Right Now | Rafe Cameron

06: nice try, pogue.

SIX

nice try, pogue.

This city made him feel more lonely than ever. So when he ran into Billie, it wasn't with scorn or hatred, as it probably would have been if he'd seen her in both their "natural habitat", but with relief. He felt relief when he saw her. What the fuck was that?

Rafe had been dropped off at the hotel by the driver after dinner with Billie's boss (who he certainly didn't like) and Walter (who he, in fact, did like). The ride over from the restaurant had been silent and empty.

He didn't know what to think. He actually did trust her? He knew he was probably wrong to do so. He trusted her to find out whether he'd actually succeeded in fixing the company. But why should he leave his life's work in her hands? And he couldn't stop thinking about the coincidence. He had run into Billie at a party thrown by a law-firm Walter had suggested represent the company, and by coincidence Percy from college was Billie's close friend. Then it was the magazine that was going to write this big redemption piece on him and the company - Billie being their star-reporter. I mean, of course she fucking was. Miss Perfect Pogue. It made him frustrated and, slightly turned on?

He hadn't thought about Billie for years. So why could he not get her out of his head now?

When they met with other people around, she always kept her distance, observing him with suspicion. But any time they were alone together, which they had been a few times the past week, the tension shifted to something else. 

There was still frustration, but he couldn't help but notice how she didn't push him away. Maybe she was testing him, seeing if he would lash out. He wouldn't blame her for expecting him to given the state he was in last time they saw each other.

And when he was holding her in Percy's kitchen, he swore he could feel her rapid heartbeat through her chest and hear her uneven breathing. The tension was almost... No. Surely not.

She hated him. He knew that. But he had sneaked his way into her life - her friend-group and her office.

She wasn't around the Pogues to influence her any more, maybe he could change her opinion?

Maybe he could show her how he had changed? He could show himself he'd changed.

Although, how he let the anger take over when he grabbed her wrist in the taxi probably set him back a few steps. 

No, stop. What was he thinking? He didn't need Billie's approval. They just had to work together, be strictly professional.

As he closed the door to his hotel room behind him, Rafe rubbed his face and buzzed hair in frustration. He sat down at the foot of the bed and got his phone out of his pocket.

Unknown

youll be sorry country club

ticktock bitch

"Fuck," Rafe sighed and rubbed his eyes. It wasn't the first time he'd received these texts. Every time he blocked the number, another one would appear.

He knew who it was. Or who it was supposed to be. Barry was out of prison again. He'd been in and out over the years. Rafe had been keeping track. But the texts were constant, no matter if he was in the joint or not. Clearly, he wasn't in confinement. He went in for dealing, for possession of firearms, for causing trouble. Easily caught, but quick to get back out. Barry wasn't the kind of guy who would forget people who tried to get out, who betrayed him.

Rafe blocked the number and looked through the rest of his messages.

Sarah

*Sarah sent an attachment*

Look Rafey - it's right down the road from us!

"Jesus Christ," Rafe muttered and chuckled lightly at the listing his sister had sent him.

It was a large house, too large for just him, that was his first reaction. But he knew it meant a lot to Sarah that he stayed in the Outer Banks, at least part time. And everyone had said it was important to have people around him. Well, everyone -  his therapist and Sarah.

He sent Sarah a thumbs up and put his phone down.

His mind was going a thousand miles an hour. He needed a shower - wash this whole day, this whole city, off. 

He used his heels to take off his shoes and placed them neatly by the door. He gently padded the pockets of his blazer to make sure he took everything out before he hung it up on its hangar.

He put his phone, his keys, and his black-framed reading-glasses on the desk, thankful that they didn't ask him to read anything and reveal his new impairment to Billie who surely would have teased him about it. She would call him old. He was nearing thirty, anyway, in a few years. He imagined that she would point it out as a weakness. And that wouldn't do.

As he stroked his hand over the left pocket once more, he felt something small, so inoffensive that he didn't notice it the first time he checked. He fished it out and put it in the palm of his hand. It was a small black microphone, the size of the button of a dress-shirt. Hadn't it been for its uniform shape and the small metal netting that circumvented it, he would have thought it was a ball of thread collected and hardened at the dry-cleaners.

He felt his jaw clench instinctually and let out a sharp breath before he put it close to his mouth and whispered: "Nice try, Pogue."