JJ is made for this. Born for it. He can handle it. He can make it right.
Still, his eyes burn. His jaw flexes. And he nods, just the tiniest bit so Shoupe won’t notice. So Heyward won’t.
Maybe even so Kie won’t.
Pope gulps, and JJ hates how obvious it is, but then he looks away from JJ, like he can’t bear staring his friend in the eye anymore. He nods and tries not to let his voice waver as he says, “Yeah, that about covers it.”
Then, he does look at JJ. They stare at each other, the weight of this all hanging in the air between them. And the truth is, JJ is scared. He’s terrified. But he keeps himself steady. For Pope.
The handcuffs rattle as they’re removed from Pope’s wrists, and JJ slides his tongue over his split lip. He tastes blood, coppery and familiar, and then, though he doesn’t know why, he looks back at Kiara. He can’t help it.
He can’t read her expression. She looks sad, maybe. Also relieved? JJ can’t blame her if she is. They all knew it should be him; they all know where he belongs. Hell, he is relieved.
And terrified.
His confidence wavers as he’s handcuffed and put into the back of the truck. He can’t meet their eyes – any of them. But he’s not sorry he did it. He’s not sorry he lied.
Because Pope is good. And JJ is shit. And it was always going to end up like this. One day.
He sees Pope in the side mirror, watches him rip his hat from his head and throw it down in the dirt. Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, JJ lowers his eyes to his lap and doesn’t look up for the whole drive.
The full weight of it doesn’t hit him even as he’s processed and taken to the cell. He hesitates then, staring at the open door, until Shoupe says, “In there, tough guy.”
JJ doesn’t feel very tough all of a sudden. He feels small. Young. Scared.
He rubs his wrists as the door locks behind him. He’s trapped, he realizes with sudden clarity. This isn’t a video game. This isn’t a movie. There’s no bomb about to blow the wall out and rescue him. No one’s about to come up through the sewers or down through a hole in the ceiling.
His breathing stutters. Panic sets in.
JJ scrubs his hand through his hair, thinking for the first time about the consequences. Not just the ones that would have come for Pope. But the ones that had come for him. His fingerprints in the system, his body in a cell.
Tears spring to his eyes, hot and fast, and he rubs them, tries to hold in the sob that bubbles from the center of his chest. His face crumples, and he bites down on his lip.
Then, he thinks of Pope.
Of Pope with his dreams. His future. His chance at something bigger than this little island.
And yeah, he’s a shit person. He is. Yeah, he’s a fucking liar.
But he can do this. He can do this one good thing. For Pope. For someone good.
He smiles.
It’s not the first time JJ’s been here, not by a long shot. But it is the first time he’s ever been brought in in cuffs. And the first time he’s stayed overnight in a cell instead of one of the plastic chairs near the front desk.
It’s the second time he’s been in an interrogation room. Though, the first time he’d had an apple juice, a cookie, and a coloring book in front of him. Deputy Shoupe had been there too, he thinks; he doubts many other people on this island can grow a mustache like that.
“You’re like a little rock in my shoe,” Peterkin tells him as she slips into the interrogation room. “I shake my foot, I think I’ve gotten it out, then dang, there it is again.”
“Maybe watch where you’re steppin’.” The sass earns him a dirty look. He just crosses his arms behind his head like it doesn’t matter.
“Never let ‘em see you sweat. Never give ‘em what they want,” Luke told him once. His hands had been rough where they held his shoulders. “Number one rule, J – never trust a cop – they’ll take you down with it every single time.”
“That little rock on the back of my heel makes me want to crush it.”
And, well, shit. If that isn’t the perfect example of how people in this town see him. If that isn’t the way his own dad sees him.
He acts like a tough guy. Scoffs, rolls his eyes, pretends like ‘Wadesboro’ doesn’t scare him. But Sheriff Peterkin’s got a keen eye; she always has.
She eyes his shaking hands. He tucks them beneath the interrogation table.
It’s why, when she asks about the two men on the marsh, JJ relents, just a little, despite his dad’s voice in his head telling him to keep his damn mouth shut. Because, fuck, he can still remember the way the air had buzzed as the bullets whizzed past them on the boat. He can still remember Pope’s wide eyes as he was put into handcuffs. And Kiara’s sob as JJ held the rooster in his hand.
His hands shake harder.
It’s why, when she shows him the bodies of those two men – the square groupers – JJ can’t help but imagine this is where Big John ended up. And where John B will end up.
Keeping down yesterday’s lunch suddenly feels like too tall of an ask. He clenches his jaw and squeezes his mouth shut. But breathing feels hard. His stomach twists.
He half-gags. Clamps his mouth harder.
There’s blood and a missing arm and organs and fuck. JJ can’t breathe.
Because someone shot at them. At JJ’s friends. His family. John B. Pope. Kiara.
And now those someones are dead. Murdered.
So, he tells her what he can. That John B isn’t on it anymore. And he thinks it’s true. He fucking hopes it’s true. Because JJ is scared.
For John B. For Pope and Kiara.
For himself, though he feels guilty even thinking it. Because, well, what is there to be afraid of when JJ already knows his destiny?
A jail cell – check – or an early grave – currently undecided.
One down.
JJ knows what’s coming the second he sees his dad. Still, he half-flinches when those blue-gray eyes turn on him, when he hears, “Sorry to say, I’m his father.”
There was a time, once, when his dad would have said that with a smile, with shining eyes, with a chin held high and proud.
“I’m his father,” he told the other parents proudly when JJ held up the biggest fish on the dock.
“There’s my boy!” He called when JJ came running out of his kindergarten classroom with a drawing of a fish riding a surfboard on a rainbow.
“We’ll go there together someday, son,” Luke whispered as a cool breeze blew long grass into the tiny boy’s face.
JJ only makes eye contact for a quick second. But it’s enough.
Tension thrums beneath his dad’s skin as Officer Plumb tells him about the restitution. As he signs his name for JJ’s freedom – JJ’s transfer from one prison to another, more like. As they walk side-by-side, his father’s gait uneven and heavy, JJ’s heart starts to race faster.
He tells himself it’s worth it. It’s okay. Whatever happens now is okay because –
Pope. Pope. Pope.
“Get in the car,” Luke barks before stomping to the drivers’ side.
JJ goes still, his eyes only half blinking as he stares at the door. He knows what happens next. He knows.
He hesitates a beat longer, chews his lip.
“Let’s go.”
He gets in. Sits still. Holds his breath.
Pope. Pope. Pope.
Eyes on his lap, his soft voice fills the car, “Dad, I swear-”
The hit takes him by surprise.
It shouldn’t.
It’s happened before. Just like this. A million other ways too. In the yard while a rickety truck drives slowly by. On the front steps as JJ weeps. On the kitchen floor as JJ tries to crawl away. In the hall, John B’s name flashing across JJ’s phone screen.
Now. The sun shines high in the morning sky as the truck rocks back and forth in front of the police station. But no one comes out. No one sees.
And if they did, would they care?
JJ walks around this town covered in bruises all the time. Even his friends don’t notice anymore. It’s by design – jokes and teasing and poking and prodding until he’s invisible.
But it still hurts.
Because it’s broad daylight and not a single eye lingers on the car.
Bad. Bad. Bad.
But he’s trash. This is how trash lives. This is what trash deserves.
Pope. Pope. Pope. He repeats it each time his head smacks against the car door, each time a punch lands. Each time his mind threatens to go foggy, he reminds himself why.
This is love. This is love. This is love.
He stomps around his room as the air in his lungs taunts him. It’s there, but barely; he sucks it in, but it never really goes deep enough. Never fills his lungs enough. Never lets his racing heart slow.
Music and his father’s voice spill through the wall. JJ tries not to listen. He covers his ears with his hands and wills his old man to pass out. He will. He always does.
But shit, he knows how to wound first, how to go right for JJ’s jugular and leave him bleeding.
He tries not to listen, but he hears the words anyway. He hears them and feels the air locking tighter in his chest.
“I’m gonna tell you right now, you are a worthless piece of shit!”
JJ slams the side of his fist against the baby blue doorframe – Momma had picked baby blue because she said it reminded her of playing with JJ in the ocean – and screams back, “Shut up!”
“Your momma knew!” Luke shouts back.
JJ’s face crumples. He slams his fist on the door again and chokes on a sob, “Shut up!”
Momma called him good. And smart. And brave. And beautiful.
She loved him.
She left him.
Momma was a fucking liar.
He throws a blanket, a notebook, an old snow globe that had dried up years ago – it shatters and Luke just turns the music up higher.
JJ breaks and breaks and breaks until there are just pieces on the floor, cracks in the wall, visibly damage to match the rest.
His chest hurts. His face hurts. His body. Everything.
But this is love, right?
This is what it means to be brave for his dad, like Momma said. This is what it means to love Luke Maybank
This is how JJ earns Luke’s love.
Right?
Quiet settles over the house the same way the noise had. Sudden. Sharp.
And JJ breathes. He just breathes. And thinks about the gun in his backpack. Thinks about what he could with it. Thinks about the jail cell he slept in the night before. About the friends who love him despite having every reason not to.
He thinks his momma was wrong. About what brave is. Brave isn’t this. It isn’t sitting by and taking it. Brave means stopping this.
He packs his backpack slowly, grabs a new hat, a shirt – one of Pope’s, he’s pretty sure – and his gun.
He thinks of his momma with her wide eyes, her bright smile, her bruised skin. He thinks of booboos that always seemed to pop up overnight. He thinks of her tucked into the bathtub, the way she’d tugged him into the warm water, fully clothed, and held him to her chest as she cried. The way his little hand had tried to wash away the marks that had been on her skin for days.
He thinks of the first bruise – he was only six and hadn’t eaten in two days. His cheek had bloomed a pretty pink. A damning red. Purple like his momma’s favorite flowers. Green like the paint he used for Daddy’s birthday card. Yellow like the crayons he used to color his hair when he drew their family.
JJ lifts the gun.
Because he remembers the worst bruise too. The one that had started at his right hip and traveled up along his ribs, circled his shoulder, ended beneath his hair on the back of his neck. John B had cried for two days when he saw it; Big John had cursed. And JJ, well, he slept through a lot of it. Pretended to still be sleeping when Luke finally showed up. “You step one foot in this house and I’ll blow your brains out, Luke.” He was still pretending an hour later when Big John leaned over and brushed the hair from his cheek.
JJ’s hand shakes. His chin wobbles.
Because he remembers other things too. Fishing in the summer. Cuddling on the couch. Staring up at the stars.
Heavy tears carve paths down JJ’s dirty cheeks. They slide down his shaking chin; it almost tickles.
He can still feel every hit from this morning. His head aches from where it banged against the window again and again and again.
He grits his teeth and sucks in a shaky breath.
Pope swims into his vision. With his dark skin, kind eyes, brilliant mind. And the scent of Mama Heyward’s cooking clinging to his clothes, his hair, his books. The way he looks at JJ, like he’s crazy but maybe it’s not a bad thing? Like maybe JJ isn’t just a lost cause.
Then Kiara. Her bright smile when he surprises a laugh out of her. And the way she believes in him sometimes even though he’s proven to her a thousand times that she shouldn’t. Her soft curls – the ones that always end up his mouth when they all crash together on the pullout – and the scent of coconut that clings to her skin even after they’ve been in the ocean for hours.
And John B –
JJ’s finger is on the trigger. It shakes as he clenches his teeth harder.
John B’s easy, kind smile lets him get away with pretty much anything – skipping class, flirting with girls at The Boneyard, hunting for treasure – but it’s his eyes that make it hard for JJ to say no. He’s a puppy like that, eyes all hazel and wet and wide when he looks at JJ and practically begs him to stay for the weekend instead of going home to Luke.
So, JJ stays. He stays until he can feel that familiar thrum beneath his skin, that restlessness he sees in his dad, and then it’s like a beacon hanging over his head to call him home.
And sometimes, it’s good. Sometimes, they share a beer, a joke, a joint. Sometimes they watch TV, their shoulders pressed together as they hand each other slices of pizza. Sometimes JJ bitches about school. Luke bitches about work. It’s easy. It’s fun.
But, see, Luke’s skin thrums too. For a fight. For a drug. For something he can squeeze in his hand until it breaks. And well, JJ always breaks eventually. He always comes back no matter how many times Luke hits him, no matter how many bones get broken, no matter how many words cut through to the core of him. He always comes home.
Momma did too.
Until she didn’t.
She was braver than JJ, in the end.
His breath hitches as John B swims in his vision again. Bandaging JJ up, tackling him off the dock into the water, ducking next to Lana Grubbs’ house, smiling dazedly as Kiara kissed his cheek, slipping JJ the answers he just stole off Pope’s math homework.
Staring forlorn at his father’s compass, ripping up the unsigned affidavit of Big John’s death, flipping wildly through his dad’s dozens of journals and notes.
Sobbing into JJ’s shoulder when month six hit and they both realized Big John might not be coming home at all.
The persistent ache in his ribs, beneath his sternum, deep in his skull. The split lips, the bruises, the broken bones. The filth of it all. The hatred that burns in his stomach and threatens to eat him alive.
It would go away. It would all go away.
It would save him – JJ – to pull this trigger.
It’d put him back in a cell, for good this time. But he’d be safe. Alive. Killing Luke – killing his dad – would save him.
And doom John B.
“W-what if he doesn’t come back, J? What if he really is-” But John B went silent. His eyes searched JJ’s face even as his own started to crash.
“Then you’ll still have me,” JJ answered easily. He climbed onto John B’s bed and cupped the sides of his best friend’s head, “I’m not going anywhere, Bree. I swear. No matter what.”
JJ bares his teeth, his chest rising and falling quickly as he presses his finger over the trigger again. Just one squeeze and it would be over. One squeeze and he’d never have to be afraid of his dad again. One squeeze.
His face cracks with emotion.
John B needs someone to stay.
John B needs him.
His hand shakes harder, the tears fall faster, and JJ shoves the gun back into his bookbag and heads toward the only home he knows.
“First, I almost get strangled to death by Kooks, and now I’m on the hook for 30 grand.”
Even from his place on the rubble, JJ can see that John B isn’t in the mood today. He’s watching him, but his eyes are glazed, like he’s half somewhere else.
Lifting one shoulder, JJ adds an all-too-sincere, “We should just dip.”
John B’s arms spread wide as he eyes JJ. Clearly unimpressed with this entirely predictable suggestion, John B’s voice comes out clipped, annoyed, “Okay, where do you wanna go? Hm?”
Pope’s basically a genius in all things science, math, and dead people stuff. Kiara knows everything there is to know about the environment, about plastics, about feminism, and, you know, all things good in the world. John B, well, he’s got his dad’s knack for history, but he’s also just got this softness that makes him smart with people too.
And JJ? JJ can’t do math for shit. He blows up more stuff in science than any of his classmates. He only remembers to recycle and not call girls ‘chicks’ because Kiara always narrows her eyes at him when he does. He remembers every hit he’s ever taken, but he can’t remember dates or why wars were started or how to actually do the history shit in all this treasure hunting.
He knows boats though. Maps. Can name dozens of countries, where they’re located, and random facts about them. He knows hundreds of places he’ll never see, what kinds of fish live there, and could probably navigate to them in his sleep.
Still, even with hundreds of options available, they both know which one he’ll say. Which one he always says.
Because it’s the one his old man always says, “Yucatan.”
Because that had been the dream once. Curled up at his dad’s side on a dirty blanket, he remembers staring up at the stars together. Long grass clouding his view, his dad’s fingers stroking through his hair, the ease of his smile as he promised JJ they’d visit the coast of broken dreams someday.
Momma was gone, had been for a few weeks. But still, his dad smiled. Pressed kisses into his hair. Promised they’d go together someday. Start over and make a new life.
JJ always thought that sounded nice.
It had been the last good night. The last one before JJ started to flinch every time his dad came home.
JJ can see the exasperation before he hears it, the disdain in John B’s voice as he repeats, “Yucatan.”
“No, I’m dead serious right now.”
And not for the first time, he is. Serious. And okay, okay, JJ does say this a lot. But he means it this time. He wants out of this. This whole mess his life has become.
They could go. They could pack up and just – go. Take care of each other the way they always have. No school, no expectation, no fucking restitution.
He may be trash here in Kildare, but maybe, maybe out there he could be something else. Someone else. Anyone else.
“Surf all day. And then we can just live off lobsters we catch with our bare hands,” he gets to his feet and faces John B. Everything hurts. Everything except for this dream.
John B looks back at him, and for just one second, JJ thinks he’s getting through to him. That they’re in this together.
And then, “You just wanna leave ‘cause you got your ass beat?”
And well, fuck. That hurts.
John B doesn’t know. Not this time.
He doesn’t know it was Luke’s wedding ring that cut through JJ’s cheek. Or his fingers that ripped the collar of JJ’s white shirt as he banged his head against the car door until JJ couldn’t escape the ringing in his ears. Or his voice that cut through the walls of his childhood home and called him a worthless piece of shit.
John B doesn’t know. But fuck… John B is the only one who knows.
JJ’s eyes burn. Because John B doesn’t know – but it hurts anyway. Because yeah, yeah, he got his ass beat. Again. By the Kooks. Again. By Luke. Again.
By his own fucked-up Maybank destiny.
Again.
And John B – he’s the only one who, who knows. Who should know.
But JJ swallows the hurt. Pushes it down with the memories of his momma. With the fingers in his hair, the kisses on his cheeks, the bruises on his arms.
He’s being selfish.
This isn’t about that. It’s about the two dead men. It’s about the treasure. About JJ’s fear.
He’s scared. Terrified. For John B. For Pope. For Kiara.
He sounds resigned, weary in a way that feels bone deep, “You didn’t see the photos.”
But JJ did. He won’t ever forget them. Their bodies riddled with wounds he can’t unsee. And shit, he can’t even look at John B right now. Because if he does, he’ll replace their bodies with John B’s. He’ll see his best friend in a morgue.
Or lost at sea.
He swallows hard and tries to ignore the fact that he’s scared.
For himself.
“Think about it,” John B looks excited again, like JJ hadn’t just given him all the grizzly details of two dead men. As if JJ’s fear wasn’t written all over his Goddamn face.
It steals JJ’s breath. Because he looks – shit – like Big John. The way he did when he’d rush out of his office – right past John B patching JJ up on the pullout – when he had some new big break.
He hops down and JJ’s already ready to lose his shit. John B doesn’t get it.
He’s talking fast. Excited. All JJ hears is Big John’s voice when John B says, “They’re willing to kill for the gold, then it’s gotta be out there.”
And that’s it.
JJ snaps. Mutters, “Oh my God,” then rips the hat from his head as he screams, “Have you lost your mind?!”
They’re face to face now. John B doesn’t get it – he looks calm. But JJ is losing his fucking mind here. Because he can lose a lot – hell, losing is basically the thing JJ is best at. He can lose his freedom, his own life even. But not John B. Not the Pogues.
Not ever.
“One hundred years, man,” he’s trying to reason with John B even though his voice sounds hysterical. But the look staring back at him from John B’s hazel eyes is all Big John. And Big John never listened. “One hundred years, people have been tryin’ to find this Royal Merchant, and no one succeeded.”
And fuck, John B’s face loses confidence, and JJ hates that it’s him doing it. But – but he can’t lose John B. He can’t lose him.
So, he glares at his best friend, points his finger into his chest and snarls, “And you think you are gonna be the one that actually finds it?”
John B rolls his eyes then, almost laughs.
And JJ, shit, he’s Luke’s son alright. He goes for the death blow. Anything to save John B’s life. To keep him from being gaffed and fed to sharks.
“When will you get it in your thick skull? You keep goin’ down this road, you’re gonna end up just like your dad!”
John B shoves him. Hard.
It makes the breath stutter in JJ’s chest. But this is John B. Not Luke. So, he takes it. Forces air into his lungs and tries to push away the anxiety burrowing deeper in his chest.
John B would never hurt him, he knows that. Knows it better than he knows almost anything. But still, the anxiety lingers, the stiff set of his shoulders as he waits for the next blow lingers.
“I can’t give up, JJ!” John B rushes up to him, finger in his face.
JJ tries not to flinch. He’s not sure he succeeded, but John B’s too far gone – too aggrieved, too broken – to notice.
“The last time I saw that dude, we got in an argument,” JJ gulps as John B’s hand lowers, when he hears the way his best friend’s voice starts to crack.
JJ’s jaw clenches. He looks down and away. He can’t stare into John B’s raw emotion. His grief for the father who left him and might be dead.
Not when JJ is grieving the father he failed to kill.
The father he chose not to kill.
John B stays close – too close for JJ’s comfort right now – and gestures wildly toward the water, “And then he took all our rent money and dipped for this Royal Merchant.”
John B looks at him then. Guilty, broken – JJ understands those emotions well.
“And then I told him he was a shit father,” now JJ does meet his eye again, twists his lips to the side, and bites his cheek. “And you know how the rest of the story goes.”
JJ can’t speak until John B steps back and runs a hand through his hair. The space between them allows more air into JJ’s lungs, so he finally says, “Bro, that wasn’t your fault.”
John B rushes back toward him again – JJ’s more prepared this time and manages not to flinch – his voice desperate with emotion, “It doesn’t matter whose fault it is, JJ!”
JJ looks down. He has to. It hurts. It all hurts.
JJ doesn’t remember a time when his whole world didn’t hurt at least a little. Until nine months ago, John B hadn’t really gotten it. Even when he tried.
JJ would give anything now for John B to never understand it. To take away this desperation that lives so strong in his best friend’s eyes now.
“Do you not understand that?” JJ tries to look further away, but John B steps into his space, into his line of sight, and keeps his eyes on JJ’s face, “I can’t give up on the hunt, man.”
JJ looks up at him then and wishes he hadn’t. Because John B’s next words unlock something in JJ. Something twisted and cold and hurt.
“I don’t care who’s out there, who’s gonna try to kill us. Do you understand that?”
Oh.
Okay.
Ouch.
That… that hurts. Hurts in a way JJ can’t really let himself sit with. Hurts in a way that threatens to unbalance everything JJ knows about himself, about his world.
About John B.
Because JJ’s shit, right? He’s shit. But he cares.
About John B. About Pope. About Kiara.
He cares about them more than he cares about literally anything else in the world. More than his dad. More than himself.
His brow twitches, his eyes blink hard against this new reality. Because, well, he always sort of counted on John B feeling the same about him. It was their thing. JJ and John B. John B and JJ.
Brothers for life.
It was a simple fact in JJ’s life – he was shit, but John B loved him anyway. John B cared about him anyway. Always. Poison or potion, good or bad, John B loved him.
John B’s been JJ’s family for so long, the person he needed most. He knows it’s different for John B. That he has a dad he loves. A dad who loves him back. He has someone he needs to fight for, someone he needs to risk it all for.
Selfish as it is – and JJ knows it’s selfish – he wishes it was him.
He wishes anyone could love him like that.
So no, JJ doesn’t understand it. He can’t. Because he’ll do anything for John B. For Pope. For any of them. He’ll lie and cheat and steal and destroy the world to make them happy. He walked into a cell for Pope. He let his father live so John B didn’t have to be alone.
“I don’t care who’s out there, who’s gonna try to kill us.”
So, if this is the line John B needs to cross, if this is what he needs from JJ, what he’s willing to risk, then JJ will give it to him.
He’ll step in front of a gun for John B.
JJ’s not brave. Not even close.
Someone brave would put a stop to this. Someone brave would tell John B no.
But JJ can’t lose John B. And he knows John B won’t ever give up this fight. So, he looks away and swallows.
“You know that.”
JJ’s throat bobs as he watches John B turn to step away. He watches him silently. Sees him pick up his bag as he heads toward the HMS Pogue.
He needs a minute. To breathe. To try and tame his racing heart. To lie to himself until even he believes he’s brave.
“Look, I’ve got a plan. You comin’ or what?” John B almost sounds bored. Like it wouldn’t matter to him at all if JJ came, but JJ knows the truth. He’s got that look in his eye – it’s all Big John and his adventures – and it makes JJ want to flinch.
He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to be part of this stupid treasure hunt anymore. He doesn’t want to put his life on the line. And he sure as fuck doesn’t want John B’s life on the line!
He stands there, jaw clenched. Tries to find a way out. A way to talk John B into caring more about himself than this stupid fucking treasure that took his dad from him. A way to make John B stay… for him.
JJ knows he’s going – he’s never been able to deny John B anything – but he resists as long as he can. Wills his stupid, slow brain to come up with something. Anything.
John B beats him to it.
“Four hundred million, JJ.”
The smug little bastard stares right at JJ. He knows – as JJ does – that JJ won’t say no to him. That he never has and he probably never will. He might resist, but John B won this fight long before it ever began.
Back on a playground somewhere as he rubbed his dirty palm against JJ’s and they swore to be brothers forever.
He raises his brow and adds, “How much do you owe in restitution?”
It’s a Big John move. Right down to the expression on his face when he takes the kill shot.
JJ knows it. He wonders if John B does.
It doesn’t matter; JJ won’t ever deny John B anything. Especially not this – not a chance to find out what happened to Big John. Not a chance to finish what his father started.
He’ll do anything to keep John B safe. Even if it means putting himself on the line to do it.
They dock near The Island Club, and JJ tries to school his incredulous expression as John B repeats the plan to him. And the plan is simple enough, JJ supposes. All he’s got to do is infiltrate Midsummers – as if his face being all beat to shit won’t make him stand out like a sore thumb – and steal Sarah Cameron away from her Kooky friends and Kooky boyfriend.
JJ slips on his Island Club uniform and bows to let John B slip the bowtie over his head.
He eyes his friend as he does and lets the last several days play out in his mind again.
John B’s face beneath the water, the gun against Topper’s head, delivering groceries, Rose Cameron’s flirty smirk, Pope’s busted face, sinking the boat. Kiara’s distrustful expression at the movie, the fire. “It wasn’t him! It was me.” Getting arrested, his dad, the gun. “I don’t care who’s out there, who’s gonna try to kill us.”
Lying for Pope had been an easy decision – like choosing between a party at the Boneyard and kissing Rafe Cameron’s feet – only one of the options was actually viable. Choosing to do this for John B?
Might even be easier, in the end.
Before Pope, before Kiara, before The Pogues – there was John B and there was JJ. There were adventures and mommas who left and empty fridges and even emptier wallets. There were sleepovers with movies and popcorn. And then there were sleepovers with bandages and beer. There were girls JJ kissed one week and John B kissed three weeks later. There were shirts exchanged, hats stolen, swim trunks borrowed. There were wipeouts on their boards and rides all the way to shore. Nightmares and dreams shared in the dead of night. One dad who hit. One who stopped showing up.
So, yeah. JJ lied for Pope. And he’ll steal for John B. He’ll commit another crime, another sin, another anything for John B. He’ll go into this party and he’ll steal. Steal attention. Steal Sarah Cameron. Hell, he’ll steal Mr. Dunleavy’s drink before the night is up.
And well, he’ll also steal a peak at the note John B passes him. Because apparently John B is a liar who is totally mackin’ Sarah Cameron out of nowhere. And look, Sarah’s hot, so JJ gets it.
Kie won’t though.
John B shoves the bag with JJ’s gun back into the boat and earns himself a glare and a, “Fine, but if I get ambushed, it’s on you.”
And they both know the truth of it – the truth that JJ could take a hundred hits for John B, but he’d never blame him for a single one. That’s not what Pogues do. It’s not what JJ and John B do.
So, JJ wanders into the party while John B goes off to – whatever the hell it is he’s planning to do while he waits for Sarah. He mouths off to a security guard, eyes the Kooks, and spots Sarah dancing with her friends. He should probably be subtle about the whole thing, but the drinks keep threatening to spill off his tray as he walks the perimeter of the porch.
The second the drink tray is on a table, there’s a hand around his arm dragging him to the side.
His heart drops to the center of his stomach. His breath catches. His eyes go wide.
He just manages to lift his hand to his heart when he’s half-shoved. His brain is still racing – is it his dad? Rafe? Topper? – when the spicy scent of Heyward’s cooking brings him back to himself. Back to Midsummers. Back to Pope.
“Dude,” he breathes quickly as he clutches his chest, “don’t sneak up on me like that right now.”
The force of Pope’s body against JJ’s has him stumbling back a few feet. He grunts at the sudden lock of Pope’s arms around him; they’re a hell of a lot stronger than they look.
JJ’s whole body goes stiff, freezing in place for a second. If anything, Pope’s arms go tighter the longer JJ stands stiff.
And here’s the truth. The real truth. The truth that JJ both loves and despises. The truth that lulls him to sleep and keeps him awake with anxiety.
Pope loves him. John B loves him. Kiara loves him.
The Pogues love him.
But JJ doesn’t understand why.
“Whoa. Unexpected PDA there, Dr. Spock,” Pope squeezes him harder, so JJ pulls back. He doesn’t go far, patting Pope as he breathes, “But, uh… hey.”
He kisses Pope’s cheek, then pats it twice. It’s impossible not to smile as he adds, “Love you too, man.”
Because he does. There are a thousand reasons to love Pope, and JJ could list them all with his eyes closed while totally crossfaded.
Easily.
Pope looks as wrecked as he did back at Heyward’s. His eyes are glassy and worried, “Dude, I’m sick over all this shit, man.”
“You’re sick?” JJ plays, deflects. Tries to be funny because this is his role here. This is how he helps. Make them smile. Make them laugh.
Deny, deny, deny.
Because, shit, he loves these people so damn much. And, for some unknown reason, they love him too. And more than he even knows how to admit, he wants to keep that love. No matter how selfish he feels for it.
He’s smiling when he reaches up to touch Pope’s forehead with the back of his hand, “You don’t seem sick.”
Pope half-heartedly pushes JJ’s hand away with those ridiculously huge grilling gloves of his. His voice comes out pouty when he says, “I’m sick on the inside.”
“Right.” JJ keeps his face and voice serious as he teases, “Well, I already knew that.”
It’s subtle at first – the change in Pope’s face – but then concern quickly masks the regret from before. He’s unable to look away from JJ’s face as he raises his hand and gestures at his own, “Did Shoupe do that?”
Well. Shit.
This is usually when JJ lies. When he says he fell. When he says he tripped. But he’s tired. He’s so, so tired. Of his dad. Of the treasure. Of wanting to be loved and not knowing how to keep that love. He’s exhausted. So, for once, he swallows back the lie. Lifts his shoulder. And tells the truth.
Part of it, anyway.
“Oh, this?” He points to his own face, keeps his voice deceptively casual. It’s not a big deal. JJ is fine. He’s always fine. “No. This is- it’s my dad. You know? Has that right jab.”
He imitates a playful sort of punch as he smiles wryly. Tell the truth, but make it digestible. Tell the truth, but make it funny. Tell the truth, but make it okay because JJ is fine. He’s fine. He’ll be fine.
“Can really snap it off at times.”
Pope’s face falls further and – oops – that might have been a few inches past the line of okay. Because now Pope is looking at him like he just said his dad drowns kittens in his spare time or something instead of just knocking around his deadbeat son. It’s not that big of a deal.
“That looks like more than a jab, bro.”
JJ shrugs, shakes his head, takes a breath. Then, because he hasn’t slept much in a couple days and his defenses are low, he says, “It’s nothin’ that hasn’t happened before.”
And then Pope is apologizing – like what Luke does to JJ has anything to do with him. Like he could have prevented it. And the whole thing is laughably naïve. But fuck, JJ’s relieved that Pope doesn’t get it, that he doesn’t understand this, that Heyward has never…
He begs for JJ to let him turn himself in, to let Pope go down for this. And fuck, JJ will not let that happen. He’ll save Pope from jail. He’ll save John B from anyone and everyone who would hurt him for this treasure. He’ll help get the gold and make sure that no one – not DCS, not whoever killed those square groupers – can ever take John B away again.
“Shut up. Shut up, Pope! Shut up!” JJ whisper-shouts. He grabs him, his hands on either side of his friend’s head to hold him steady. Eye to eye, JJ shakes him a little and smiles wider with each word as he insists, “For once in your life, trust someone else. John B and I got it all figured out.”
And here’s the thing about being best friends with John B. He’s just like his old man. With the treasure, with his pure belief that things will work out simply because he wants them to. He wills the world to bend for him… and it does. So often, it does. And though JJ is terrified – of guns and fists and fathers – John B told him it was worth the risk. So, JJ will take the risk.
If he trusts nothing else in his life, he trusts John B.
He’ll believe in it because John B asked him to. That’s all that matters now.
So, he believes himself fully when he grins and tells Pope, “We’re gonna be filthy rich, man.”
Pope stares at him, confused, completely lost. And JJ leans in, lowers his voice to add, “We’re back in the G-game, baby.”
The thing about John B mackin’ on Sarah Cameron is – JJ really didn’t see it coming. Sure, Sarah’s hot and rich and basically royalty on this island – so, you know, JJ gets the appeal. But she’s also the rich, snobby bitch who stole Kiara away freshman year before turning her back on her. JJ’s still not really sure what Sarah actually did to Kiara, but if Kie hates her? JJ will hate her on principle.
Though, now, John B likes her, which just complicates everything. Claims he’s ‘doing it for everybody,’ and like, okay, yeah, JJ knows he’s not that smart… but he’s not a complete idiot. Who the hell does John B think he’s fooling with his googly eyes and goofy ass grin?
But, no matter, because JJ knows his mission tonight. Steal Sarah Cameron. Well, give her a note so John B can steal Sarah Cameron. Same thing.
He spots Sarah still dancing amongst her friends and makes his way right over with only one quick stop on the way. He taps her shoulder, then immediately holds a finger over his lips when she loudly asks, “JJ?”
Sarah’s really not made out for this spy life.
He nods, shooting her a grinning, “Yep!” before dancing up next to her.
“What?”
“I got a, uh, note from Vlad,” he holds it up and shimmies closer to her. Lifts one finger to his lips when she starts to talk again, “Sh, sh, sh.”
Mr. Dunleavy’s got an eye on him, he’s pretty sure – he’s still waiting on that drink that’ll never come, after all – but JJ has a mission. And Sarah Cameron looks adorably confused. Which would be charming if it wasn’t so annoying.
“From-?”
Why don’t we steal away
Why don’t we steal away
Into the night
The music croons as JJ dances around Sarah’s back. One finger lifts over his lips again as he shushes her and nods, “Yeah.”
“From Vlad?” She clarifies.
And, oh my God, this girl asks too many damn questions and misses too many damn social cues – finger over the lips, shushing sounds, not exactly rocket science, JJ thinks. She has JJ questioning his own intelligence all of a sudden.
They shimmy back-to-back, peek over their shoulders at each other. She really is pretty – so as John B’s best friend, he totally gets why John B is about to blow up their whole lives for her. He does. But as Kiara’s best friend?
Welp. That’s John B’s problem.
There are a few more dancing steps as JJ confirms. He grins at her, starts to back away, and winks as he points at the note, “Just read the note.”
And then, before he can make his escape, there’s a hand on his shoulder.
Rafe Cameron jerks him around to face him. And, well. Fuck.
His first thought is that he wishes he had his gun on him. It’s nonsensical in that he’s in the middle of a crowded party, but the wish lingers anyway. Because no one fucks with the guy with the gun.
His second thought is that this is just an extension of the mission. Sarah getting the note was only step two. Step one was letting John B dress him up in this ridiculous bowtie. And step three requires JJ to make his escape.
His mind works quickly as Rafe and his band of asshole Kooks follow him around the party asking about drinks and hors d’oeuvres. And JJ is spouting things off about orders and being on the clock. Trying to steal time. Time for himself, time for John B, and time for Sarah – who has disappeared into the crowd.
But they’re persistent.
And… yeah, going inside is stupid. But, well, Luke said he was – turns out he was right. JJ is just a beautiful, stupid idiot.
It’s all he’s thinking about as he runs through The Island Club, as he tries to find a place to hide in the locker room. He thinks about stealing some clothes, sneaking out the back, total spy shit. But all the stalls are taken, and Rafe is there when JJ turns to escape. Kelce and the rest of their buddies too. Not Topper though, JJ notes. But the exit is far out of reach now.
Kelce gets his arm around JJ’s neck, and suddenly, he is cursing John B’s name a little. Because instead of a gun, his pockets are empty. And instead of protection, JJ’s staring down a beating. Again.
He’s not sure he can take much more.
“Very Rafe of you, Rafe. Five on one?” He struggles against Kelce even as he mocks Rafe. Breathing is hard, his throat hurts, but he won’t give Rafe the satisfaction of being scared. There’s only one person on this planet JJ is truly afraid of. And he’s not here.
Kelce is bigger, a lot bigger, but JJ fights back anyway. He struggles, he claws, he pulls. He’ll fight because JJ always fights. But he won’t win.
Maybanks are made for losing, after all.
Rafe, that smarmy son of a bitch, is mocking him. Pretending to play golf with JJ’s head as the ball while JJ clings to the arm around his neck and tries to relieve the pressure there. But his eyes are starting to blur, his chest is starting to ache.
This doesn’t feel like spy shit anymore. It’s starting to feel real. Like square groupers in the marsh real. Like jail cells. Like guns pointed at his dad’s head.
Rafe smirks and leans in a little, “Your face looks really bad. Starting to look like your dad a lot more.”
JJ spits before he even makes the decision to. It feels like bile, burning his stomach, his throat. He’s shit. He’s poison. He’s trash. He’s a Goddamn Maybank.
But he doesn’t want to be like his dad. He can’t. He won’t. He’d rather end up in jail or a ditch than waste away high on his cigarette-holed couch.
He thinks of Kiara, of Pope, of John B – three reasons, three impossibly huge reasons not to ever be like his dad.
The lights flash.
JJ panics because Kelce straightens up suddenly, his arm going tighter around JJ’s neck. For a moment, he can’t breathe at all. His entire air supply has been choked off; he digs his nails into Kelce’s arm.
He’s pushed away hard, sucking air in as he hears, “Gentleman! Is there a problem?”
His instinct is the same one he always has – deny, deny, deny.
“Pardon me, Officer. No, there’s not an issue. I just-”
Air restores the oxygen to his brain, and he stops, mind whirring and ears ringing as he looks at the Kooks. He’s still way outnumbered with no way to call on his friends for help. No weapons. Nothing is on his side here. Nothing except–
He runs a hand through his hair and then changes tactics quickly, “Actually, yes. No, there is an issue. Uh, we got a criminal trespass in progress here. Beep!” He lifts his finger and spins it.
If JJ knows how to do anything, it’s command a room. And command he does.
“Call it in, right?”
He glances over to see Rafe looking all slimy and rich and arrogant. Fuck, he hates that guy.
“Blatant disrespect for private property,” JJ continues as he eyes the security guard.
Across the room, he sees Rafe nod his agreement, “Yeah.”
JJ really, really hates that guy.
“I’m in violation of all kinds of shit, sir,” he adds just to really sell it.
Kiara tells him all the time – though he rarely listens – that there are other ways of fighting. Sometimes, she says, fighting doesn’t mean hitting. Doesn’t mean being hit. Sometimes, it means escaping. Sometimes, it means getting someone back in a less obvious way – Pope always looks a little nervous when she says things like that though. She may be half-Kook in blood, but Kiara is all Pogue when it comes to revenge.
Shit, she’s awesome.
“But these young gentleman…”
He reaches for Kelce’s tie and gets his hand pushed away for it, “Don’t touch my shit.”
“…uh, caught me, sir, and they were about to take me away. And that’s what you should do, escort me out of here,” he holds up his wrists to the security guard.
Sometimes, fighting means running the fuck away so you can take the next punch easier.
“You got me.”
He’s spouting more bullshit on his way out – his mouth feels a hell of a lot freer with the security guard’s hand around his upper arm. Plus, JJ can be a real asshole when he wants to be. He’s shit like that. Making fun of their ties, their Powerpuff Girl outfits – seriously, bro, what’s with all the constant pastel?
The man’s grip on his arm tightens as he’s dragged toward the door. And then he hears Rafe. And the blood rushes to JJ’s head.
“Tell Kiara she looks pretty hot for a Pogue.”
There’s no thought as JJ jerks his arm free and rushes toward Rafe.
He doesn’t think about Kiara’s reaction to him throwing a punch for her; he can’t. About the way she would yell at him. How she’d call it ‘patriarchal bullshit.’ How she’d say it was stupid to get in a fight over her. Because – fuck, Kie – he’s already stupid. And he’s already geared up for a fight, so why not for her? Why not? He can’t think of anything better to fight for than her.
He doesn’t think about the consequences of charging at five Kooks at once. His head smashed into the locker room floor. Bloody lips. More bruises. Pain. It would be worth it, he thinks, for one really good fucking hit on Rafe.
He doesn’t think of what they’d all say about him. The things they always say about him. The dirty Pogue deserved it. That filthy Maybank boy had it coming. Good riddance.
He doesn’t think about any of it. All he thinks about in that moment is ‘Tell Kiara she looks pretty hot for a Pogue’ and his vision tunnels directly onto Rafe.
Because Kiara – Kie is good. She’s the kind of good that will dirty herself for the people she loves. That will lower her standards because she loves… him. He doesn’t deserve it. He hasn’t earned it. But, but she loves him anyway. Somehow. So, yeah, yeah, he’ll fucking earn it right now.
He stomps across the floor, arms raised for battle, but Kelce throws himself in front of Rafe just as the security guard gets JJ’s arm back in his grasp. Rafe smirks at him from behind Kelce.
“Rafe, Rafe, you think I’m afraid of you, bro?” Rafe’s got three years on him, and though he’s not big, he’s bigger than JJ. But fuck it, JJ would gladly take a hit just to land one of his own.
Because JJ Maybank rarely wins a fight. But for Kiara? For Kie? He would start one. Consequences be damned.
He’s dragged backward through the room by the security guard. The man is talking, clearly pissed, but JJ doesn’t hear him.
He does hear Rafe sneer, “Hey, safe travels back to the Cut!”
“This ain’t over!” He calls over his shoulder – Kiara would be pissed about that too; JJ can’t bring himself to care.
“Hey, hey, it was really nice seein’ you again, JJ!”
JJ’s still seething from Rafe’s parting words as he’s dragged through the double doors onto the porch. He stumbles over his feet and tries to wiggle away from the security guard, “Look- look, man, I can walk myself. I got legs. Can you see that, brother?”
He’s jerked to the side and staggers a few more steps. He’s dragged past Kiara’s parents, and they don’t bother to hide their distaste as they stop their dance and stare right at him.
He nearly runs directly into Kiara then, barely catching a glimpse of her from the corner of his eyes, and he swears he feels her hand brush his back as he passes her.
“I really appreciate what you did back there,” he tries to free himself from the man’s grip now. It goes tighter and JJ is jerked back and forth as he tries to pull free; he can’t help but think of his dad’s hands, the way they tighten on his arms when he gets real close, that scent of booze wafting from his clothes.
He jerks his arm to get free again, “Let me just walk out by myself.”
It’s humiliating. More than he cares to admit. Because they’re staring. They’re all staring.
At the Maybank boy. At the trash from the Cut. At the poison that’s seeping into their perfect little party.
He spots Mr. Dunleavy then. More importantly, he spots his drink. Yeah, that’ll do.
“Oh, Mr. Dunleavy, I see you got your drink. Good, that’s really nice. I’m actually gonna down that,” his hand is already around the glass. He shoots it back, feels the deep burn in his throat.
If they want a show, JJ will give them a fucking show.
“What the hell’s the matter with him?” Someone asks as the security guard sighs out a, “Sorry, sir,” and starts to lead JJ down the stairs and off the porch.
“Aaah! Whoo!” JJ cheers as the heat of the alcohol hits his belly. He doesn’t know if it’s the drink or the adrenaline, but suddenly, he feels great! Let them stare.
“I really appreciate the discretion, Daryl, you know?”
Then, just to prove how much he loves discretion, JJ throws up both his arms at once and addresses the whole party, “It’s okay, everybody! Do not panic. Let’s leave it to the men and women in uniform, huh! Let’s hear it for them!”
He claps loudly as people gasp and stare. For once, all eyes are on him because he wants them to be.
He spots Rose, and the drink must have hit fast because he feels a little floaty when he points and calls out, “Rose! You look like Lady Liberty.”
There’s a look in her eye. A warning. And JJ thinks of the kitchen, the way she’d practically pinned him against the counter, the way she’d ignored his nervous look, his attempt to step away. He doesn’t know why he says it then; it’s innocent. Except they both know it’s not, “It’s good to see you again.”
The world spins as he’s pulled further through the party. A tray of hors d’oeuvres appears in front of him, and JJ swears he can hear the heavens opening up as his belly rumbles, “Hey, buddy, can I have one of those?”
“Let go of him!”
He looks up, blue eyes wide and surprised at the sound of Kiara’s voice. He’s got half an appetizer in his mouth, and he almost forgets to chew as his eyes land on her. They bug out a little because, shit… Kiara is beautiful. She’s always beautiful; that’s kind of the problem. Always. In her ratty shirts, her bikinis, her little shorts, wild hair, wild eyes. But the purple looks good on her. So good it almost feels hard to breathe. And the flowers in her hair, shit; she looks like nature itself. He kind of freezes, forgets to chew, forgets to breathe, just stares.
“You can’t boot him!”
“Excuse me, ma’am?” He hears from the guard behind him.
“I invited him here,” she lifts her chin, and even JJ almost believes the conviction in her eyes.
And that’s the thing about Kie. She doesn’t know why he’s here. She doesn’t know about the mission. She doesn’t know about any of it. All she knows is that JJ is here and causing a scene and being wild. And she’s backing him without a moment of hesitation.
Because, though she is so much better than him in every single way, she won’t ever let anyone treat him like that. Like he’s less. Like she’s more. She stands up for him – always has – and shit, he wishes he deserved it. He wishes he could be someone worthy of all the good she gives him.
But he sees her parents trying to talk her down. He sees Rafe laughing at the display of it all. He sees every eye on him, and they’re all telling the truth. The truth Kiara won’t ever see.
JJ doesn’t belong here.
Still, he doesn’t look away from Kiara. He can’t.
Because the door between them is closed, it is, but it’s made of fucking glass. And JJ can see through it. He can see her.
“I’m a member of this club!”
He wants to stay right here, to look at her. To steal more of this moment, to lie to himself, to fight everything he knows about Kooks and Pogues and right and wrong and just get what he wants for once.
But, a voice in his mind reminds him, this isn’t about him. It’s about John B. About the note and the treasure and Sarah Cameron. So, he takes one last look at Kiara, savors it, then he shoves the guard with a quick, decidedly unapologetic, “Sorry about that!”
He turns back to Kiara, pointing as he gets himself back in mission mode, “Hey, mandatory power hour at Rixon’s, Kie!” He already knows where Pope is, even though he hasn’t looked over once, and he gestures to him, “Pope, you as well, alright? Rixon’s Cove, let’s roll!”
He’s backing his way through the party – every eye is still on him – and turns back to Kiara, “All right, Kie, come on.”
He lifts his arm in the air – he’s going out with a finish – and wraps his hand around it, calling out, “Workers of the world, unite.” Then, pointing to her – she’s smiling, incredulous and wary all at once – he calls out, “Throw off your chains!”
JJ spots John B through the crowd and heads back toward the far side of the porch. John B whoops his greeting, “Whoo-hoo!”
“Colonel.”
“Captain.”
They salute each other, grinning. JJ’s a little buzzy, so this feels extra fun.
Just hours ago, he’d been dreading this, dreading the risk, dreading the idea of failure. Hell, maybe even dreading success a little. Change. But John B is smiling at him, and he can hear Kiara’s parents, which means she’s on the move.
He smiles even wider now as he says, “Mission accomplished, sir!”
Standing on the outskirts of the party now, JJ can’t keep the grin off his face. John B’s at his side – where they both belong – and they’re both wearing smiles that feel a little too wide not to be goofy. It feels amazing.
He sees Kiara running through the party toward him now. Toward them – he mentally corrects. But fuck, for just a second, again, he lets himself steal this moment. Lets himself have it, lets himself keep it. Lets himself believe it’s him she’s running to. Him she’s smiling at.
Pope makes it first, hugging John B. Then Kiara, laughing as she rushes right toward JJ. He throws his arms open wide – he can’t help the way his face threatens to break on his smile.
He’s trash. He’s dirt. He’s whatever.
But Kiara throws herself into his arms, and he spins her around like this is the happiest moment of his life. And it might be. And they’re laughing and they’re smiling. And he doesn’t think there will ever be a girl he cares about more than he cares about Kiara Carrera. Because, yeah, yeah, he’s been half in love with her since she smacked him in the face with her hair in fourth grade, but that’s not it, not really. She’s a Pogue, through and through, no matter what her DNA tells her. And she’s his best friend. So, he smiles through that closed glass door and doesn’t even raise his hand to knock.
John B and Pope take off into the darkness.
Kiara smiles at him, eyes shining, and then nods toward their friends. He glances back at the party, just once, to see the twinkling lights.
JJ stares at the fire, at his friends surrounding it. John B is still gathering wood – really, JJ thinks he’s hyping himself up for the shpiel. Pope is picking at random bits of grass and keeps glancing over his shoulder like he thinks his dad might pop up out of the weeds. And Kiara scoots closer to the fire, her hands held out toward it as she shoots him a little smile at John B’s quiet muttering.
JJ props his chin onto his knees as he watches the fire jump with each piece of grass Pope tosses into it.
He can’t help but think of her – his momma – on nights like these. Her gentle voice as she helped him roast marshmallows and hotdogs. The way she held him to her chest as the fire crackled. The feel of her lips in his hair and her smell all around him. As she called him good. And smart. And brave.
She was wrong; JJ knows that more now than ever before. He’s not good. He’s a liar and a thief and a coward.
He’s a shitty person.
Yeah. Yeah, JJ’s a piece of shit.
He’s bad.
Kiara smiles at him through the fire.
Because he fights.
John B shoots him a wink as he picks up another twig just to buy time.
Because he steals.
Pope looks at him with wide, grateful eyes.
Because he lies.
He slides his tongue over his split lip and avoids Pope’s concerned eyes. Slides his fingers through his hair and looks away from Kiara too.
John B is watching him, something soft and concerned and knowing in his eyes. JJ wants to look away, to deny he’s in his head, but there’s a reason John B is his best friend; there’s a reason JJ would drop any and everything for him.
For any of them.
The fire crackles. JJ sucks in a deep breath through his nose – damp wood, saltwater, coconut shampoo – and blows it back out slowly.
Three pairs of eyes stare back at him when he opens his own. Various shades of brown and hazel – but they look at him the same. With conviction. With trust. With love.
He doesn’t think he’ll ever know a love this good again.
And he knows he will never love anyone the way he loves the Pogues. For Pope’s brain and heart, for Kiara’s fire and faith, for John B’s goodness and adventure. For all they are, for all he knows they will be. For all the ways he looks at them and wants so badly to be theirs.
JJ doesn’t know if he has it in him. To be good. To be brave. To be smart.
He’s the worst of them – he knows it – his dad says it. The town says it.
John B never says it. The Pogues never say it.
He says JJ is his best friend. He says JJ is his brother. He says he loves him.
Kiara ruffles his hair and pushes his face away and laughs and- and she doesn’t say it either.
Pope, well, Pope looks at him sometimes like JJ is smarter than he thinks, like a quick tongue is the same as a quick mind.
He glances at the fire again. He can almost feel his momma’s hand on the back of his neck. Can almost hear her voice, “You’re such a good boy, JJ.”
He’s not.
A small twig bounces off his shoulder. He tears his eyes away from the fire and meets Kiara’s grin. He grins back before he can stop himself.
He’s not good, doesn’t even think he’s capable of it. But if he has to be bad, if his blood demands it, then he’ll make sure he’s bad for them. He’ll lie and steal and fight until every one of them – every piece of his family – is safe.
He’ll make sure John B finds the treasure; he’ll make sure John B survives finding the treasure. He’ll make sure no one ever finds out it was Pope who sank Topper’s boat. He’ll make sure that Rafe Cameron never gets his slimy hands anywhere near Kiara.
He will steal anything.
He will tell any lie.
He will fight anyone.
For them.
For his Pogues.
For his family.
Because they’re good.