hi, i'm molly!

25 | she/her | 18+ only mdni | rafe's #1 coke whore ♡ˎˊ˗

[s1ut-4-rafe]

ABOUT MOLLY ?!

𓆩❤︎𓆪 molly! | 25 | she/her | intuitive tarot reader on the side ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚

𓆩❤︎𓆪  rafe's reckless gf | 18+ only mdni ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚

NAVIGATION ꨄ︎

asks. rules. tag system.

MASTERLIST ꨄ︎

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵ RAFE CAMERON

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵ DREW STARKEY

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵ CROSSOVERS/OTHER

IMPORTANT INFO ꨄ︎

INTERACT! i love chatting and making new friends! i'm open to talk about anything whether that's ideas, headcanons, fics, random thoughts, whatever’s on your mind this is a safe space! i promise i’m chill and if you're into tarot that's even better! don’t hesitate to hit me up!

REQUESTS! my requests are closed!

ANONS! pick an emoji below:

🖤 | 🔥 | 🍷 | 💋 | 🥀 |

amazing layout credit to @zyafics ❤️

[s1ut-4-rafe]

SECRETS IN WABANG | Part 12 | Outer Banks x Outer Range

Pairing 1 - Wren x Rafe Cameron

Pairing 2 - Marlowe x Rhett Abbott

Summary - Marlowe (Marley) and Wren thought they’d left the worst behind. They’re rebuilding their lives in the quiet town of Wabang, Wyoming — chasing peace, purpose, and a little distance from the chaos they escaped. But peace doesn’t last. When the Pogues and Camerons show up, everything begins to unravel. Old loves resurface. New dangers emerge. Secrets that were never meant to be found start clawing their way back into the light. And as the past collides with the present, Marley and Wren find themselves caught in the middle of a mystery bigger than they imagined, and emotions they aren’t ready to face.

Word Count - 3367

Content - Angst, enemies to lovers, unexpected alliance, betrayal, cowboys, emotional conflict, sfw/nsfw

Navigation - | 11 | 12 | 12.5 |

MASTERLIST (Series - Ongoing)

The air outside the rundown stables was cold and damp, carrying with it the metallic tang of old iron and rotting wood. The kind of night that soaked into your clothes and your bones if you stood still too long. The others scattered into the tree line with quick steps and whispered urgency, the gold heavy in their packs and heavier still in their minds.

Marlowe stood just off to the side of the stable entrance, arms crossed tight over her chest, the gold bars tucked deep in her coat feeling more like a weight chained to her ribs than any kind of treasure. Rhett hadn’t said anything since their encounter with Kiara. He hadn’t needed to. The way he stood next to her, tense and coiled, like he was daring someone to challenge her again, said everything.

They moved together without words, cutting through the brush toward the road that wound past the outskirts of the Cameron estate and deeper into ranchland. Rhett’s truck was parked just where they’d left it—tucked beneath a cluster of tall pines, hidden from any Tillerson who might wander too close. It loomed like a loyal dog waiting for its owner, reliable and just slightly out of place in the wild.

He opened the passenger door for her, a small gesture, but it steadied her more than she expected. Marlowe climbed in with a quiet thank you that neither of them said out loud. The moment the door shut, the night pressed in again, muffled now by glass and metal.

Rhett didn’t turn the ignition. He sat with both hands on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the tree line ahead. His jaw worked once, then again, like he wanted to speak but didn’t trust the words to come out right.

Marlowe stared at her hands. They were dirty—smudged with dust and something darker. She didn’t know if it was dirt or oil or blood from one of the rusty hinges, and she didn’t want to look close enough to find out. 

The Pogues crammed in back—John B, JJ, Pope, and Kiara—cramped and sore, but none of them complained. JJ rested his head against the cold window, watching the trees blur past. Kiara kept her arms crossed tightly, eyes hard but quiet now. John B stared straight ahead, and Pope fidgeted with the strap on his bag, like he was trying to calculate the weight of what they’d just done.

The truck rumbled along the backroads until the lights of Wabang blinked into view again, sparse and flickering, a town still half-asleep despite the hour.

They pulled up to the dingy roadside motel the Pogues had been crashing at—a squat, one-story thing with faded signage and flickering exterior bulbs that buzzed like gnats.

“Is this the stop?” Rhett asked, not turning around.

John B nodded. “Yeah.”

The group climbed out slowly, backs stiff and legs sore from the weight of the gold. Rhett killed the engine but didn’t move. Just watched as they made their way toward the room they'd packed into earlier that week, the one with the broken lock and the duct-taped blinds.

JJ paused beside the truck, eyes flicking to Rhett for a second, then to Marlowe. Something passed between them—uneasy, unreadable—but he didn’t say a word. Just nodded once and walked off, his silhouette swallowed up by the yellow haze of the overhead lights.

“You alright?” she asked quietly, not expecting an answer.

He shrugged, a slow roll of his shoulders that said more than any sentence might’ve. “You?”

She gave a half-smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Ask me in the morning.”

The silence stretched, not uncomfortable, but thick. Weighted. Like everything they didn’t say sat in the air between them, waiting for one of them to tip the scale.

Eventually, Rhett exhaled and turned the key. The truck rumbled to life, headlights cutting a path through the dark. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as they pulled onto the road, the shadows of pine trees dragging long fingers across the windshield.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

The truck ride was quiet. The kind of quiet that buzzed in the ears—too much adrenaline left behind, too many unsaid things hovering between them.

Rhett gripped the wheel tighter than he needed to, knuckles raw and still stained with blood. Marlowe sat close but didn’t speak, just stared out at the Wyoming night stretching past the window. Pines, fence posts, the occasional deer flickering across the field like ghosts.

Marlowe leaned her head against the window, watching the blur of passing fence posts and overgrown fields, eyes tracing shapes in the night that didn’t quite make sense.

“Kiara didn’t mean it,” she said finally, the words coming out like a defense she wasn’t even sure she believed.

“She did,” Rhett replied without hesitation. “Doesn’t make her right.”

Marlowe didn’t respond. Her fingers tightened in her lap. “Maybe I don’t belong in this. Maybe she’s right.”

His hands tightened on the wheel. “You were in that stable, same as them. You took the same risk.”

“But it’s not my history,” she murmured. “It’s theirs. That gold means something to them. To their families.”

Rhett glanced over, jaw clenched. “Doesn’t mean your life’s worth less. You did more tonight than half of ‘em even realize.”

Marlowe didn’t answer, but something eased in her chest. Just slightly.

The headlights caught the split in the dirt road and Rhett turned left, tires crunching through gravel toward the Tillerson ranch’s neighboring line—the Abbott property, where the porch light always burned like a beacon and his momma still left a key under the loose brick by the back door.

Marlowe looked back out the window, her reflection faint in the glass. “Still feels like I’m wearing someone else’s shoes. Like I’m part of something I wasn’t invited to.”

“Maybe,” Rhett said. “But sometimes the people who weren’t invited are the ones who end up mattering most.”

Rhett pulled up beside his father’s truck and let the engine idle. Marlowe didn’t reach for the handle quite yet. 

“Your hand okay?” she asked after a while,  her voice soft.

He glanced down, flexed his fingers. “I’ve had worse.”

“You always say that,” she muttered.

“Usually true.”

A beat passed.

She shifted in her seat, finally looking at him. “I know I said I wanted to go home, but… I didn’t mean my apartment.”

Rhett nodded. “I figured.”

There was something weighty in the way he said it. Like he already knew she didn’t want to be alone tonight. Not after everything.

She turned to him, the glow from the dashboard lighting one side of his face, shadowing the other. The bruise on his cheek had deepened, an ugly shade of purple now. She wanted to say something. Wanted to ask if he was okay. Wanted to ask why he looked at her like that sometimes, like she was the only steady thing in a world gone to hell.

But she didn’t.

“You sure no one’s gonna mind?” she asked, quieter now.

“'Course not,” Rhett said. “You’ve been over before. Amy might lose it, though. Big fan of yours.”

“You know,” he said, voice a little gentler than before, “my momma’s gonna be real happy to see you in the morning.”

Marlowe blinked, surprised. “She is?”

He gave a half-smile, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck. “Yeah. She’s always askin’ about you since that Sunday dinner. Keeps sayin’ you’ve got better manners than I ever did. And Amy—” His smile widened just a little, boyish and unguarded. “She’s obsessed. Been askin’ when you’re comin’ back since February.”

Marlowe felt the warmth crawl up her neck despite the chill outside. “That was months ago.”

“Doesn’t matter. You made an impression.”

She laughed softly, the sound easing some of the tension in her shoulders. “I brought coloring books. That was cheating.”

“Maybe,” Rhett shrugged. “But you sat on the floor with her and actually colored. That counts for somethin’.”

A pause.

“I think she wants you to braid her hair next time.”

That got a real smile out of Marlowe. She ducked her head a little, glancing down at her hands in her lap before looking back at him.

“Thanks,” she said instead. “For everything.”

Rhett reached over, not fast, not presumptuous—just slow and steady—and brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. His fingers were rough, calloused. But the touch was careful. 

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. It was heavy. Full of charged glances and tension neither of them knew what to name. The kind that lived in the aftermath of something—almost being kissed, almost losing your temper, almost watching everything fall apart.

“You don’t gotta thank me,” he said.

Marlowe nodded and without another word, she stepped out into the night. The chill caught her immediately, but she barely felt it. Not with everything else still burning under her skin.

And for the first time in days, she felt something close to grounded.

They both stepped out of the truck, the doors creaking in the quiet as boots hit gravel. The air out at the ranch was cooler, softer—like the land itself had exhaled. The porch light glowed faint across the yard, a halo in the dark.

Rhett rounded the hood, meeting her at the front. She was still smiling faintly from the talk about Amy, but there was something else behind her eyes now—like her thoughts had circled back to the night’s real weight.

“Hey,” she said, slowing her steps before they reached the porch. “Would you mind if I called Wren first? Just to check in… and tell her about the gold?”

Rhett looked at her, quiet for a beat. “You sure that’s a good idea? Ain’t exactly bedtime story material.”

“I know,” she admitted, arms folding across her chest. “But she deserves to know what we saw. What we found. She’s gonna lose her mind.”

“She’s not gonna lecture you, is she?” he asked, teasing lightly, but there was something protective tucked beneath it.

Marlowe cracked a grin. “Oh, for sure. She’ll give me that whole ‘what did you get yourself into this time’ speech. But…” Her voice softened. “She’s my person. I don’t want her to hear it secondhand.”

Rhett nodded slowly. “Alright. Porch has the best signal out here anyway.”

They walked the last few steps in comfortable silence, gravel crunching beneath them until they reached the worn steps of the Abbott porch. Rhett moved ahead to unlock the door, but paused with a glance over his shoulder.

“I’ll let Momma know you’re here after you call. Might even sneak you some pie if you play your cards right.”

Marlowe smiled, pulling her phone from her back pocket. “That’s bribery.”

“That’s Wabang hospitality,” Rhett said with a wink and stepped inside, leaving the screen door to creak gently behind him.

Marlowe sat on the top step, phone glowing in her hand, thumb hovering over Wren’s contact as the cool wind stirred her hair. The night felt heavy and surreal—but something about being on this porch, about being here with him, made it all feel just a little more grounded.

She tapped “call.”

The line rang twice before Wren picked up, her voice thick with sleep.

“Marlowe?” she rasped. “It’s—what time is it?”

Another beat. Then, more carefully: “Is everything okay?”

Marlowe rubbed her eyes. “Define ‘okay.’...Sorry. I just… I needed to tell you something.”

There was a pause, and then Wren’s voice sharpened, a little more awake now. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Marlowe said quickly. “I swear. I just—it’s been a night. Rhett and I… we helped the Pogues with something. Something big.”

A quiet hum from Wren. Thoughtful. Knowing.

“You helped the Pogues,” Wren repeated slowly, as if trying to decide whether that was a good or bad thing. “Define ‘big.’”

Marlowe exhaled, watching her breath fog in the porch light. “We found the Royal Merchant gold.”

Silence.

More silence.

“Like… gold bars? Actual treasure?” Wren finally asked, disbelief layering each word.

“Yeah,” Marlowe whispered, almost like saying it again would make it too real. “Gold bars. Stamped with the insignia. Hidden on Ward’s land. It was stacked on palettes, Wren.”

Wren didn’t speak for a long moment. Then: “Holy shit.”

Marlowe let out a laugh—quiet, exhausted, edged with nerves. “I know.”

“You touched it?” Wren asked. “You touched literal stolen, centuries-lost treasure and didn’t immediately burst into flames?”

“I didn’t even get cursed,” Marlowe said, leaning her head back against the wooden railing. “We only took a couple bars. There was too much to move. We’re planning to go back.”

“Marlowe,” Wren warned, tone suddenly firm, “this is the kind of thing people kill over.”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do. Ward Cameron is the type who’d burn down ten houses just to find one missing brick. And if his land’s involved, that means he’s involved.”

Marlowe smiled faintly. “I didn’t ask to be dropped into all this. It just happened.”

“And Rhett?”

“He’s with me,” she said simply, and that answer was enough for both of them.

Wren let out a slow breath. “Just… promise me you’ll be careful. No more late-night adventures through private ranch land without backup. And if things start to feel wrong, I want you to walk away. Gold or no gold.”

“I promise,” Marlowe said. “I just didn’t want you in the dark.”

“You never have to keep me in the dark, Lo,” Wren said. “I’m your sister. No matter how weird it gets.”

Marlowe’s throat tightened. “Yeah. I know.”

“Okay,” Wren said, her voice softening again. “Now go get some sleep. Or Cecilia’s pie. Preferably both.”

Marlowe smiled, blinking up at the stars. “Love you.”

“Love you more,” Wren murmured, and the line went quiet.

Marlowe lowered the phone slowly, still staring out at the wide Wyoming night. Then she stood, brushed off her jeans, and stepped into the warmth of the Abbott house.

Fifteen minutes later, they pulled past the outer fence of the estate, tires crunching over frozen gravel as headlights carved through dense walls of reeds. The old stables materialized from the darkness—rotting and forgotten to most, but not to Ward.

He was out of the truck before it stopped, flashlight beam swinging wildly as he stormed toward the side structure.

"Dad—what's going on?" Rafe called, stumbling after him while pulling on his coat.

Ward didn't answer. He shoved the shed door open with savage force, rusted hinges screaming in protest. His flashlight swept over crates, dust, and a tarp-covered stack in the far corner.

He ripped the tarp away.

Gold gleamed dully in the flashlight's beam—pallets of it, stacked like a dragon's hoard. But Ward's light lingered on one pallet in the center, where a visible chunk was missing from the top rows.

Ward froze, his jaw working.

"Son of a bitch." He spun like a caged animal. "They took it. They took it!"

Rafe trailed behind, steps hesitant. "What? What are you talking about—"

The realization hit him like cold water. "Oh. Oh, shit."

"This pallet had three hundred and seventy-six bars." Ward turned to face his son, eyes wild, finger pointed like a weapon. "Now there's three hundred and fifty-eight. Who knew this was here? Who?"

"I—just us," Rafe stammered. "You and me, and maybe the Tillersons? You said he helped—maybe I miscounted—"

Ward's fist slammed against the nearest beam, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

"You weren't paying attention!" Ward rounded on him, voice rising. "This is why I don't trust you with anything that matters. Jesus Christ, Rafe!"

"I told you to watch this place. You were supposed to keep eyes on it. And now some little shits waltz in here and take what doesn't belong to them?"

He kicked over an empty crate, sending it crashing across the floor.

"Don't start this again, Dad—"

"Start what? Stating facts?" Ward's voice cracked like a whip. "You had one job—one. Keep an eye on the back line. Not screw around, not wander off, not whatever the hell it is you do to embarrass me daily."

"Dad, look, just calm down—"

"Don't tell me to calm down!" Ward whirled on him. "You think people like us get second chances? If that gold goes public, if the wrong hands start asking questions—it's over. You understand me?"

Rafe's mouth tightened. "I didn't even know we were hiding gold out here until last week."

"Because I don't trust screwups with things that matter." Ward's words cut deep. "Every time I give you responsibility, you turn it to shit. Every. Damn. Time."

The words landed like physical blows.

Rafe's face darkened. "You know what? Maybe if you weren't such a paranoid bastard—"

Ward stepped into his face, eyes blazing. "Say it again."

"I said—" Rafe shoved his hands against Ward's chest, pushing him back, "—you act like everyone's out to get you, but the truth is, they're not. They just don't want to be around you."

Ward laughed—a hollow, bitter sound. "That supposed to hurt? You think you're the victim here? Someone stole my gold. Out of my shed. And you let it happen."

"I didn't let anything happen!"

"You sure as hell didn't stop it."

They stood chest to chest, breathing hard, the freezing air curling around them like smoke from a dying fire.

Rafe swallowed hard, hands raised. "Okay. Okay. I'll fix it."

"No. We'll fix it." Ward's voice turned to ice. He stepped back, eyes narrowing to slits. "Start asking questions. Discreetly. I want names. Faces. If anyone so much as mentions the Royal Merchant, I want to know."

His voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "Find out who did this, or I swear to God, Rafe—you won't be standing next to me the next time opportunity comes knocking. You'll be buried under it."

Rafe blinked, stunned.

"I mean it." Ward's eyes held nothing—no warmth, no love, no mercy. "Prove you're worth something. Or you'll be just like the rest of them. Useless. Replaceable." He turned toward the truck. "Don't come home. Not until you fix this mess."

The words dripped poison into the cold night air.

Ward stormed away, leaving Rafe alone in the stables with clenched fists, jaw tight, and his heart pounding like a war drum in his ears.

“You’re weak, son. Always have been. The drugs, the stunts, the excuses—you’re just a walking consequence of your mother’s soft touch.”

Rafe’s vision narrowed. He stepped back once—then spun and drove his fist through the thin rotten walls of the stables, knuckles splitting instantly against the splintered wooden slats. Dust rained down in small puffs, covering his clothes. 

The air in the old barn was thick with dust and tension. Sunlight spilled through the warped slats in angled streaks, cutting across the stacks of palettes and tarps hiding the gold like some half-buried secret.

Rafe stood in the middle of it all, fists clenched at his sides, jaw grinding so hard it ached.

He hadn’t wrapped the bandage around his knuckles properly—blood was already seeping through from the split skin. But he didn’t care. Couldn’t.

The Royal Merchant insignia caught a glint of light across one of the bars. All that weight. All that history. And now, missing pieces—some gone because of him. Some gone because someone else had the balls to take what he couldn’t hold onto.

His father’s voice still echoed in his head.

"You’re just a walking consequence of your mother’s soft touch."

Rafe let out a roar—raw and wordless—and kicked one of the wooden crates hard enough to split it. The splinters tore through his boot sole, but he didn’t stop. He punched the wall. Again. And again.

A nearby gold bar slipped free from its tarp, thudding against the ground like a judgment.

He stared at it, chest heaving.

“This was supposed to be mine,” he breathed. “I bled for this. I buried for this.”

He dropped to a crouch, clutching his head like he was trying to keep it from shattering. The barn was quiet except for the sharp rasp of his breathing.

And somewhere deep beneath the floorboards, the hollow bones of the past creaked softly.

A/N: Even in this story, Ward is still the worst!! Sorry to say that it won't get any better. What are we thinking? Will Rafe crashout soon..?

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Taglist for Secrets in Wabang: @msfirth | @deeninadream

[s1ut-4-rafe]

SECRETS IN WABANG | Part 11 | Outer Banks x Outer Range

Pairing 1 - Wren x Rafe Cameron

Pairing 2 - Marlowe x Rhett Abbott

Summary - Marlowe (Marley) and Wren thought they’d left the worst behind. They’re rebuilding their lives in the quiet town of Wabang, Wyoming — chasing peace, purpose, and a little distance from the chaos they escaped. But peace doesn’t last. When the Pogues and Camerons show up, everything begins to unravel. Old loves resurface. New dangers emerge. Secrets that were never meant to be found start clawing their way back into the light. And as the past collides with the present, Marley and Wren find themselves caught in the middle of a mystery bigger than they imagined, and emotions they aren’t ready to face.

Word Count - 4676

Content - Angst, enemies to lovers, unexpected alliance, betrayal, cowboys, emotional conflict, sfw/nsfw

Navigation - | 10 | 11 | 12 |

MASTERLIST (Series - Ongoing)

The kitchen light buzzed in the Tillerson house like a fly trapped in a jar—faint, flickering, dying by degrees. The fluorescent tube had been threatening to blow for weeks now, casting everything in a sickly, stuttering glow that made shadows dance and retreat like living things. It was moments away from plunging the room into darkness, and somehow that felt fitting.

The kitchen itself was too pristine to belong in the home of a rancher in Wabang—all gleaming surfaces and spotless appliances that spoke of money and careful maintenance. But beneath the veneer of cleanliness, something felt wrong.

The smell of old bacon grease lingered in the corners where no amount of scrubbing could reach, mingling with the sharp chemical bite of grapefruit cleaner spray that the housekeeper used with religious fervor. The two scents warred in the stagnant air, creating something cloying and unnatural.

Dust motes danced through the shafts of moonlight that leaked in through the warped blinds across the room, each particle caught in its own slow waltz of decay. The blinds themselves were old, their slats bent and twisted from years of Wyoming wind, casting prison-bar shadows across the linoleum floor that seemed to shift and breathe with each flicker of that dying light.

Luke Tillerson leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes sharp as broken glass. His jaw was set in that familiar line of barely controlled tension—the same expression he'd worn as a boy when his father's moods turned dark.

He didn't like being summoned this late, when the house felt most like a tomb and Wayne's whispers carried farther than they should. He liked it even less when Wayne Tillerson was in one of his moods, when the old man's eyes took on that feral gleam that meant someone was about to bleed.

The refrigerator hummed in the corner, a low, mechanical wheeze that sounded almost like breathing. Every few minutes, it would shudder and click, as if something inside was trying to escape.

Across the scarred oak table, Wayne sat shirtless in plaid pajama pants, his white Stetson perched on his head like a crown of bone. The hat cast his face in deeper shadow, making his features look carved from granite and malice. In one weathered hand, he held a half-eaten orange, its flesh gleaming wet in the uncertain light. In the other, a hunting knife with a handle worn smooth by decades of use—a blade that had seen more than fruit in its time.

He was slowly peeling the rind into a single, unbroken spiral, each cut deliberate and precise. The orange's blood—sweet citrus juice—dripped onto the table between them, pooling in the wood's natural grain like tears in wrinkles. His eyes—wild and half-glazed with something that might have been madness or might have been clarity—flitted up to meet his son's, holding them with predatory patience.

The silence stretched between them like a held breath, broken only by the whisper of steel through peel and the relentless buzz of that dying light.

"So let me get this straight," Wayne said finally, his voice smooth as cracked leather, each word chosen with the care of a man loading bullets. "Trevor saw 'em sneakin' through Cameron land... led by that Abbott boy."

Luke's jaw tightened until the muscle jumped beneath his skin. His knuckles had gone white where they gripped his forearms. "And Marlowe. The girl."

Wayne's grin stretched slowly across his face, something sly and crooked that never reached his eyes. It was the smile of a coyote that had found something wounded and alone. "Ah. The preacher's daughter." He paused, letting the knife hover in the air like a threat. "No, wait—politician. Even worse."

The word 'politician' rolled off his tongue like a curse, thick with contempt and something darker. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windows in their frames and sending a branch scraping against the glass like fingernails on a coffin lid.

Luke didn't respond, just let the silence thicken between them like smoke. He'd learned long ago that Wayne's monologues were performances, and interrupting them only made things worse. Better to let the old man play out his scene and hope it ended without blood.

Wayne popped a segment of orange into his mouth, juice running down his wrist in thin, sticky rivulets. The sound of his chewing seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet kitchen, wet and deliberate. Luke watched him warily, the way a man watches a rattlesnake coiled in the grass—never quite sure when it might strike.

"You think they were lookin' for somethin'? On Cameron land?" Luke's voice was carefully neutral, but his eyes never left his father's hands. The knife, the orange, the way Wayne's fingers moved with casual violence even in this simple act of eating.

"I think they were lookin' for trouble," Wayne said, his voice dropping to something low and oily, the kind of tone that made small animals freeze in terror. "And they brought her with 'em. That girl's somethin' else."

The kitchen clock ticked on the wall—a sound like a heartbeat counting down to something inevitable. Its hands pointed to just past midnight, the witching hour when good people were asleep and only predators prowled.

"She's not just a girl," Luke said quietly, the words carrying more weight than their volume suggested. "She's in deep. Cameron deep. And she's got ties to Maddox."

Maddox. The name hit him like a punch to the gut, though he'd never let it show. Not here. Not in front of Wayne. He could still see her sometimes, Wren. In the spaces between sleep and waking—fifteen years old with dirt under her fingernails and fire in her eyes, challenging him to races across the pasture on horses that weren't theirs to ride. She'd always been fearless, even then. Especially then. Before she learned what the Tillerson name really meant in this town, before she understood that some lines couldn't be crossed without consequences.

Wayne paused mid-chew, the knife hovering in the air like a suspended threat. The blade caught a slice of moonlight and threw it back, creating a thin line of silver that bisected the darkness. For a moment, the only sound was that incessant buzzing overhead and the distant howl of wind through the eaves.

"She's not from here," Wayne said finally, his voice taking on an almost reverent quality, as if he were speaking of something sacred and terrible. "Doesn't smell like it either. Smells like trouble. Like fate, maybe. Like somethin' that was always gonna come for us, one way or another."

His nostrils flared slightly, as if he could actually catch her scent on the stale air. There was something unsettling about the way he said it, something that made Luke's skin crawl with the certainty that his father had been thinking about this girl—about Marlowe—in ways that went beyond simple strategy.

Luke frowned, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The floorboard beneath him creaked, a sound like old bones settling. "You want me to go after the Abbott's land yet?"

Wayne laughed—a short, barking thing that held no humor, only the sharp edge of anticipated violence. It was the laugh of a man who had found something funny in another's misfortune, who took pleasure in the suffering he was about to cause.

"No. Not yet."

He stood slowly, unfolding from the chair with the deliberate grace of a predator that knew its prey had nowhere to run. All lean limbs and slow menace, moving with the calculated patience of something that had killed before and would kill again. He tossed the orange rind onto the table like a spent cigarette, the spiral of peel landing in the puddle of juice with a wet slap that sounded obscenely loud in the quiet room.

The chair scraped against the floor as he pushed it back, the sound like claws on stone. His shadow fell across Luke, long and distorted in the uncertain light, making him look less like a man and more like something that belonged in darker places.

"We take care of the church mouse first," Wayne said, as if it were the most obvious solution in the world, as natural as breathing or bleeding. His voice carried the certainty of a man who had never doubted his own capacity for cruelty.

The overhead light flickered more urgently now, as if responding to the malice in the room. For a moment, it threatened to die completely, plunging them into darkness, before sputtering back to its sickly yellow glow.

"I want her rattled. I want her watched. I want her afraid of shadows that might be us—afraid to sleep, afraid to breathe without wonderin' if we're comin' for her." Wayne's voice was gaining momentum now, the cadence of a preacher delivering damnation. "She's his crack in the armor, son. And if we press right there…"

He mimed pressing his thumb into the center of his palm until the flesh turned white around the edges, until it looked like bone might break through skin. The gesture was small, almost gentle, but carried the promise of violence that made Luke's stomach turn.

"Pop."

The word hung in the air like a gunshot, sharp and final.

Luke shifted his weight again, the floorboard groaning beneath him like something in pain. "And if she gets smart? If she talks?"

Wayne stepped closer, his grin growing wider, more terrible. Up close, Luke could smell him—sweat and aftershave and something underneath that was purely predator. The scent of a man who had crossed lines that couldn't be uncrossed.

"Then she learns what it feels like when the whole damn land turns on you," Wayne whispered, his breath hot against Luke's ear. "When every shadow hides an enemy, when every friend becomes a stranger, when the very ground beneath your feet feels like it's hungry for your blood."

He clapped Luke on the shoulder—hard enough to sting, hard enough to leave a mark. The contact was brief but brutal, a reminder of who held the power in this room, in this house, in this family.

"We're not gonna kill her," Wayne said, his voice dropping to something syrup-slow and honey-sweet, the tone of a man savoring a particularly fine wine. The words dripped with false gentleness that made them infinitely more terrifying than any threat. "We're gonna break her."

He paused, letting the word settle in the air like dust, like poison, like promise.

The wind outside picked up again, sending something metallic clattering across the yard—maybe a bucket, maybe something worse. The sound was hollow and desperate, like bones rattling in a box.

"You know what happens to loud things in quiet places, son?" Wayne asked, his voice dropping to just above a whisper, barely audible over the buzz of that dying light. It was the kind of whisper that carried in empty churches and graveyards, the kind that made men confess their sins in the dark.

Luke didn't answer. He simply shifted his weight between his feet, the movement small and involuntary, like a man trying to find solid ground on shifting sand. His throat felt dry, constricted, as if the words might choke him if he tried to speak.

"They get put down," Wayne said, and the words fell into the silence like stones into deep water, sinking without echo, without hope of retrieval.

He turned and started walking toward the back hallway, his bare feet silent on the linoleum, moving with the fluid grace of something that hunted in darkness. As he walked, he began muttering something half-sung under his breath—not quite a song, not quite a prayer, but something in between that raised the hair on Luke's arms.

Luke strained to listen, catching only fragments that drifted back like smoke:

"And the lamb cried out in the field, but the wolves were already smiling... and the shepherd had forgotten his flock... and the blood ran black in the moonlight..."

The words faded as Wayne disappeared into the hallway, swallowed by shadows that seemed to welcome him home. His footsteps echoed briefly on the wooden floor, then vanished entirely, as if the house itself had absorbed him.

Luke stayed in the kitchen for a while longer, alone with the dying light and the smell of citrus and fear. The refrigerator continued its mechanical breathing, the clock continued its countdown to dawn, and overhead, that fluorescent tube continued its death rattle—a sound like insects in the walls, like whispers in empty rooms, like promises that should never be kept.

The buzzing light never stopped. And somehow, Luke knew it never would.

That lock was tougher than it looked.

Kiara crouched beside the weathered stable door, metal pick dancing between her fingers with the fluid precision of countless nights like this. Pope held the flashlight steady, its beam dimmed to a whisper of red light. Behind them, John B wore a path in the dirt with his restless pacing.

"This feels like a setup," he muttered for the third time. "Why does it always feel like a setup?"

JJ leaned against the rotting fence post, arms crossed, silent but coiled tight as a spring ready to snap.

The distant crunch of tires on gravel cut through the night air like a blade.

Everyone froze.

"Someone's coming," Pope hissed.

John B's voice cracked with panic. "Shit—run or talk?"

Rhett's head snapped up, his face going pale in the moonlight. "Shit. Joy."

"Sheriff Joy?" Marlowe's eyes went wide as dinner plates.

Rhett didn't waste time with an answer. He grabbed Marlowe's hand and pulled her through the treeline, boots sliding down the shallow slope toward the winding path that led to the main road. If whoever was driving caught sight of the shed—or worse, the Pogues—it was game over.

He didn't stop running until they burst through the thick woods and straight into the blinding beam of approaching headlights.

Brakes squealed. The truck lurched to a stop, engine ticking in the sudden silence.

"What the hell—"

A door slammed. Footsteps on gravel. Then the sharp click of a flashlight, catching them both in its merciless glare.

"Jesus Christ, Rhett! You trying to give me a damn heart attack?"

Sheriff Joy stepped down from the cab, one hand still resting on her holster, the other wielding the flashlight like a weapon.

Rhett winced, raising his hands in surrender, that crooked grin already sliding into place. "Sorry, Sheriff. Didn't mean to spook you."

Marlowe pressed close to his side, chest heaving from their mad scramble through the woods. She smoothed her hair with shaking fingers, trying to look less like a member of a stealth operation and more like a girl caught getting handsy in the dark.

Joy's beam swept between them, suspicious but not yet alarmed.

"Why exactly are you two skulking around in the dark off the old trail road?" Her voice carried that particular tone of authority that made grown men confess to crimes they hadn't committed. "And don't you dare tell me you were hunting, Abbott."

Marlowe jumped in before Rhett could open his mouth, her voice breathless but steady. "We just... we needed some privacy."

Joy's posture shifted, tension melting from her shoulders like ice in summer heat. "Lord have mercy." She stepped away from the truck, moving closer. "You know, I ought to write you both up just for scaring ten years off my life."

Rhett's grin turned sheepish. "You really don't have to do that. It was all her idea anyway."

Marlowe's elbow found his ribs with surgical precision. He winced, biting back a laugh.

"Of course it was," Joy said, but there was genuine affection in her voice as she looked at Marlowe. "You alright, sweetheart?"

Marlowe slipped back into that warm, practiced calm she wore like armor. "Promise, Sheriff Joy."

Joy studied them both for a long moment, her experienced eyes cataloging details—their flushed faces, mussed hair, the way they stood just a little too close. Finally, she exhaled and lowered the flashlight.

"Well, I didn't see nothing. But you two better clear out before someone else comes along who might not be so understanding."

"Yes ma'am," Rhett said, his voice properly contrite.

Joy turned back toward her truck but paused, one boot on the running board. "And Marlowe? If you ever need help getting out of something—whatever it might be—you call me. You hear?"

Something flickered across Marlowe's face, there and gone like lightning. "I will. Thank you."

With a final shake of her head and a muttered curse about "damn kids," Joy climbed back into her truck and pulled away, taillights disappearing into the pine darkness.

"See you at church!" Marlowe called after her, that bright, practiced smile pinned firmly in place.

When the engine noise faded completely, Marlowe finally let herself breathe. She turned to look up at Rhett, her composed mask slipping just enough to show the adrenaline underneath.

"That was way too close."

Rhett met her gaze, relief and something warmer flickering in his eyes. "Lucky for us you're charming as all hell, darlin'."

"You're lucky she likes me," Marlowe shot back, but her smile was genuine now, wide and a little wild around the edges.

Rhett bumped her shoulder with his. "Think that bought us ten minutes?"

"Maybe," she said, watching him lean closer, the space between them shrinking. "Let's hope Kie works fast..." Her voice trailed off as her eyes flicked between his lips and his eyes.

"Mm," he murmured, but she could tell he wasn't really listening anymore.

Rhett pushed his hat back with the tips of his fingers, knuckles grazing her cheek with deliberate gentleness.

"Are you even listening to me?" Marlowe frowned, though her pulse was doing interesting things at his touch.

He huffed a quiet laugh, that crooked smile twitching at the corners. "Somewhat."

Back at the rundown stables, the lock gave away with a soft click under Kiara’s skilled hands. 

Kiara eased the door open inch by careful inch, hinges protesting with the screech of long neglect. The flashlight's red beam cut through air thick with dust and the ghost-scents of old hay and rusted metal.

"What the hell..." Pope breathed.

Wooden pallets sat stacked beneath a weathered tarp like sleeping giants. Six of them, arranged with military precision. Kiara stepped forward and pulled the covering aside.

Gold.

The bars gleamed dull in the filtered light, rough-edged but unmistakably real. Heavy. Perfect. Each one stamped with a symbol that made Pope's heart skip a beat.

"No way," he whispered. "Is that—"

John B knelt and ran reverent fingers over the nearest bar, turning it just enough to see the insignia clearly. A bundle of wheat, pressed deep into the precious metal.

JJ released a long, low whistle. "Please tell me this isn't some kind of fever dream."

"It's not," Pope said, his voice cracking with awe. "It's real. This is it—the Royal Merchant's gold. The actual treasure."

Kiara stared at the haul, her voice hollow with disbelief. "It's just... sitting here? On Cameron land?"

"Ward must've moved it after everything went sideways," John B muttered, his eyes scanning the rest of the shed. "After Sarah, after the island... he brought it here to hide it. This was his insurance policy."

"Or maybe he doesn't trust the Bahamas anymore," Pope added, his analytical mind already working through the implications.

JJ's grin turned sharp and dangerous. "Bet he has no idea we know about this little stash."

They stood in stunned silence, the magnitude of their discovery settling over them like a heavy blanket.

"He's been sitting on stolen history," Kiara said finally, her voice low and burning with fury. "Hiding it in plain sight like it belongs to him."

JJ didn't speak. He just stared at the gold, jaw set hard as stone while the light played over stacks of Pope’s heritage.

"We can't carry it all," John B said, reality crashing back in. "There's way too much."

"Then we take what we can manage," Pope replied, already moving to grab one bar. "We come back for the rest when it's safer."

JJ grabbed one too, the gold heavy in his grip. “Feels like a damn anchor.”

By the time they got too far into their heist, Marlowe and Rhett had returned. They stood in the doorway like deer caught in headlights. 

“It is,” Rhett said from the doorway, eyes narrowing on the haul. “You realize what this means, right? If Ward finds out—if anyone finds out—you’re not just trespassing anymore. This is federal-level.”

“We know,” John B said, voice grim. “But we didn’t come this far to leave empty-handed.”

Kiara stuffed a bar into her backpack, grunting at the weight. “Three bars, max per person. Any more, we’ll be too slow.”

"We know the stakes," John B said, his voice grim but determined. "But we didn't come this far to leave empty-handed."

By the time they'd loaded up what they could carry, Marlowe and Rhett had returned, appearing in the doorway like deer caught in headlights.

"Is that—" Marlowe started, then stopped, realizing it was obviously a stupid question when Kiara shot her a withering look.

She glanced at Rhett, uncertainty written across her features. "Should we even take any?"

"You already crossed the line," he murmured, his voice matter-of-fact. "Might as well take something to show for it."

She hesitated for a heartbeat—then selected one bar, just one, and tucked it inside her coat with trembling hands.

"Time to move," Pope said urgently. "Before sheriff Joy decides to double back."

Outside the stables, the woods seemed to press in closer than before, shadows deeper and more menacing. The group moved with purpose, but the weight of what they carried—both literal and metaphorical—seemed to drag at their heels like chains.

It was Kiara who finally broke the tense silence.

"I don't think she should get one," she said, her voice low but cutting through the night air like a blade.

Marlowe stopped dead in her tracks, the gold bar pressing cold against her ribs through her coat. "Excuse me?"

Kiara turned, eyes flashing dangerous in the moonlight. "You're not a Pogue. This isn't your history, your fight. You don't even understand what this gold means to us."

Marlowe's spine straightened, chin lifting in defiance. "I'm here, aren't I? I risked just as much as anyone else tonight—maybe more."

"Please," Kiara scoffed, her voice dripping disdain. "You showed up in cowboy boots with a schoolgirl crush."

"Hey." Rhett's voice cut through the argument like a whip crack.

Everyone turned to see him step forward, moonlight catching the fresh bruise blooming across his cheekbone like a badge of honor.

"That's enough."

Kiara blinked, clearly thrown by the sudden steel in his voice.

"You think we just stumbled into this by accident?" His words were measured, controlled, but underneath ran a current of real anger. "Marlowe's the reason you're not wearing handcuffs right now courtesy of Sheriff Joy. She's the reason we got here clean in the first place. So yeah, she gets a bar. And so do I."

Kiara opened her mouth to argue, but Rhett wasn't finished.

"You came to me asking for help. You walked through my family's land, used my name to stay out of trouble. So don't get all high and mighty now that there's gold in your pockets."

The group fell into uncomfortable silence, the weight of truth settling over them in the cool night air.

"Matter of fact," Rhett continued, his voice taking on a harder edge, "I think we deserve a bigger cut. We each get two more bars."

Kiara looked away first, biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste copper.

John B stepped forward, his voice calmer but firm. "Look, we all helped make this happen tonight. Let's not tear each other apart before we even get out of these woods."

"Three bars each," Rhett said finally, his tone brooking no argument. "Same as the rest of you."

John B worked his jaw, staring Rhett down in a battle of wills that stretched taut as a bowstring. Finally, he gave in with visible reluctance and trudged back toward the stables.

JJ said nothing throughout the entire exchange, but his jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the path ahead like he was calculating escape routes.

Marlowe let out a quiet breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, grateful but shaken by the confrontation. She glanced at Rhett, seeing him in a new light.

He met her gaze, his expression softening just for her. "Don't let them get to you."

"I'm fine," she murmured, though her voice betrayed the lie.

His hand brushed hers—barely there but grounding, solid. "You don't have to prove yourself to anyone. You already did."

John B returned with the additional bars, distributing them with reluctant fairness. They resumed walking in heavy silence, but the tension lingered in the air between them, heavier than all the gold they carried combined.

Ward Cameron didn't startle easily, but the call coming through on his personal line at 2:13 a.m. made him sit up in bed.

Unknown number. Landline. Secure.

He answered with the clipped sharpness of a man who hated being surprised. "Cameron."

"Ward." Wayne Tillerson's voice drawled through the speaker like honey over broken glass. "Knew you'd still be up. You always were the insomniac between us."

Ward slipped from bed and settled into the leather chair by the window, amber whiskey catching the moonlight in his glass. "Didn't think I'd be hearing from you again. Not unless one of us was being buried."

Wayne chuckled, low and predatory. "You know me. I always come home when the dogs start barking."

"What do you want, Wayne?"

"I want to talk about your property line. Or more specifically—what's crawling all over it tonight." A pause, calculated and sharp. "Couple of kids. Familiar faces. That Pogue problem of yours. Plus some others."

Ward's silence stretched taut as a wire.

"One of them's a girl I've had my eye on," Wayne continued. "Marlowe. Pretty little storm cloud with a mouth on her and a way of looking at people like she's already seen how they'll burn. I can see why the Abbott boy's twisted up over her."

"She's not mine to worry about," Ward said quietly.

"Maybe not. But she's tied up with the Maddox girl, and we both know what happened with that...ordeal."

Ward set his glass down with deliberate care. "You called to gossip about teenagers?"

Wayne's voice dropped to winter. "I called because something's moving, Ward. And I think you feel it too. These kids are sniffing around places they shouldn't even know exist. Places we built."

Ward stood, began pacing. "And what—you want to form a committee?"

"I want to keep what's ours. I want to stop the wrong people from getting in the middle of it. And if that means you and I shake hands again for a while?" Wayne paused. "Well, stranger things have happened."

"And if I say no?"

Wayne's voice didn't raise, but it sharpened to a blade's edge. "Then I reckon I'll handle it my way. And I don't think your boy or those little girls would like the shape that takes. Sarah did turn out nicely, and Billy needs himself a woman..." He let the words hang. "Let alone what happens if the council finds out."

The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken threats.

Ward exhaled slowly through his nose. "You always were a son of a bitch."

"You always liked that about me." Wayne's satisfaction bled through the line. "I'll be in touch."

The line went dead.

The slamming of the bedroom door jolted Rafe from sleep.

He sat up with a groggy curse as Ward yanked the blanket clean off him.

"Get dressed." Ward's voice was a snarl. "Now."

Rafe blinked against the hallway light bleeding into his room. "Dad, what the hell—"

Ward was already walking away, his words sharp as broken glass. "Bring the truck. We're going to the stables."

That got Rafe moving.

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[s1ut-4-rafe]

SECRETS IN WABANG | Part 10 | Outer Banks x Outer Range

MASTERLIST (Series - Ongoing)

Pairing 1 - Wren x Rafe Cameron

Pairing 2 - Marlowe x Rhett Abbott

Summary - Marlowe (Marley) and Wren thought they’d left the worst behind. They’re rebuilding their lives in the quiet town of Wabang, Wyoming — chasing peace, purpose, and a little distance from the chaos they escaped. But peace doesn’t last. When the Pogues and Camerons show up, everything begins to unravel. Old loves resurface. New dangers emerge. Secrets that were never meant to be found start clawing their way back into the light. And as the past collides with the present, Marley and Wren find themselves caught in the middle of a mystery bigger than they imagined, and emotions they aren’t ready to face.

Word Count - 2451

Content - Angst, enemies to lovers, unexpected alliance, betrayal, cowboys, emotional conflict, sfw/nsfw

Navigation - | 9.5 | 10 | 11

JJ didn’t move.

Not at first.

He stood there, too still, the kind of stillness that comes just before something breaks. His jaw was locked, fists tight at his sides. His eyes flicked down to her hand—her hand, the one that used to reach for his without hesitation—and then back to her face.

“You’re really choosing him,” he said, voice flat. “Rhett Abbott.”

Marlowe’s expression tightened. “I’m choosing me.”

JJ stepped closer, too close, the sharp scent of whiskey and sweat wrapping around her like a noose. “That’s bullshit and you know it. You used to look at me like I hung the damn stars, and now you’re acting like I’m just some mistake you outgrew.”

“I’m not acting like anything,” she said, voice cool but firm. “You’re the one turning this into a fight.”

“You don’t think it is a fight?” JJ barked out a bitter laugh. “You were mine, Marley. And now you’re playing house with some cowboy like that never meant anything?”

She took a step back, suddenly hyper-aware of the gravel crunching under her boots, of the pulse pounding behind her eyes. “You need to calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down,” he snapped, and for one heartbeat, he loomed—just enough for her to flinch. Not fear. Frustration. Sadness. Exhaustion.

“Back up, JJ, Please.” she warned, her voice like ice. Times like this, she wished she were more like Wren– able to properly stand up for herself.

That was when the bar door creaked open.

Rhett stepped out into the night like a storm cloud, his eyes cutting through the darkness in a blink. No cowboy hat this time—just loose curls falling across his forehead, jaw tight, fists already curled.

He took in the space between them, the tension like gunpowder in the air. He didn’t ask questions.

“You need to move,” Rhett said, stepping up beside Marlowe, his voice low and hard. His hand briefly rested on the small of Marlowe’s back.

JJ didn’t flinch. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“It does now,” Rhett growled, shifting forward. “You got somethin’ to say, say it to me.”

JJ smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “What are you gonna do, Abbott? Throw a boot at me?”

Rhett didn’t answer. He just moved—shoulder-first into JJ’s chest.

That was all it took.

JJ shoved back. Rhett’s fist flew. And suddenly they were brawling in the dirt lot behind the bar, fists swinging, gravel flying. The sounds were brutal—flesh hitting flesh, the scrape of boots, the low grunt of a punch landing hard.

Marlowe shrieked, rushing forward just as Rhett stumbled back from a blow to the jaw, blood already painting his cheekbone. JJ surged again, but she caught his arm.

“Enough!” she yelled.

But Rhett was already back on him, tackling JJ against the hood of his own truck with a sickening thud.

“Rhett, stop!” Marlowe shouted, shoving herself between them, both hands against his chest.

He froze—barely breathing, eyes wild. JJ staggered to the side, wiping blood from his lip, glaring but retreating.

The three of them stood there, panting, hearts thudding like war drums in their chests.

“You want her?” Rhett snarled, chest heaving. “Then act like it. Don’t corner her. Don’t talk to her like she’s property. You do that again, and you won’t walk away next time.”

JJ spat blood on the gravel, chest rising and falling. “She already walked away. That’s the only part that matters.”

He turned and left without another word.

Silence settled like ash.

Marlowe stood there, breath uneven, hands still trembling from the heat of it all. Her eyes stayed locked on Rhett—jaw tight, knuckles scraped, chest rising and falling like he was still in the fight.

The slam of the bar door broke the quiet, sharp and sudden like a gunshot in the dark.

“JJ!”

John B’s voice rang out first, urgent and pissed, followed by the thudding footsteps of the Pogues spilling out into the parking lot.

Kiara was right behind him, eyes wide as they locked onto the scene—Rhett bruised and bleeding, Marlowe pressed close to his side, and JJ a few paces away, still bent over, hands on his knees, chest heaving.

“What the hell happened?” Pope demanded, looking between them like he was trying to piece together a puzzle already shattered.

Kie stepped up to JJ, grabbing his arm. “JJ, what did you do?”

JJ straightened slowly, face still flushed, lip split and bleeding. He shook her off, but he wasn’t angry. Just exhausted.

“I didn’t start it,” he muttered, voice rough. “I just… I needed to talk to her. That’s all.”

“You cornered her,” Rhett snapped, arm instinctively moving in front of Marlowe like a shield.

JJ’s eyes flicked to him, jaw tightening again—but he didn’t lunge this time. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, cowpoke.”

Rhett didn’t respond to him directly. “...I know I don’t bring much to the table, but that guy is the biggest asshole I’ve ever met.” He huffed, his gaze directed only at Marlowe. Not bothering to acknowledge the Pogues further, it seemed.

Rhett didn’t move—only let his hands fall from her waist slowly, like he hated the idea of letting go.

“What happened?” Kie asked, voice low and wary.

JJ didn’t answer. Just dragged a hand through his hair and turned his back on them all, muttering curses under his breath.

John B arrived next, his tone clipped. “JJ. Talk to us.”

Pope scanned the group, connecting the dots fast. “He started something, didn’t he?”

Marlowe folded her arms, holding herself together. “He asked me to come outside. To talk, and Rhett stepped in.”

Rhett’s jaw flexed, but he stayed silent, eyes locked on JJ like he still wasn’t sure if this was over.

Kiara moved closer, reaching for JJ’s arm. “Hey. Look at me. What were you thinking?”

JJ jerked away, raw and frayed. “I don’t know, okay? I wasn’t thinking. I just saw her with him and—” He stopped short, biting back the rest.

JJ finally turned, eyes blazing as he looked at Marlowe. “You’re really gonna choose him?”

She flinched like he’d struck her, but her voice came steady. “I’m not entertaining this.”

The silence that followed settled like dust—heavy, unwelcome.

Finally, Rhett muttered, wiping his knuckles on his jeans, “Y’all came out here lookin’ for your boy. You found him. Maybe take him home.”

Pope made his way over to JJ now, slower this time. Like he was approaching a spooked animal. “Come on, man. Let it go.”

But it was John B who finally broke the tension. He stepped up to Rhett, something equal parts urgent and apologetic carved into his face.

“We need your help.”

Rhett’s brows lifted. He looked amused, almost. “Didn’t seem like you were a fan of me ten minutes ago.”

“Yeah, well,” John B sighed, dragging a hand down his face, “things change fast out here.”

Kiara jumped in, folding her arms. “We need to get to Ward Cameron’s estate. Without being seen. Quietly.”

Rhett narrowed his eyes. “Ward’s place? That’s all Cameron land.” It was easy to see that sirens were going off in his mind. 

Pope nodded. “We figured out the south perimeter. If we can cut through the pasture behind your family’s cattle line, we bypass town completely.”

Rhett hesitated, jaw tight. He looked at Marlowe.

“Why the hell would I help you trespass on Cameron property?”

Pope didn’t blink. “Because it matters. More than whatever this was.” He gestured vaguely to JJ and Rhett himself.

JJ stayed mercifully silent.

Rhett kept his eyes on Marlowe, as if searching her for the truth he couldn’t ask for. She didn’t say a word—just met his gaze, steady and quiet, her fingers brushing his lightly in silent reassurance.

His shoulders dropped.

“Damn it.”

A beat.

“Fine. I’ll show you the way. But we do this my way. No splitting up, no rogue Pogue stunts, and if anything goes sideways, I’m not laying myself down for a rescue mission.”

Kiara let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Pope nodded once, grateful.

Rhett turned back to Marlowe, his voice quieter now. “I must be out of my damn mind.”

A small smile tugged at her lips—tired, but real. “Maybe. But I am indeed impressed.”

His smile was crooked, lopsided, and all hers.

The pogues dispersed, giving Marlowe and Rhett some space to breathe. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said finally, voice soft but edged with something raw. “Any of it.”

Rhett didn’t look at her at first. He just stared down at his hands, flexing his fingers like he wasn’t sure they were still his. Then he shrugged, quiet. “I know,” he murmured, brushing dirt from his palms. “But I wanted to.”

The honesty in his voice made her chest ache.

Marlowe let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve had worse,” he said with a crooked half-smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His voice was calm, but she could feel the adrenaline still buzzing beneath his skin.

She stepped closer before she could talk herself out of it. Her fingers found his cheek, light but sure, brushing through the smudge of blood at his temple using a handkerchief she kept on hand like the old lady she was.

“Hold still,” she whispered, like they were the only two people left on earth.

Rhett leaned into her touch—just barely, just enough. Like gravity was pulling him there. Like maybe he was tired of holding himself up all on his own.

His hair had fallen into his face, damp with sweat, and her fingers pushed it back without thinking.

Their eyes met. His ocean blues clashed with her alpine green, and the world seemed to stop again. 

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to. It was all right there—in the quiet thrum of his heartbeat under her touch, in the way he looked at her like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to want what he did.

“You scared me,” she admitted, voice barely a breath.

“Wasn’t tryin’ to,” he said. “Just couldn’t let him talk to you like that.” He stopped himself, his lips  sewn into a tight line. Like he had more to say but the rest of the sentence got caught in his throat.

Marlowe’s hand lingered on his jaw, and her voice dropped into something almost fragile. “You don’t always have to fight for me, Rhett.”

He looked at her then, full-on, eyes burning with something deeper. “Maybe not. But I will. Every damn time.”

Her breath hitched. For a second, neither of them moved.

And then she leaned in just enough to press her forehead to his, grounding herself there. His hands found her waist, holding her like she was something steady, something worth staying for.

Rhett's truck rumbled low along the back trails of the Abbott ranch, headlights off. Just moonlight, instinct, and a history carved into his bones guided him through each bend. Marlowe sat beside him, knuckles white where they clutched the seat. In the bed, the Pogues huddled like ghosts—shadows folded in among each other, quiet and coiled.

"No talking," Rhett muttered, eyes scanning the tree line. "If you hear the cattle, just keep movin'. They'll watch. They won't bite."

John B let out a low snort. "Soothing."

Marlowe shot him a look, and the silence quickly swallowed the moment. The only sounds were the crunch of gravel and the low idle of the engine as they pulled off the path.

Rhett parked just shy of a forgotten service road, half-buried under a tangle of pine and aspen. The trees grew thick and close here, nature trying to reclaim the old access routes. The truck sank deep into the brush, camouflaged by deadfall and moss. From here, no headlights would catch it. No glance from a Tillerson deer cam would spot it. Or so they hoped.

Beyond a small rise, the land sloped into a narrow clearing—a ragged strip of unmarked territory shielded by tall reeds and a line of rusted fencing. Beyond it loomed the southern boundary of the Cameron estate. No floodlights. No movement. Just rot and secrets clinging to the air.

Rhett hopped down first, landing with barely a sound. He led them to the fence line, slipping a blade from his pocket and slicing through the twisted wire.

"Already loose," he offered with a shrug, before pushing it open wide enough for the group to duck through.

Boots crunched over pine needles and frozen soil. The air was colder here—denser. Like the trees themselves held their breath.

"We've got twenty minutes," Rhett said, keeping his voice low. "Less, if we're unlucky. Get what you need. Fast and quiet."

Pope had the map, folded and red-marked. Kiara flicked on a flashlight filtered red, casting the world in a muted glow. John B kept close to Marlowe, protectiveness humming under his silence. JJ trailed behind them all—no complaints, no remarks, but his shoulders were tight with old fury.

They moved like wolves: fast, deliberate, low. Past overgrown hedgerows and sagging trellises, skirting the edge of what used to be a training ground for Cameron horses. The stables loomed in the distance, all collapsed beams and ivy-choked walls. Years of disuse. Years of rot.

Except—

Pope pointed. "That lock's new."

The metal gleamed dully under the red light. No rust. No wear. Fresh.

Kiara was already kneeling. "I've got it."

As the others clustered to investigate, Rhett lingered back with Marlowe, eyes never still.

"Something's off," he murmured. "Too quiet."

Marlowe's arms crossed over her chest, but her fingers twitched. "We'll be quick. Get the proof. Get out."

His jaw tightened. "I don't like you near this place."

“I know.”

He didn’t say more. Just stayed at her side, one hand hovering like he wanted to pull her back into the woods altogether.

Neither of them saw the eyes watching from above.

Trevor Tillerson crouched in the shadows of a second-floor window in one of the old outbuildings across the clearing. Binoculars pressed to his face, he zeroed in on the movement below.

The figures were too dark to make out clearly, but he recognized the lean shape of them. The loping stride of an Abbott. The damn Abbott truck parked just beyond the fence.

And her. That girl.

He squinted, jaw working. Ward had told him to keep watch. Wayne had always said Abbott blood would be their ruin. Trevor hadn’t expected it to look like this.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t shout or warn or call. He just watched. Memorized. Counted heads.

He’d tell Ward later.

For now?

He just watched.

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[etherealwitcherys-blog]

OBX TRIP FUND! READINGS/SPELL GUIDES AVAILABLE!

After 5 years of following Outer Banks, I'm hoping to make it to the OBX before the series wraps for good. This show has been such a huge part of my life and a source of comfort through a lot of things. I'm working toward saving for the trip, but could really use some support to make this once-in-a-lifetime experience happen. Any contribution would mean the world to me!!

Again, this show means everything to me and the Pogue family has always been about having each other's backs, so... hoping some of you beautiful humans might help a fellow fan out!

Visit my shop here to see the options available! ❤️✨

[s1ut-4-rafe]

I don't want to sound or look desperate, but I would sell my kidneys for this opportunity 😭💀

[s1ut-4-rafe]

SECRETS IN WABANG | Part 9.5 | Outer Banks x Outer Range

Pairing 1 - Wren x Rafe Cameron

Pairing 2 - Marlow x Rhett Abbott

Summary - Marlowe (Marley) and Wren thought they’d left the worst behind. They’re rebuilding their lives in the quiet town of Wabang, Wyoming — chasing peace, purpose, and a little distance from the chaos they escaped. But peace doesn’t last. When the Pogues and Camerons show up, everything begins to unravel. Old loves resurface. New dangers emerge. Secrets that were never meant to be found start clawing their way back into the light. And as the past collides with the present, Marley and Wren find themselves caught in the middle of a mystery bigger than they imagined, and emotions they aren’t ready to face.

Word Count - 3638

Content - Angst, enemies to lovers, unexpected alliance, betrayal, cowboys, emotional conflict, sfw/nsfw

Navigation - | 09 | 9.5 | 10 |

The motel room smelled like old cigarettes and mildew, the kind of place where secrets stuck to the walls like wallpaper. The barn they had holed up in was now housing a tractor, driving them out inevitably. Thankfully, the motel was only $75 a night, and the owner was…kind. Despite being an eccentric cat lover. 

The fan overhead clicked with every rotation, a slow, lazy rhythm that made the tension feel heavier. The map Pope had brought from the OBX lay unfolded on the bed, covered in scribbled notes and circles in red ink.

Kiara stood near the mini-fridge, arms crossed, her stance rigid. Pope hovered over the bed, pen in hand. Sarah paced in front of the dresser. JJ slumped near the window, picking at the skin on his thumb. John B leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his gaze distant but attentive.

"If the feed store is here," Pope muttered, tapping the edge of the map, "and the Camerons have access through that back lot, then this trail—" he traced a line with his finger, "—puts them a mile and a half from the edge of Tillerson land. That’s where we hit the wall."

"Unless someone can get us through it," Sarah said, stopping mid-pace.

"We’ve been through this; we need Marlowe’s help," Pope said, not looking up.

Kiara scoffed. "Of course. Because that’s gone well for us so far."

JJ didn’t speak, but his jaw ticked.

"She knows the area," Sarah said. "She’s not just floating out there anymore, she’s in. Wren trusts her. Rhett probably lets her roam."

Kiara rolled her eyes. "She’s also lied to us. Kept secrets. Just like everyone else who ends up screwing us."

John B finally spoke, his voice low. "It’s not about trust. It’s about access. We don’t have time to pick and choose."

"Do you think she’s lying?" Sarah challenged.

JJ’s voice was flat. "I think she’s scared. And scared people make stupid decisions."

Pope looked up. "She messaged Sarah. Said she wants in. That’s as far as we’ve gotten this whole time we’ve been out here."

"Or it’s a setup," Kiara said. She looked at JJ. "You of all people should know what she’s capable of."

JJ didn’t look at her. He just stared out the window like it could give him an answer.

Sarah turned to John B. "Say something."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "We’ve been burned. Me, most of all. But this isn’t a scavenger hunt anymore. This is a war. If she’s offering help, we take it. Doesn’t mean we hand her the whole plan. We give her a piece. See what she does with it."

"And if she flips it?" Kiara asked.

JJ stood. "Then I’ll deal with it."

The room fell silent. The air between them all felt like glass—tense, ready to shatter.

Pope looked at the map again. "She knows the terrain. If we move before one of the rodeos ends, we can use the east ridge. If she gets us inside that fence line, we’ve got a shot."

John B nodded slowly. "But we keep an eye on her. All of us. No blind spots."

Kiara didn’t say anything else, but her silence was heavy. She turned away, biting down on whatever was threatening to rise in her throat. Bitter bile.

The afternoon sun poured golden through the bar's dusty windows, casting slanting beams across sticky floors and worn wood that had seen decades of boots, spilled drinks, and broken hearts. The Pit wasn't crowded yet—just the lazy percussion of pool balls clacking against felt, country music bleeding from a jukebox that had been playing the same ten songs since 1995, and the occasional rumble of laughter from the regulars who'd claimed their stools like thrones, nursing early drinks with the reverence of practiced alcoholics.

Marlowe sat primly on a barstool, ankles crossed, her modest floral dress covering her knees and buttoned up to her collarbone like she'd just come from Sunday service. She sipped carefully from a sweating glass of something cold and citrusy, using a napkin to dab the condensation from her fingers. Rhett stood beside her, elbows on the bar, halfway through a beer, his cowboy hat tipped back just enough to show the easy grin he’d been wearing since she walked in.

"You ever gonna admit it?" Rhett said quietly, his voice barely carrying over the bar noise as he glanced at her sideways. "That I might actually know what I'm doing."

Marlowe's smile was soft, almost shy. "You're alright," she said, smoothing her dress with careful hands. "For a guy who once tried to impress me by opening a bottle with his mouth and nearly chipped his tooth doing it."

"Wasn't trying to impress you," he said, but there was the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Just being practical."

"You were showing off."

"Maybe a little," Rhett admitted quietly, his fingers drumming once against his beer bottle. "You laughed, though."

"I did," she agreed, and there was something warm in her voice that made him look at her properly for the first time since she'd sat down. "But I was laughing at you, cowboy."

"Same damn thing," Rhett said, shrugging those broad shoulders like he didn't have a care in the world. "You're still here, aren't you?"

The conversation flowed like good whiskey—smooth, warm, with just enough burn to keep things interesting. There was a looseness to Rhett this afternoon that Marlowe hadn't seen before, like he'd finally shed whatever invisible armor he usually wore. No tension coiled in his shoulders, no suspicious glances toward the door, no careful measuring of words. Just him, just her, just the low din of voices and the scent of whiskey and woodsmoke wrapping around them like a promise.

They were just starting to talk about him taking her riding out on the trail—somewhere past the creek at the base of the mountain, maybe, where the cottonwoods swayed tall—when someone bumped into Marlowe from behind.

It wasn't gentle. The drunk bastard hit her square between the shoulder blades, sending her lurching forward hard enough that her ribs slammed into the bar edge. Her drink went flying, glass shattering against the floor in a spray of ice and citrus.

"Jesus—shit, sorry lady," the guy slurred, stumbling back with the graceless swagger of someone three sheets to the wind. He was tall, red-faced, wearing a backwards baseball cap that had seen better decades, and sporting the kind of sheepish grin that said he thought his charm could fix anything. "Didn't see you there."

Marlowe caught herself against the bar, breath knocked loose, pain flaring sharp across her ribs. But she forced a smile anyway, the way women do when they're taught to make excuses for men's carelessness. "It's—it's fine, really."

But Rhett straightened beside her like a coiled spring suddenly released. The easy warmth in his expression died, replaced by something cold and dangerous. He stepped forward, deliberately slow, his body a wall between Marlowe and the drunk, blocking the guy's path with the kind of casual menace that came from knowing exactly how much damage he could do.

"You got eyes, don't you?" Rhett's voice dropped to a register that made conversations stop at nearby tables. “Say it again. Proper.”

The drunk blinked, his alcohol-fogged brain struggling to process the quiet menace in Rhett's tone. "I said sorry, man—"

“Then say it again,” Rhett said, crossing his arms. “And maybe this time, look her in the eye.”

There was a pause. The bar quieted a little around them. Not enough to be dramatic, but enough that the tension felt obvious.

The guy's face flushed redder, his jaw setting with drunken defiance. "I ain't repeating myself for some cowboy playing dress-up."

That was the wrong thing to say.

Rhett's hand moved to his belt, fingers drumming against the buckle with deceptive calm. "Playing dress-up?" He took another step forward, and now the drunk had to crane his neck to meet his eyes. That was when his boot caught on the slick patch of floor—maybe spilled beer, maybe just bad timing—and he lost his balance.

For one absurd moment, the quietly dangerous cowboy was all flailing arms and windmilling legs, his hat flying off to land somewhere in the sawdust. He was going down hard, and the drunk was already starting to smirk, the tension broken by the ridiculousness of it all.

Marlowe moved without thinking, her hands shooting out to catch Rhett by the front of his shirt just as gravity claimed him. The momentum nearly took them both down—he was solid, all lean muscle and stubborn pride—but she planted her sensible flats and pulled hard, steadying him against her.

Her drink-sticky fingers bunched in the cotton of his shirt, and for a moment they were pressed chest to chest, breathing hard, his hands finding her waist to steady himself. His hat was gone, his normally perfect hair falling loose across his forehead in dark strands that caught the golden light, and there was something almost vulnerable in the way he looked at her, like she'd just saved more than his dignity.

For a moment, they were chest to chest, her hand still bunched in his shirt, his fingers barely brushing her waist like he wasn’t sure if he was steady or just wanted to stay close.

“You impressed yet?” he asked, voice low and rough with something that might have been embarrassment or drunken desire or both.

Marlowe snorted, her laughter bubbling up before she could stop it. “You’re such a moron.”

He laughed too, the tension gone just like that, and the guy—muttering something about cowboys and bar theatrics—moved off in the other direction.

Still holding Rhett by the shirt, Marlowe gave him a shove. “Sit down before you bust your butt for real, Cowboy.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, plopping back onto the stool, but he was still grinning.

Across the bar, tucked into a booth shadowed by the ancient jukebox, the Pogues had witnessed the entire spectacle. Pope leaned back with raised eyebrows, clearly impressed by the drama. Kiara sipped her drink, lips twitching with barely suppressed amusement at the whole masculine display.

But JJ... JJ sat rigid as carved stone, his arm draped over the back of the booth in a pose that looked casual but wasn't, jaw clenched so tight it could crack teeth. His blue eyes were locked on Marlowe like a man watching his world burn, taking in every detail—the way she touched Rhett, the way she laughed, the way her hand still rested on the cowboy's chest like it belonged there.

His untouched beer sat warming on the table, forgotten in the face of something that hurt worse than any physical blow.

Rhett signaled the bartender for another round, sliding Marlowe's fresh drink across the bar with a little wink that made her pulse skip. The condensation was cold against her fingers, but his gaze was warm and steady, like a man who'd made up his mind about something important.

Marlowe wrapped her hands around the cold glass, gathering her courage. "You know," she said softly, "Wren told me something the other day."

He tilted his head slightly, waiting in that patient way of his.

"She said you were good for me." The words hung in the air between them, heavier than she'd intended. Marlowe took a sip to cover her nerves, tasting lime and something stronger underneath.

Rhett went very still, his expression shifting from playful to something more serious, more intent. When he spoke, his voice was quiet enough that she had to lean closer to hear him. "And what do you think about that?"

Marlowe didn't answer right away. She let the moment stretch, let him wonder, let the tension build between them like pressure in a storm system. When she finally spoke, her voice had dropped to something smoky and deliberate. "I think... she might be onto something."

The change in Rhett was immediate and electric. His tongue darted across his bottom lip, and the teasing spark in his eyes transformed into something hungrier, more certain. The air between them was charged with possibility.

"You saying you've been thinking about me, Marlowe Harper?" His voice was rough now, intimate in a way that made her name sound like a prayer or a curse.

"I'm saying it's hard not to," she replied, leaning closer until she could smell his cologne mixed with leather and something uniquely his. "Especially when you keep looking at me like that."

"Like what?" But he knew. God, he knew.

"Like you're two seconds from kissing me right here in the middle of this bar."

Rhett's eyes dropped to her lips, slower this time, more deliberate. When he looked back up, there was something almost predatory in his smile. "Darlin', I've been closer to one second."

The words hit her like a shot of good whiskey—warm and burning and making her brave. Marlowe felt her breath catch, felt that familiar flutter in her chest that had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with the way Rhett Abbott looked at her like she was the only woman left on Earth.

She was leaning closer, drawn by the magnetic pull of him, when a shadow fell across their little bubble of heat and want.

"Hey." JJ's voice cut through the moment like a blade, low and rough with barely controlled emotion. "Can I steal you for a second?"

The spell shattered. Marlowe blinked, suddenly aware of the world beyond Rhett's eyes, and turned to find JJ standing beside her like he'd materialized from smoke and bad decisions. He looked good—too good, in that effortless way he'd always had, blonde hair catching the light and blue eyes bright with something dangerous. But his expression was tight, jaw clenched, every line of his body screaming tension.

His gaze flicked to Rhett once, brief and loaded with the kind of masculine challenge that had started wars over smaller things.

Rhett didn't move from his stool, didn't even straighten. Just sat there, cool and collected as mountain snow, but Marlowe felt the shift in him—the way his posture changed, shoulders squaring almost imperceptibly. The hand resting on the bar curled slightly, and when he spoke, his voice carried the lazy confidence of a man who'd never lost a fight he actually wanted to win.

"Something I can help you with, friend?"

The word 'friend' carried about as much warmth as a January morning.

JJ's jaw ticked. "Wasn't talking to you."

"No," Rhett agreed, his smile sharp as broken glass, "but you're standing in my space, looking at the lady like you got something to say. So I figure that makes it my business."

The words hit the air like a gauntlet thrown down, and Marlowe felt the testosterone level in their immediate vicinity spike to dangerous levels. Around them, conversations quieted as people sensed the shift in atmosphere, the electric promise of violence that made smart folks start looking for exits.

JJ's hands flexed at his sides, and for a moment, Marlowe thought she was about to witness her past and present collide in the most literal way possible. But then his eyes found hers, and she saw something that made her chest tight—not anger, but hurt. Raw, honest, and painful to witness.

"Everything okay?" she asked quietly, though she already knew it wasn't.

JJ's voice was carefully controlled when he answered. "Just need a word. Won't take long."

She hesitated, heart hammering against her ribs. Behind her, she felt Rhett's presence like a warm wall, steady and solid. His thigh still barely touched hers, a point of contact that felt like an anchor in the sudden storm. But JJ... JJ looked like a man drowning, and she'd never been able to watch someone suffer when she could do something about it.

She turned to Rhett, their eyes meeting in a moment of silent communication. He gave her the barest nod—calm, cool, but something flickered behind his gaze. Understanding, maybe. Or resignation.

"One second," she said softly, the words meant more for Rhett than JJ.

And then she stood, feeling like she was walking toward the edge of a cliff.

The cool night air hit her like a slap after the bar's stifling heat, sharp with the scent of cigarette smoke, motor oil, and the distant promise of rain. The heavy door thunked shut behind them, muffling the music and chatter, leaving them in a pocket of relative quiet beside the bar's back steps. A single security light cast harsh shadows across the gravel parking lot, turning everything stark and dramatic.

JJ immediately started pacing, running his hands through his hair like he was trying to pull thoughts from his skull. His whole body was wound tight as a spring, energy crackling off him in waves that made the air feel electric and unstable.

"You gonna tell me what's going on?" he asked, spinning to face her with eyes that blazed in the harsh light. "Or are you just gonna keep acting like we never existed?"

Marlowe wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling exposed in the thin material of her dress. "JJ..."

"No, don't." He cut her off, voice rising with the kind of desperation that came from too many sleepless nights and too much cheap beer. "I saw you in there. With him. Touching him like... like he's the only one who gets to know you now. Like he's the only one who matters."

The pain in his voice was sharp enough to cut, and Marlowe felt it slice through her chest. This was the conversation she'd been dreading, the reckoning she'd known was coming since the moment she'd seen him walk into her new life.

"I saw the way you looked at him," JJ continued, his voice cracking slightly. "The way you laughed. Jesus, Marley, you used to look at me like that. Remember? Back when we were... when we were everything."

She did remember. God help her, she remembered it all—lazy summer afternoons on the boat, stolen kisses behind the Chateau, the way he used to make her feel like the center of his universe. But that felt like a lifetime ago now, like something that had happened to different people.

JJ dragged a hand over his face, and when he looked at her again, his eyes were bright with unshed tears. "You left. I know your dad made you, I know all the reasons why, but it still felt like you just... let me go. Like I didn't matter enough to fight for."

"That's not—"

"And now I'm here," he pressed on, words tumbling out like water through a broken dam, "and you barely look at me. Act like I'm a stranger. And I'm just supposed to be okay with that? I'm supposed to watch you with him and pretend it doesn't feel like my chest is caving in?"

The vulnerability in his voice nearly undid her. This was JJ stripped raw, all his usual bravado and devil-may-care attitude burned away to reveal the scared boy underneath. The one who'd been abandoned by everyone who was supposed to love him, who'd learned to expect disappointment as a matter of course.

"I'm not trying to pretend like we didn't happen," Marlowe said softly, her own voice thick with emotion. "But JJ, I came here to start over. To build something new. I'm not that girl anymore—the one who was so desperate to be loved that she'd accept whatever scraps she could get."

He flinched like she'd slapped him. "Is that what you think? That I gave you scraps?"

"I think you gave me what you could," she said, choosing her words carefully. "But what you could give... it wasn't enough. Not for the long haul."

JJ stared at her for a long moment, chest rising and falling with harsh breaths. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, defeated. "I still think about you. All the damn time. I see you with him, looking happy, looking... whole, and it's like I missed my shot. Like I had something perfect and I fucked it up and now I'm just... stuck."

The honesty in his words made her throat tight. She could see the boy she'd once loved in the lines of his face, could remember why she'd fallen for him in the first place. But she could also see the man he'd become—still struggling, still running from his demons, still expecting the world to break his heart.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, meaning it completely. "I never wanted to hurt you."

JJ laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Yeah, well. Wanting and doing are two different things, aren't they?"

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of their shared history settling between them like dust. Finally, JJ looked up at her, and she saw acceptance beginning to creep into his expression. Not happiness—not yet—but understanding.

"So what now?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Marlowe shook her head slowly, feeling older than her years. "I don't know. But I can't be the thing that holds you back, JJ."

He nodded, just once, sharp and painful. "Yeah. Yeah, I get it."

But as they stood there in the harsh light of the street lamp, both of them knew that understanding something and accepting it were two very different things. And neither of them was quite ready to let go of what they'd been, even if they both knew they couldn't go back to being those people again.

Inside the bar, through the dusty windows, they could see Rhett still sitting at the bar, patient as stone, waiting for her to come back to him. And somehow, that made everything both easier and infinitely more complicated.

Author's Note: The Pogues are finally making moves, secrets are starting to unravel, and our love triangle is reaching peak messiness. Buckle up, because things are about to get very interesting. P.S. - Yes, we know we're evil for ending it there. No, we're not sorry!

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[s1ut-4-rafe]

SECRETS IN WABANG | Part 9 | Outer Banks x Outer Range

Pairing 1 - Wren x Rafe Cameron

Pairing 2 - Marlowe x Rhett Abbott

Summary - Marlowe (Marley) and Wren thought they’d left the worst behind. They’re rebuilding their lives in the quiet town of Wabang, Wyoming — chasing peace, purpose, and a little distance from the chaos they escaped. But peace doesn’t last. When the Pogues and Camerons show up, everything begins to unravel. Old loves resurface. New dangers emerge. Secrets that were never meant to be found start clawing their way back into the light. And as the past collides with the present, Marley and Wren find themselves caught in the middle of a mystery bigger than they imagined, and emotions they aren’t ready to face.

Word Count - 3102

Content - Angst, enemies to lovers, unexpected alliance, betrayal, cowboys, emotional conflict, sfw/nsfw

WARNINGS - substance abuse

Navigation - | 08 | 09 | 9.5 |

The house was hollow. Not quiet, hollow. Like all the sound had been scraped out and left to rot in the corners. 

Wren stood barefoot in the kitchen, one hand braced against the counter, the other shaking as she poured herself a shot of bourbon she wasn’t supposed to know existed. Her grandfather thought hiding it behind the tools in the shed made it safe. He never met a girl like her. 

The burn hit the back of her throat, and she winced, but didn’t stop. She poured another. And another. Until her hands stopped shaking. Until the edges of the world softened enough to pretend it didn’t feel like her skin didn’t fit right anymore. 

Her palms were sweating and her jaw was clenched so tight it ached. 

She hadn’t eaten since yesterday, she didn’t plan to. Food sat like lead and she needed lightness. She needed out.

The bottle of pills sat on the kitchen table. Unmarked. She stole them from the medicine cabinet of a family friend’s house a week ago and didn’t even remember what they were. She didn’t care. She just needed something for the pain. Something to help her sleep. Whatever it was, it was something that made you forget your name if you took enough of it. 

She popped two. Dry. Didn’t blink. 

The house creaked behind her as the furnace kicked on, and for a split second, she swore she could hear boots in the hallway. Her dad’s boots. Heavy and deliberate. The sound of safety. But no, it was just her. Just ghosts and bourbon and two too many what-ifs clawing up her spine. By the time she made it back to her room, her hands were numb. She sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floorboards, tracing the grooves in the wood with her toe like they might spell out a reason. 

Two years since they zipped up what was left of his body in a bag. 

Two years since they told her he’d been found in her bedroom like that wasn’t the worst in the English language. Her head spun as she lay back, her back pressing into the mattress like a coffin lid closing. The room tilted. 

The pills hit. 

And for a moment, maybe ten, she thought that if she tried hard enough, she could sink through the bed, through the floor, through the world itself and disappear completely. That was the goal. Just until it stopped hurting. Her limbs were heavy, thoughts heavier. Everything blurred at the edges, and colors bled into each other. She fumbled for her phone. Not because she wanted help. Because she needed someone to hear her. To hear what it sounded like when a girl came undone. She pressed Luke’s contact. It rang, and rang. Then..

“Wren?”

Her throat burned. “Do you think he’s better off?”

There was a beat of silence, just the faint buzz of the call, heavy and empty. “Who?” “My dad.” She dragged a shaking hand through her hair, fingernails scraping her scalp. “I keep thinking…maybe he got the better end of it. Maybe it should’ve been me. Maybe I’m just the part that got left behind.” “Wren–Jesus, what are you on?” Wren laughed; it sounded like glass shattering. “I don’t know..something. Enough.” 

“Where the hell are your grandparents?” “Church thing. All weekend.” Her voice went distant. “It’s so quiet, Luke. I thought I could handle it. But I can’t. It’s like he’s still here and also not, and I don’t know which one hurts worse.” He swore under his breath. “I’m coming to get you,” he said. “Don’t move. Don't–don't do anything stupid, Wren. Just stay where you are.” But she wasn’t listening anymore. Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t seeing. The pills were heavy in her blood.

The phone slipped from her hand.

The world bled to black. 

The nightmare clung to her like smoke.

Wren bolted upright on the couch, her breath ragged and sharp, a cold sheen of sweat on her back despite the rising heat of the morning. The world snapped into focus in jagged, too-bright pieces—the ceiling fan spinning lazily above, the light streaking through blinds, her fingers clutched in the edge of the throw blanket like it was a lifeline.

It had felt real. Too real.

The pills. The trembling hands. The cold tile floor of her kitchen. Luke’s voice pulled her out of it—slurred, desperate, scared. He’d been the only one who stayed. Not because he understood her, but because he needed saving too.

She swallowed hard, grounding herself in the scent of coffee and butter, something sizzling faintly in the kitchen. The nightmare didn’t hold as strongly in the daylight.

Marlowe’s voice floated in, soft and unbothered. She was humming to herself off-key, the sound of a pan scraping gently in the background. It was ordinary. Normal. Safe.

A minute later, Marlowe padded into the room, barefoot and carrying two plates. Her hair was a mess, one of Rhett’s oversized shirts sliding off her shoulder.

“Morning,” she said, quiet and careful. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Wren blinked a few times, trying to push the leftover haze from her brain. “You didn’t.”

Marlowe set the plates on the coffee table and handed her one. “Toast, scrambled eggs, and a serious lack of bacon. We suffer through it together.”

Wren huffed a half-laugh, the kind that hurt a little in her chest. “You made breakfast.”

“I burned the eggs a little,” Marlowe said. “But I figure it still counts. I took the burnt ones.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, Wren picking at her food, her appetite slow to catch up with the world around her.

Then quietly, Marlowe said, “Nightmare?”

Wren nodded. She didn’t elaborate—not yet.

Marlowe didn’t press. She just nudged Wren’s knee with hers gently. “You’re safe now. Just me and you here. Nothing’s chasing you…But I know how scary I can be.”

After a beat, Wren exhaled, voice low. “It was about before. When things were bad. I remembered how empty it felt. Like I was already gone, just... breathing out of habit.”

Marlowe didn’t speak right away, just leaned in slightly. “You’re not gone, Wren. You’ve come a long way from there.”

“I had no one,” Wren murmured. “Except Luke. He stayed. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

“Well,” Marlowe said, meeting her eyes, “you’ve got more than him now. You’ve got me. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Wren blinked hard. “You mean that?”

“You’re my sister, Wren,” Marlowe said. “Blood doesn’t matter. You matter. Not to mention, you know all my secrets.”

For a long second, neither of them said a word. Wren just looked at her like no one had ever told her that before and meant it.

Then Wren cleared her throat, eyes darting toward the window as she pushed a few eggs around on her plate. “I’ve got the day off today. Was thinking about catching up on sleep but... that kind of backfired.”

Marlowe smiled. “Yeah, not exactly restful.”

“I might take the horses out later,” Wren added, her tone cautious, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to talk about good things. “Go out past the ridge. It’s quiet out there. No one running their mouth.”

“Sounds like exactly what you need,” Marlowe said. Wren shrugged, but her mouth twitched. “You can come. If you promise not to talk the whole damn time.”

“No promises,” Marlowe said, grinning. “I’ve got a lot of opinions about wildflowers and clouds. Luckily for you, I have to work today.”

“I bet you do.”

Wren took another bite of toast and leaned back, the worst of the morning fading into something manageable. Marlowe stole a triangle of egg off her plate and popped it into her mouth before Wren could swat her.

The midday sun poured across the weathered porch boards, soaking deep into the wood and filling the air with the drowsy hum of summer. Somewhere in the sprawling oak trees, birds chirped in lazy intervals, their songs blending with the whisper of leaves. The breeze drifted across the yard, carrying with it the sweet scent of sun-dried grass and the faint dust kicked up from the long gravel driveway that stretched toward the main road.

Inside, just beyond the mesh of the screen door, Wren stood barefoot on the cool hardwood floorboards of the front room. A chipped ceramic mug warmed her palm, steam curling up from the black coffee within. Her free hand braced against the doorframe as she peered out through the screen, watching the play of light and shadow across the empty yard. Marlowe had left hours ago for work, his truck long since disappeared down the drive.

She hadn't expected company—not today, not ever, really.

Then came the knock. Sharp and deliberate, the kind that didn't ask for permission but demanded attention.

She rolled her eyes skyward, set down her mug on the nearby windowsill, and nudged the screen door open with her hip. Leaning against the frame, she kept herself only half-visible in the cool shadows of the threshold, one eyebrow arching as she took in her unexpected visitor.

"You lost, Cameron?"

Rafe stood on her porch like he had every right to be there, one scuffed boot braced casually on the bottom step, the other planted firmly on the sun-bleached boards. His faded jeans hung loose at the hips, and a sun-bleached flannel shirt was rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned forearms. The backwards Carhartt cap should have made him look local—would have, if not for the thin gold chain glinting at his throat and the way nothing about him was ever truly unpolished. Too clean to be from around here. Too sure of himself to care what anyone thought about it.

"Nope," he said easily, his voice carrying that familiar lazy drawl. "Just out looking for my dog."

Wren didn't move from her position, but her eyes sharpened. She could spot a lie from a mile away, especially one delivered with that particular brand of Cameron confidence.

"You don't have a dog."

He gave her a look—half-offended, half-amused—like she'd just insulted his character. "I do, actually. Sort of."

"Sort of?" The skepticism in her voice could have cut glass.

"Not legally." He tilted his head, and she caught the hint of mischief in his eyes. "But we've got a bond, me and Shithead."

She stared at him for a long moment, her expression utterly unimpressed. "Shithead."

"Mmhm." He nodded with mock solemnity, as if discussing something of great importance. "He's got trust issues. Traumatized. Probably my fault, if I'm being honest. Only eats rotisserie chicken from the deli counter. He's a black lab—about yea high." He gestured vaguely. "Have you seen him?"

Wren blinked slowly, deliberately, the way someone might when witnessing something particularly stupid. "Do you get dumber in the daylight?"

Rafe's shoulders sagged slightly, and he sighed, dropping the act like a discarded jacket. The easy grin slipped from his face, replaced by something more serious.

"Fuck it. Never mind the dog."

She stepped out onto the porch then, her bare feet silent on the warm boards. She blocked the doorway with her body but made no move to retreat back inside. Arms crossed over her chest, coffee mug forgotten on the sill behind her.

"So," she said, her gaze steady and unforgiving, "are you gonna tell me why you're really here? Or do you want to keep workshopping your stand-up routine?"

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he walked over to lean against the porch rail, the old wood creaking slightly beneath his weight. His posture looked relaxed—one elbow propped, head tilted back toward the sun—but there was tension in the set of his jaw, something careful in the way he chose his words.

"I overheard Luke this morning," he said finally, his voice losing its playful edge. "At the feed store. He was with Trevor."

Wren's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but she said nothing.

"He said your name," Rafe continued, his eyes flicking toward her—calm on the surface, but sharp underneath. "Not in a way I liked. Made a threat. Vague, but pointed. Real scumbag shit."

Wren's expression barely shifted, but her posture did. Her arms folded tighter across her chest, shoulders locking into place like armor sliding into position.

"So what," she said, her voice flat, "you showed up here to keep watch over me?"

"I came out here because if something happened to you and I knew something and said nothing..." He trailed off, his jaw flexing as he worked through the words. "I wouldn't forgive myself."

She didn't answer right away. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant sound of wind through the trees and the occasional creak of the old house settling. Finally, she reached for her mug, took a slow sip of coffee, then let it hang loosely by her side.

"That supposed to be sweet?" she asked, her voice quiet but edged with something dangerous.

"I'm just being honest," he said, meeting her gaze directly. "Don't ask me for more than that."

A breeze rustled through the leaves around them, and the sun caught in her hair, turning the chestnut strands to burnished gold. She hated the way it felt like standing in a spotlight, exposed and vulnerable.

"You're impossible," she muttered, but there was less bite in it than before.

His mouth curved into a smirk. "And you're infuriating. But here we are."

She moved past him then, her shoulder brushing his ever so slightly as she walked to the edge of the porch. The brief contact sent a jolt through both of them, though neither acknowledged it.

"If this is your idea of flirting," she said, gripping the railing and staring out at the yard, "it's pathetic."

He stepped after her, slow and deliberate, like a predator closing distance. "Yet somehow, here you are—broad daylight, coffee in hand—still letting me stand on your porch."

"Maybe I'm just waiting for the right moment to shove you off it."

He grinned, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to something almost intimate. "God, I love when you talk like that."

She turned then, her eyes narrowing into slits of green fire.

"Go home, Rafe."

"Say it like you mean it," he challenged, his voice soft but insistent, "and maybe I will."

She didn't. He didn't move.

The standoff stretched between them, thick with unspoken tension.

"What did you think would happen?" she asked, her tone shifting to something almost mocking. "You'd show up here, spin some bullshit story about a missing dog, and I'd be so touched by your concern that I'd invite you in for sweet tea and conversation?"

He gave a one-shouldered shrug, that infuriating grin spreading wider across his face. "Figured once I saw you were still standing and breathing, we might go for a little search around the property..."

His grin turned wicked.

"And maybe—just maybe—you'd be sweet enough to let me stay a while longer."

He paused, then added with a wink that made her want to hit him: "It's the least you could do for me, since we didn't find poor Shithead, sugar."

She turned slowly, deliberately, until she was facing him fully. When she spoke, there was danger in every carefully measured syllable.

"Call me that again," she said, her voice low and razor-edged, "and I swear to God I'll deck you."

He stepped closer, his expression suddenly unreadable, something darker flickering in his eyes. "Do it."

Her breath caught in her throat.

"See if I flinch."

The air between them changed in an instant. Not thick with summer heat, but charged with something sharper—like the electric tension that comes before a storm. When she spoke again, her voice had dropped to barely above a whisper.

"Do you get off on this?"

He matched her tone, his words coming out rough and honest. "More than I should. You're irresistible when you're angry."

She scoffed, but her heart was beating faster now, hammering against her ribs. They were standing too close, too bold in the unforgiving daylight where anyone could see.

"Is that why you keep showing up here?" she asked, tilting her head with calculated slowness. "Like some mangy stray dog looking for scraps?"

She paused, letting the words sink in before delivering the killing blow: "Or maybe you just like being told what to do."

Rafe went completely still. His entire posture shifted, muscles tightening like something caged and dangerous had stirred to life inside him.

"Is that what you think?" he asked, his voice barely controlled.

"I think," she said, stepping just a breath closer, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, "you'd crawl if I told you to."

She leaned in, her lips almost brushing his ear as she whispered: "Sit. Stay. Beg."

His whole body went rigid, breath catching audibly in his throat.

"Watch your mouth," he growled, the words coming out strangled.

And she smiled like a match had been struck in the darkness.

He moved then—only a fraction of an inch—but it was enough to erase what little space remained between them.

"Say one more thing like that," he warned, his voice rough with something that might have been desperation, "and I swear I'll—"

He didn't finish. Couldn't. The line between them was too thin now, stretched to its breaking point, and one more word would snap it entirely.

"You'll what?" she pushed, her voice a whispered challenge.

He stared down at her, jaw set, muscles coiled tight with restraint. "Whatever you want. Just say it."

Then, leaning in just enough to let her feel the heat of his breath: "Just say please."

She didn't. But her breath stuttered, and his smile said he heard it loud and clear.

"You're out of your damn mind," she managed to say.

"Good thing I've got you hooked," he replied, his voice full of dark satisfaction.

Her smirk was half warning, half surrender—a white flag raised in a war she wasn't sure she wanted to win.

Wren took a deliberate step back toward the front door, her movements fluid and controlled, cool as spring water. "Get home safe, Rafe."

And with one decisive motion, she shut the screen door between them. The soft click of the latch was firm and final.

He stood alone on her porch, late afternoon sunlight warm against his face, still grinning like she'd reached inside his chest and set his heart on fire.

And maybe, just maybe, she had.

Author’s Note: Wren’s been quiet too long. The past is clawing its way back in, and Rafe? He knows exactly how to push her buttons. If you’re feeling a bit feral—same!!

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[s1ut-4-rafe]

SECRETS IN WABANG | Part 8 | Outer Banks x Outer Range

Pairing 1 - Wren x Rafe Cameron

Pairing 2 - Marlowe x Rhett Abbott

Summary - Marlowe (Marley) and Wren thought they’d left the worst behind. They’re rebuilding their lives in the quiet town of Wabang, Wyoming — chasing peace, purpose, and a little distance from the chaos they escaped. But peace doesn’t last. When the Pogues and Camerons show up, everything begins to unravel. Old loves resurface. New dangers emerge. Secrets that were never meant to be found start clawing their way back into the light. And as the past collides with the present, Marley and Wren find themselves caught in the middle of a mystery bigger than they imagined, and emotions they aren’t ready to face.

Word Count - 4370

Content - Angst, enemies to lovers, unexpected alliance, betrayal, cowboys, emotional conflict, sfw/nsfw, brief mention of drugs in this chapter

Navigation - | 07 | 08 | 09 |

Marlowe woke to the sound of birds and the low hum of ranch life outside the window—quieter than her apartment, but not silent. She blinked at the slatted sunlight cutting across the quilt, momentarily disoriented by the pinewood walls and smell of brewed coffee floating faintly from the kitchen. Then she remembered: Wren’s house.

Marlowe had driven them both home last night. She’d tossed a blanket at Wren once they got in, muttering something about crashing in the bedroom, and then vanished down the hall.

Marlowe reached for her phone on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a soft vibration in her palm. One unopened message from Sarah—the one from last night. The one she hadn’t wanted to open.

She sighed and thumbed it open:

12:51 AM: Hey Marlowe, just a heads up— We tried cutting through the Abbott land today. Didn’t go well. Rhett was there. It didn’t escalate, but… you should know.

Beneath it sat three more texts, all sent hours later.

2:19 AM: Why aren’t you answering? 2:26 AM: JJ hasn’t said a word since. He looks like he’s gonna hurt someone. 3:04 AM: We should’ve listened to you, Mar.

Marlowe stared at the screen for a long moment, jaw tight. No mention of Ward or Rafe. That was… something, at least. But the rest?

She could picture JJ now, jaw set, eyes hard, that familiar storm cloud rolling in behind his silence.

She could picture Rhett, too—the way he looked at JJ when he caught them. 

She sat up, pushing tangled hair from her face and sliding her legs over the side of the bed. The hardwood floor was cool under her feet.

There was a sharp flicker of guilt in her chest. She should tell Wren about Rhett spotting them on his family’s land, somewhere they absolutely shouldn’t have been.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she locked her phone, placed it facedown on the nightstand, and sat there, elbows on her knees, breathing slow and shallow.

Her eyes landed on a photo tucked into the edge of the mirror across the room—Wren on horseback, younger, grinning. The kind of joy Marlowe didn’t see on her friend’s face much anymore.

Wren has enough to deal with.

One lie between them wouldn’t matter. Not right now.

She stood, stretched the stiffness from her limbs, and reached for the flannel she’d draped over the chair the night before. From the kitchen came the sound of mugs clinking and the rustle of a cereal box.

Wren was up.

And Marlowe had a decision to make.

The smell of cinnamon and burnt toast hit Marlowe before her eyes had fully adjusted to the light. She squinted against the golden wash of morning flooding through the window and stepped quietly into the kitchen, cradling her phone in one hand and rubbing the heel of the other into her temple. Her head ached from a sleep too heavy to be restful, weighed down by things left unsaid.

Wren stood at the stove, barefoot in dark sweats and a tank top, her hair still damp from a shower. She moved with her usual quiet focus, flipping a piece of toast in the skillet with a touch too much force. Marlowe knew Wren cooked like she lived—precise, guarded, and always just a little bit tense, like she was waiting for something to go wrong.

“You’re up,” Wren said without turning around.

“Barely,” Marlowe muttered. She pulled a stool out from the kitchen island and sank into it. “Are you feeling alive?”

“Debatable,” Wren said, sliding a spatula under the eggs. “I didn’t remember you staying the night.”

“You face-planted on the couch before you could argue with me about it.”

“Sounds about right.”

Wren finally turned around and set a plate down in front of her—eggs, toast, a few orange slices arranged half-heartedly. The effort made something twist in Marlowe’s chest.

“Thanks,” she said, voice lower now.

Wren shrugged, sipping from her chipped mug. “Didn’t want to die alone in case my liver gave out.”

Marlowe cracked a smile. “Consider me your emergency contact.”

Wren leaned against the counter, wrapping the blanket tighter around her. Her eyes flicked to Marlowe—too quick, too knowing.

“You doing okay?”

Marlowe froze for half a second, then forced a yawn. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“You sure?” Wren tilted her head. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That thing where your face says ‘I’m fine’ but your energy says you just buried a body.”

Marlowe shoved a piece of toast in her mouth. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Wren let it go—but only on the surface. She turned back to the sink, rinsing a pan, but her shoulders stayed tight.

Marlowe kept eating. Slowly. Mechanically. Her mind drifted, her body still present in the kitchen, but her memory... it slipped sideways.

Back.

Before the ranch, before the rodeos, before Wren and Wyoming and secrets that ran like barbed wire beneath her skin.

It was hot.Sticky-hot.

A coastal summer night where the air clung to your skin like salt and sweat, where even the breeze was thick and lazy, drunk on humidity.

Marlowe’s legs dangled off the edge of the boat dock, her heels tapping absently against the sun-warped wood. Her shoes were long gone—somewhere back on the sand near the bonfire or maybe floating downstream, she didn’t care. Her lungs were still burning from the sprint, but she was laughing. Breathless and giddy and glowing with adrenaline.

Beside her, JJ dropped down with a heavy splash of water, shirtless and soaked to the bone, curls stuck to his forehead like seaweed. He was grinning like a maniac, one arm wrapped tightly around a suspiciously branded red cooler—stolen, clearly. Still dripping.

“Tell me again,” Marlowe said between breaths, pushing sweat-damp hair off her face, “how this was your best idea?”

JJ gave her that lopsided grin she knew too well. The one that meant this is going to be a story someday.

“I said it was a good idea,” he corrected, eyes sparkling. “Never said it was smart.”

The boat captain they’d narrowly escaped was still shouting somewhere upriver, a furious string of curses cutting through the cicadas and laughter in the distance. The other Pogues were a mess of shadows and limbs, crashing through reeds and ducking behind the seawall, Kiara shouting something about not being able to swim with a damn beer in each hand.

And yet—Marlowe had never felt more alive.

The chaos, the wind, the sliver of moonlight catching on the water like glass—it all felt like hers. Like the world had cracked open just wide enough for her to crawl in and forget everything else. No family expectations. No secrets. Just the heat of JJ pressed against her side and the kind of freedom that only came in moments like this.

He opened the cooler with a grin and pulled out two dripping bottles. Without hesitation, he handed her one and clinked his against it like it was top-shelf champagne.

“To chaos,” he said, voice low but amused.

“To hiding under docks until the cops leave,” she replied, flashing him a grin.

They drank.

She wasn’t even sure what it was—cheap beer, probably—but it was cold, and it was earned. It tasted like salt and sweat and recklessness.

JJ leaned back on his elbows, the dock creaking beneath them. “Admit it. You love hanging out with us.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t.” She nudged his knee with hers. “I just didn’t expect to be chased by a forty-year-old yacht dad with anger issues.”

JJ laughed. A full, open sound that echoed across the water. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

And for a while, that’s all it was.

Laughter. Breathless jokes. The occasional nervous glance over their shoulders, but never real fear. Not then.

Back in the OBX, everything had felt reckless and stupid, sure. But safe in its own strange way. Like, no matter how wild things got, the Pogues would figure it out. They always did. That summer had been a blur of stolen beers, near-arrests, midnight swims, and the kind of belonging Marlowe had never dared to wish for before.

She wasn’t one of them—not fully. But JJ had always made her feel like she was.Like she belonged on the dock, soaked in moonlight, breathless and free.

But now…

Now the stakes weren’t dock parties and stolen drinks. Now they were crossing into hostile land and getting caught by people who didn’t shrug things off with a laugh. Now the friends she’d once outrun cops with were tangled in something bigger—something darker—and she wasn’t sure they knew just how deep it went.

She’d already left JJ behind once. Walked away from that reckless warmth and wild loyalty.

And now, watching him edge toward something that felt like it could swallow him whole… Marlowe wasn’t sure if she could do it again.

Wren’s voice cut through the memory like a knife.

“Marlowe.”

The voice was quiet but firm, pulling her back from the edge of her thoughts. She blinked, forcing herself to sit up straight.

“Sorry,” she said softly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and toast, early morning light spilling across the cluttered counters. But none of it seemed to touch the knot tightening in her chest.

“You were a million miles away,” Wren said, crossing her arms and leaning on the counter, watching her like she could read her mind.

Marlowe’s gaze dropped to the chipped surface beneath her fingers. “Yeah… just a long night,” she muttered. “That’s all.”

Wren didn’t say anything at first, but Marlowe could feel the weight of her stare, sharp and unyielding. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.

Finally, Wren spoke, voice low and steady, “I know when you’re holding back. You can either tell me what’s going on now, or I’ll find out on my own—and you know how that usually goes.”

Marlowe hesitated, the room suddenly too small. Her fingers tightened around her phone, sitting next to her plate. With a slow breath, she pushed it across the counter toward Wren.

“Here,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s all there.”

Wren’s hands closed around the phone, thumbs flicking over the screen with practiced ease. The first message was the one Marlowe had woken up to—the text from Sarah. Then three more: about the failed Abbott land crossing, JJ’s mood, and Sarah’s unanswered questions.

“They did what?” Wren’s eyebrows shot up, disbelief cutting through the quiet. She looked back up, eyes intense now. “When you said they wouldn’t listen, I didn’t think they’d try this in less than twenty-four hours.”

Marlowe shrugged, unable to meet Wren’s gaze. “They’re desperate.”

“Have you talked to Rhett yet?” Wren’s voice dropped, serious now.

“No. Not yet.” Marlowe shook her head.

“And Royal? Does Royal know?”

Marlowe’s lips pressed together, reluctant. “Not that I know of..”

Wren ran a hand through her dark hair, the motion slow, thoughtful. “This isn’t just some reckless game anymore. If they’re pushing this hard, it means they’re playing for keeps.”

Marlowe met her eyes, the gravity of the situation settling between them. “I’m scared, Wren. About Rhett, about JJ… about what this all means.”

Wren’s posture softened. She stepped closer, her voice steady but warm. “You’re not in this alone. Next time, you’re not running it by yourself, alright?”

Marlowe gave a small, tired smile, the tension easing just a little. “Okay.”

They shared a quiet moment, the kitchen humming softly around them, as the morning light grew stronger through the windows.

Marlowe stepped onto the creaky porch, the morning sun barely cutting through the light haze. She needed air — needed space away from the kitchen where Wren’s steady presence both comforted and reminded her how tangled everything had become.

Marlowe’s thumb hovered over JJ’s contact a moment longer than she wanted. The tension from yesterday still clung to her skin, heavy and sharp. She tapped the call button.

It rang twice before JJ answered, voice low, tight, like every word cost him.

“Marlowe.”

She forced a small breath. “JJ… What happened? Sarah said Rhett caught you on his land last night? What were you even trying to do?”

He sighed, the sound rough and distant. “Look, don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“We can’t just pretend none of this is happening,” Marlowe said, her voice faltering.

His tone sharpened. “Pretend? Marlowe, we’re caught in the middle of something that’s way bigger than us, and you’re acting like it’s a game.”

Her heart clenched. There was always this undercurrent between them — the past mistakes, the things left unsaid, the what-ifs that hovered like ghosts. JJ had always been the reckless half of their pair — the one who pulled her into chaos, who made her feel alive and terrified all at once. Around him, she was vulnerable and wild, the version of herself she tried to hide from the world.

“I’m not playing games,” she said softly. “I just need to know where you stand.”

“Right now?” His voice was low, almost broken. “I don’t even know where I stand with myself.”

The pause stretched, heavy with everything unsaid.

Suddenly, Kiara’s voice cut in, sharper than Marlowe expected.

“Marlowe, just hold on.” Kiara’s tone was clipped, authoritative. “We’re regrouping to plan next steps. You don’t have the full picture.”

“I don’t have the full picture… What’s that supposed to mean?” Marlowe asked, suspicion tightening her throat.

“There’s a lot going on behind the scenes. Stuff that changes everything.”

The line went dead before Marlowe could respond.

She stared at her phone, heart pounding. The fracture in their group was deeper than she realized. And her connection to JJ — that messy, magnetic pull — felt like it was slipping away faster than she could catch.

Marlowe stared at her phone for a long moment after the call with Kiara cut out. Her thumb hovered over the screen, scrolling back through the earlier messages from Sarah—the urgency, the guilt, the panic tucked between the words. 

JJ’s silence had settled heavy in her chest like a storm front, thick and unmoving. Everything felt like it was splintering in slow motion, and she was still standing in the center, trying to hold onto something steady.

She opened Sarah’s thread and typed without overthinking:

“When you all figure out the next steps, let me in on it this time. I want to be part of this.”

She stared at the blinking cursor after she sent it. Too blunt? Too late?

Seconds later, Sarah replied: “You got it.”

That was it. No explanation, no heart-to-heart, no apology. Just the bare minimum. Just enough to remind Marlowe that she was still on the outside, still half-trusted. Still watching from a distance while the people she used to call her own made reckless decisions behind her back.

Marlowe’s fingers trembled slightly as she picked the phone back up. She scrolled through her contacts, paused over Rhett’s name, and tapped call before she could second-guess it.

It rang once. Twice. Three times.

Then he answered, low and unreadable. “Hey, Marlowe.”

His tone was steady, but not casual. Guarded, maybe. Expecting something.

She exhaled, trying to keep her voice calm. “Can we talk? Somewhere quiet. I think we need to clear the air.”

There was a pause. Not long, but long enough for her stomach to twist.

Then: “Meet me at the rodeo grounds in an hour.”

He didn’t ask why. Didn’t hesitate. Just gave her the place and the time. Like he already knew this conversation had been coming, like part of him was waiting for her to finally stop dancing around it.

Marlowe stared at the screen after the call ended. She could feel it—something shifting. Not peace. Not clarity. But maybe the start of it.

If this was going to be the line between the past and whatever came next… she had to step over it.

The late morning sun hung high, bright but not punishing, casting a hazy golden glow over the empty rodeo arena. Dust drifted in slow, lazy swirls between the rails of the worn wooden fence, rising in soft spirals with every restless gust of wind. Somewhere out near the edge, a sun-bleached tarp flapped against the corrugated siding of a storage shed, forgotten and fraying at the edges.

Marlowe spotted Rhett near the far side of the ring, one boot hooked casually on the bottom rail. His hands hung loose at his sides, posture easy but alert, like he’d been waiting—but not necessarily for her. Or maybe just not expecting her to show.

In daylight, he looked different. Still broad-shouldered, still quietly coiled like someone who didn’t flinch when things got rough—but softer around the edges now. Less like the man the Pogues had nearly gone toe-to-toe with last night, more like the one who’d walked her home and asked nothing in return.

Still, his eyes held that same sharp steadiness. Not hard. Not cold. But measured. Like he was weighing what kind of version of her had come walking across the dirt today.

They didn’t speak right away. The silence between them stretched out long and taut, heavy with everything that had gone unsaid for weeks—maybe longer.

Finally, Rhett broke it. His voice was low and even, his drawl carrying just enough gravel to ground it.

“I know this ain’t easy for you.”

Marlowe blinked. The lump in her throat rose fast, a tight knot of guilt and exhaustion. “It’s not,” she said quietly, her voice almost lost to the breeze. “JJ... and you. It’s not simple.”

Rhett nodded once, slow. “Didn’t expect it to be.” He looked past her for a second, toward the horizon. “I know what it’s like—when the past still has its hooks in you. When people show up and start asking questions you thought you’d buried.”

Her eyes fell to the dirt. She could almost hear JJ’s voice—reckless, teasing, brave in all the wrong ways. The memory of his hand pulling hers through tall grass at midnight, both of them breathless and laughing like they weren’t already doomed.

“But you’re here,” Rhett said after a beat. His tone didn’t shift much, but something in it softened. “So I gotta ask—where do I stand in all this?”

The question stopped her cold. It wasn’t sharp. Wasn’t needy. Just real.

“I don’t know yet,” she admitted, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “I don’t even know where I stand.”

Something in Rhett’s expression eased—not disappointed, just accepting. He stepped forward once, slow and careful. Not to crowd her. Just close enough that she could feel the quiet pull of his presence, steady and sure. A contrast to the chaos still clinging to her like smoke.

Whatever it was they were becoming… it wasn’t built on old promises. It was built here, on open ground.

“Whatever’s goin’ on,” Rhett said finally, his voice quieter now, “with JJ, with you—hell, with Ward and all the mess that’s followin’ him—I just want you to know…”

He paused, making sure she was really listening.

“If you need me? I’ll show up. Every time.”

The words weren’t dramatic. They didn’t try to win her over. But they landed hard—like something solid to stand on when everything else felt like shifting sand.

Marlowe’s chest tightened. Not with relief exactly, but with the feeling of being seen. Really seen.

She gave a small nod, the sun glinting in her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered. “That… means more than I know how to say.”

Rhett didn’t smile, not quite. But there was something quieter there—something steady. Something waiting, but not pushing.

And for the first time in a long while, Marlowe didn’t feel like she was running from something.

She felt like she might finally be choosing something.

Somewhere on the far side of Wabang, Wren squinted into the morning sun, the tailgate of her truck thudding shut with a sharp bang that echoed across the mostly empty lot.

It was supposed to be a quick trip. Pick up fencing wire, a socket wrench, maybe a pack of Marlboros from the station—nothing more than a breath of quiet before the chaos inevitably found her again.

But then she saw it.

Ward Cameron’s truck—gleaming and spotless—parked outside the feed store like it belonged in a damn magazine spread, not the dust-bitten backroads of Wyoming. Too polished. Too pretty. Like it had no business sweating under the real sun.

She froze, instinct already tightening her chest. From behind a neighboring truck, she edged into the shadows.

And then came him.

Rafe.

Leaning against the passenger side like he had all the time in the world, scrolling lazily through his phone. Rolled-up sleeves, sunglasses slung from his collar, face unreadable. He didn’t look nervous. He didn’t even look bored. Just… waiting. Like the entire town was a stage, and he was killing time between acts.

She was still deciding whether to turn back or walk up and ruin both their mornings when the Tillerson boys appeared.

Trevor first, that shit-eating grin already in place. Cigarette tucked behind one ear, swaggering like a man who thought he owned the dirt. Luke followed, slower, meaner. His gaze locked on Rafe like a vulture circling something already bleeding.

They didn’t touch him. Didn’t have to. The tone was enough—sharp and baiting, all teeth and show.

“Well, look who’s slumming it,” Trevor drawled. “So, what is it this time? Daddy keeping you out here for rehab-lite, or is this just some rich boy exile ‘til your name clears back home?”

Luke snorted. “Heard something about the sheriff too. But hell, I can’t keep your rap sheet straight, Cameron.”

Rafe didn’t flinch. Didn’t rise. But Wren saw it—the tick of his jaw, the way his shoulders went stone-still. His thumbs paused mid-scroll.

Something in her snapped.

She was moving before she even thought about it, boots crunching across gravel like a warning shot. Hair wild in the wind, jaw locked tight. She didn’t care who saw.

“That’s enough testosterone for one parking lot, boys.”

Her voice cut through the space like barbed wire—low and cold and sharp enough to draw blood.

Trevor turned, that same shit-eating grin stretching wider. “Oh, look. Miss Maddox. Here to play bodyguard?”

“I’m not rescuing anyone,” she said coolly. “I’m just tired of hearing the two of you try to out-stupid each other in public.”

Luke raised a brow, stepping forward just a hair. “So it’s true then? What I said last night—about you and him?”

Wren’s glare could’ve scorched concrete. “If I needed a reminder of why I moved out of town, you just gave it.”

Trevor’s grin faltered. Luke’s mouth curled, but he didn’t push it. Not this time.

They lingered just long enough to show their backs weren’t broken, then slunk away around the corner of the store, muttering under their breath.

Silence crept back in, hot and humming.

Rafe didn’t look up. Just stood there, thumbs brushing his screen like none of it mattered. “Didn’t need backup, Wrenley.”

Her arms folded tight. “That wasn’t for you.”

“Sure felt like it.”

She turned toward him, frustration rising. “They’re assholes. I shut them up. Don’t make it into something it’s not.”

Finally, Rafe looked at her—eyes cool, sharp, unreadable. “Bit late for that.”

Wren exhaled hard, heat flushing up her neck. Her fingers twitched, like they couldn’t decide whether to shove him or light a cigarette just to have something to do.

“People love to run their mouths about what they don’t understand,” she muttered. “I’ve seen it before.”

It slipped out before she could stop it. The crack in the wall.

Rafe caught it. Of course he did. “That sounds personal.”

Her jaw flexed. “Don’t read into it.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

But he was lying, and they both knew it.

The air between them shifted—tense, electric. That moment just before lightning splits the sky.

She started to turn. Cut the cord. Let it die.

Then Rafe’s voice, low and cutting, slid in just behind her.

“I don’t peg you for a cokehead.”

She froze.

He took his time with the rest, eyes locked on her like a challenge. “Or maybe pills. You're a glovebox girl, Maddox? What’s your flavor?”

She turned back around, slow and dangerous. Her gaze narrowed into something lethal. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just yanked the pin out of a live grenade. “You’ve got that look. Like someone who knows what the bottom smells like.”

Gravel crunched under her boots as she crossed the distance, eyes locked to his like crosshairs. Close enough to taste the tension in the air.

“You don’t know a thing about me.”

“No,” Rafe said, soft and certain. “But that reaction? That told me a lot.”

She almost laughed. Almost. “You want a medal?”

“I want to know why you go full guns-blazing the second someone else’s name gets dragged through the dirt.”

His voice dipped lower. Darker. “You got secrets, Wrenley.”

“So do you.”

They stood there—fire and gasoline. Waiting for one of them to strike the match.

Then: the sound of boots, casual but firm. The moment snapped.

Ward Cameron rounded the corner, hoisting a fifty-pound feed bag like it weighed nothing.

“Well, aren’t you two a picture,” he said lightly, setting the bag in the bed of the truck. “We gettin' into fights before breakfast now?”

Wren stepped back, heart still thrumming in her chest. “Just a friendly chat.”

Ward chuckled. “Sure. Let’s stick to that.”

He turned toward her, all smooth charm. “Always good to see you, Wren. Hope the day’s treatin’ you alright.”

She gave him a small nod, voice tight. “Morning, Ward.”

“Come on, son,” Ward said, clapping Rafe’s shoulder. “Plenty more to haul, and not much daylight.”

They moved toward the truck, but Wren didn’t. She just watched them go, the weight of the moment still clinging to her skin like dust.

Something had shifted. And no matter how much she wanted to write it off, bury it under deflection and snark—she couldn’t shake the feeling:

Rafe saw her.

And that scared her more than the Tillerson boys ever could.

Want updates or to be added to the taglist for this fic? 📌 Follow me & @gxlbe and turn on your notifs! 📌 Want to be tagged? Drop a comment! To stay on the list, interact with the posts (likes, reblogs, or comments help keep the tags alive).

Taglist for Secrets in Wabang: @msfirth | @deeninadream

Thank you all so much for sticking with us!

[s1ut-4-rafe]

SECRETS IN WABANG | Part 7 | Outer Banks x Outer Range

Pairing 1 - Wren x Rafe Cameron

Pairing 2 - Marlowe x Rhett Abbott

Summary - Marlowe (Marley) and Wren thought they’d left the worst behind. They’re rebuilding their lives in the quiet town of Wabang, Wyoming — chasing peace, purpose, and a little distance from the chaos they escaped. But peace doesn’t last. When the Pogues and Camerons show up, everything begins to unravel. Old loves resurface. New dangers emerge. Secrets that were never meant to be found start clawing their way back into the light. And as the past collides with the present, Marley and Wren find themselves caught in the middle of a mystery bigger than they imagined, and emotions they aren’t ready to face.

Word Count - 2338

Content - Angst, enemies to lovers, unexpected alliance, betrayal, cowboys, emotional conflict, sfw/nsfw

Navigation - 06 | 07 | 08

The sun was already blazing through the blinds when Marlowe jolted awake, her heart slamming against her ribs like it was trying to claw its way out. For a moment she just lay there, dazed, blinking up at the ceiling as the weight of late morning heat pressed down on her.

Then her eyes landed on the digital clock glowing from the nightstand.

12:13 PM.

Her stomach lurched.

“Shit.”

She kicked off the blanket and sprang out of bed, feet hitting the hardwood with a thud. Her hair clung to her face, tangled and damp with sweat, but there wasn’t time to care. She grabbed yesterday’s jeans from the floor, shimmied into them, and yanked a T-shirt over her head in one messy move. No socks. Just boots, half-zipped, biting at her heel as she rushed.

The house was still and quiet, wrapped in that strange hush that only comes after you’ve overslept. Wren was still curled on the couch under a throw blanket, one arm tucked beneath her cheek. She looked younger like that—peaceful, even. No tension in her jaw, no weight in her brow.

Marlowe hesitated for just a second, then darted into the kitchen. She grabbed the nearest scrap she could find—an old receipt—and scrawled a quick note with a dying pen:

WREN— Didn’t want to wake you. I’ll check in after lunch. —M

She weighed it down with a coffee mug and gave the living room one last glance. Wren hadn’t moved.

“Sorry,” she muttered, unsure if it was for sneaking out or not staying longer.

Outside, the sun hit her like a slap. She squinted, jogging across the gravel to her truck, heat radiating off the metal like an open oven. The driver’s side door groaned as she yanked it open, and the seat scorched the backs of her legs when she slid in.

The key turned. The engine coughed, then roared. She threw it into gear and peeled out, dust pluming behind her.

Every red light between her and Frostee Dog felt personal, each one dragging out like it knew she was late. She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, knuckles white, eyes flicking to the clock every few seconds.

“Come on, come on—” she muttered, practically vibrating with impatience as an old pickup ambled through a four-way stop like it had nowhere to be.

The small-town ice cream and hot dog shack was alive with weekend buzz—locals shoulder to shoulder in line, the air thick with the scent of waffle cones, grease, and summer sweat. Neon signs flickered tiredly against the windows, and a box fan wheezed from the corner like it had given up long ago.

Out back, under the string-lit patio, the Pogues had claimed a splintered picnic table. Half-empty baskets of fries and melting sodas cluttered the surface. Laughter from inside drifted out through the open door, but their corner felt quieter—tense, even.

Kiara looked up first, one brow arching. “Well, well. Look who finally decided to show. Late night with Rhett?”

Marlowe flushed and tugged her cardigan tighter around her frame as she brushed past her. “No,” she mumbled, sliding into the bench seat beside Sarah. “I was with Wren. She needed someone last night.”

That shut Kiara up quick. The teasing flickered out, replaced by something softer.

“Is she okay?” Sarah asked, leaning in, concern etched into her brow.

Marlowe nodded. “She will be.”

JJ hadn’t said a word. He didn’t even look her way—just kept tapping his thumb rhythmically against the side of his cup. Marlowe didn’t push it. She knew better.

Just then, Cecilia Abbott appeared, weaving between tables with a tray of milkshakes in hand and Amy trailing close behind her. The girl’s face lit up like a lantern when she spotted Marlowe.

“Marlowe!” Amy beamed. “Are you still hanging out with Rhett? He said he wanted to take you riding at the ranch!”

Cecilia chuckled under her breath and nudged the girl lightly. “She’s been talking about you nonstop. Sorry if we’ve created a little shadow.”

Amy leaned in conspiratorially, eyes gleaming. “Tell my Uncle Rhett I said hi, okay?”

Marlowe smiled, warm and genuine despite the tightness in her chest. “Of course. Bye, Mrs. Abbott. See you, Amy.”

As they walked off, the table went quiet again.

Then Sarah tilted her head, a sly look in her eye. “So... are you?”

Marlowe’s fingers toyed with the edge of her sleeve. Her eyes flicked—just for a second—to JJ, then landed back on Sarah. “Yeah. Kinda. It’s just… complicated.”

John B leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Do you trust him?”

There was no hesitation this time. “Yeah. I do.” Her voice was small but steady. “But I don’t trust Ward. Something about him’s always felt… off. This whole thing with him being here—it’s not just about Rafe.”

“So let’s dig,” Kiara said, cutting her off with a spark of defiance. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Marlowe’s jaw tightened. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t. I’m saying we can’t yet. If Ward catches on too soon—if he even sniffs that something’s off—we lose everything. He’ll shut it down before we get close.”

JJ finally looked up. His eyes were sharp and unreadable. His voice was cooler than usual, almost distant. “Then we’ll do it without you.”

The words hit like ice water.

Marlowe turned to him slowly. Their eyes met—and something cracked between them. Not anger. Not betrayal. Just hurt. Unspoken things neither of them was ready to say out loud.

“I’m not trying to stop you,” she said quietly. “I just… I don’t want to see any of you get hurt. I still care. Even if I’m not part of it the same way anymore.”

The silence that followed wasn’t angry. It was heavy. Real.

And JJ—just for a second—looked like he wanted to say something more.

But he didn’t.

The house was still quiet when Marlowe let herself back in, the screen door creaking behind her. The air smelled faintly of coffee and eucalyptus from Wren’s old oil diffuser sputtering on the counter.

Wren was upright now, curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket over her knees and a chipped mug of coffee balanced on one thigh. Her eyes were still soft with sleep, but alert.

“You survived lunch,” she muttered, voice scratchy.

“Barely,” Marlowe said as she kicked off her boots with a soft thud. “JJ won’t look at me. Kiara made a Rhett joke before I even sat down. Pope kept... watching. Like he was trying to figure out which one of us was going to break first.”

She set her keys on the counter and walked over slowly, sinking into the opposite end of the couch. Her body folded in on itself, tired. “Sarah was kind, though. Real gentle. Like she was holding space for the rest of them.”

Wren hummed faintly, nodding into her coffee. “Sounds about right.”

Marlowe let her head fall back against the cushion, staring up at the ceiling. “They’re talking about poking around Ward and his estate. I told them to be careful.”

Wren turned slightly, eyes narrowing just a little. “And do you think they’ll listen?”

Marlowe glanced over with the barest tilt of her head. “Not at all.” 

There was a stretch of quiet. Comfortable. Heavy.

Wren studied her, the way she always did when she knew Marlowe wasn’t saying everything. “How bad is it?”

Marlowe hesitated. “Depends what you mean.”

“The tension,” Wren said gently. “JJ. Rhett. You.”

Marlowe’s breath caught on something like a laugh, quiet and flat. “That obvious?”

“Every day you act like the walls are closing in on you.”

Marlowe rubbed her fingers along the seam of her jeans. “It’s just... hard. JJ being here—it brings everything back to the surface. And Rhett...” Her voice dropped further. “He’s so good to me. But he’s not stupid, I know he sees it.”

Wren didn’t press.

After a moment, she asked, “Do you still want to see him?”

Marlowe looked down at her hands. “Yes, of course I do,” she said, soft and sure. “I just... don’t know where that leads.”

Neither of them spoke for a while. The room was quiet except for the ticking of the old kitchen clock and the faint groan of the house settling.

Then Wren shifted, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Well... if the Pogues go digging and they stir up something real, this whole thing’s gonna snowball. Fast.”

Marlowe nodded slowly. “I know.”

She didn’t say she was ready.

Because she wasn’t.

But the clock was ticking, and the world around her was moving whether she caught up or not.

The sun had dipped lower, casting golden light across the worn barn Pope had unofficially claimed as their war room. Dust floated in the air, caught in the sharp angles of sunlight spilling through a cracked window. It smelled faintly of motor oil, old hay, and something vaguely burnt from an earlier failed attempt to hook up a portable fan.

A whiteboard leaned haphazardly against the far wall, covered in half-erased notes and theories that had started unraveling the longer they sat on them.

Kiara was pacing again, her boots scuffing lines into the concrete. “We can’t just sit here. If Marlowe’s out, we figure it out ourselves.”

“She’s not the problem,” Sarah said as she shut the heavy barn door behind her. “She just doesn’t know everything yet.”

“She doesn’t know about the gold,” Pope added, flipping through his spiral notebook from where he sat perched on an overturned crate. “That’s why she’s hesitant.”

JJ stood leaned against the workbench, hat pulled low, jaw working tight. “That’s what Ward’s hiding. This whole thing—it’s not just about Rafe. It’s the gold. He moved it. Hid it. Out here.”

Pope nodded slowly. “It lines up. The land grabs, the fake companies, those accounts in the Caymans... Ward started showing up in Wyoming right after we lost the trail in the OBX. He’s finishing what he started.”

“Or starting it again,” Kiara muttered.

JJ didn’t smile, but his mouth twitched. “Either way, I’m not letting him win.”

Sarah exhaled through her nose, dragging a hand through her hair. “Then we can’t wait for Marlowe to catch up. If Ward’s already moving pieces, we need to do the same.”

She hesitated before adding, “There’s one issue—we’ll have to cut through Abbott land to get to the back side of the Cameron estate. It’s the only blind spot in their security net.”

JJ didn’t even blink. “Then we cut through.”

Pope looked up. “Even if that guy’s there again? The one from before?”

JJ’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t flinch. “Don’t care. We’re not asking permission. We just go.”

Sarah exchanged a glance with Pope, unease flickering across her face. “You really think that’s smart?”

“Nope,” JJ said. “But it’s what we’ve got.”

The silence that followed carried weight. No one said it, but they all felt it—the way this was starting to spiral. Still, none of them backed out.

They loaded into the beat-up truck Pope had "borrowed" from his dad, the engine coughing to life before rattling toward the Abbott property. The sun was almost gone now, dragging long shadows across the hills as they crept down the back road. Trees leaned in on either side, the wind whispering through the branches like it knew what they were about to do.

They kept low once they reached the fence line, sticking to the thicker brush. The field ahead stretched wide and open—a gamble, but their best shot at getting past the Cameron perimeter without being spotted.

But they didn’t make it far.

The sudden roar of an engine broke the quiet. A truck came skidding around the bend, throwing up dust in its wake.

It stopped dead in front of them.

Rhett stepped out, his frame cutting a sharp silhouette against the dying light. He didn’t yell. He didn’t reach for anything. But the look in his eyes was enough to make even Kiara pause.

“Y’all lost?” he asked. His voice was calm, low, but carried the weight of a man used to being listened to.

JJ stepped forward slowly, his entire posture coiled. “Just passing through.”

Rhett scanned them—sharp, assessing. “This ain’t a public trail. You’re on Abbott land.”

Kiara raised her hands slightly, trying for diplomacy. “We’re just trying to get to the Cameron estate. That’s all.”

Rhett’s jaw ticked as he shook his head. “No one gets through here without permission. Especially not people sneakin’ around like they’ve got something to hide.”

JJ’s mouth twitched into something like a smirk. “Guess we’ll ask Marlowe to put in a good word.”

That name landed like a thrown rock. Rhett’s eyes flicked toward the treeline—just for a second—but it was enough. The tension sharpened. Rhett took a step forward, sucking his teeth. 

“Marlowe can’t save you from trespassing,” Rhett said with a humorless smile. “Neither can sweet-talking. I catch you again, it ends different.”

Without another word, Rhett turned and climbed back into the truck. The engine snarled to life, then faded into the distance, leaving the Pogues in a swirl of settling dust and a silence thick with frustration.

Kiara folded her arms. “Well, now what?”

JJ rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a sharp breath. “Like I told the cowboy,” he said with a crooked grin, “I’ll talk to Marlowe.”

“No guarantee that’ll work,” Pope muttered, though a flicker of hope sparked in his eyes.

Kiara rolled her eyes. “We can’t keep pushing our luck. One more close call and someone’s getting arrested—or worse.”

JJ’s face hardened. “I said I’ll talk to her. She’ll listen.”

What the others didn’t see was Sarah already pulling out her phone. Her fingers flew across the screen before she hesitated, reread the message, then hit send:

Hey Marlowe, just a heads up— We tried cutting through the Abbott land today. Didn’t go well. Rhett was there. It didn’t escalate, but… you should know.

Author's Note: If you thought things were messy before—oh, honey. Buckle up. We’re just getting into the thick of it. If you’re screaming, good. If you’re confused, same!

Want updates or to be added to the taglist? 📌 Follow me & @gxlbe and turn on your notifs! 📌 Want to be tagged? Drop a comment! However, to stay on the list, you must interact with the posts (likes, reblogs, or comments help keep the tags active). Thanks for your support! We love y’all.

Taglist for Secrets in Wabang: @msfirth | @deeninadream

[s1ut-4-rafe]

Hey friends!

Exciting news — parts 4, 4.5, 5, and 6 of Secrets in Wabang (Outer Banks x Outer Range) are now live on Wattpad and here on Tumblr!

My co-writer @gxlbe and I are so grateful for your support as we keep this story rolling! Feel free to read wherever you like or both! Read Secrets in Wabang on Wattpad here!

[s1ut-4-rafe]

SECRETS IN WABANG | Part 6 | Outer Banks x Outer Range

MASTERLIST (Series - In Progress)

Pairing 1 - Wren x Rafe Cameron

Pairing 2 - Marlowe x Rhett Abbott

Summary - Marlowe (Marley) and Wren thought they’d left the worst behind. They’re rebuilding their lives in the quiet town of Wabang, Wyoming — chasing peace, purpose, and a little distance from the chaos they escaped. But peace doesn’t last. When the Pogues and Camerons show up, everything begins to unravel. Old loves resurface. New dangers emerge. Secrets that were never meant to be found start clawing their way back into the light. And as the past collides with the present, Marley and Wren find themselves caught in the middle of a mystery bigger than they imagined, and emotions they aren’t ready to face.

Word Count - 5999

Content - Angst, enemies to lovers, unexpected alliance, betrayal, cowboys, emotional conflict, sfw/nsfw

Navigation - | 05 | 06 | 07 |

The morning air in Wabang was crisp and dry, the kind that clung to the skin like static. The sun was just beginning to creep over the jagged line of the mountains, casting long shadows across the dusty roads and wooden storefronts. A breeze rustled the yellowing leaves along the curb, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once—sharp and echoing—before all fell quiet again. The low rumble of a truck engine stirred the silence for a moment before fading into the landscape like everything else in this half-forgotten town.

Inside Wren’s modest house, the stillness was heavier. It hung in the air like dust motes in sunlight, thick with the scent of old wood, spilled whiskey, and something unspoken.

Wren lay sprawled on the couch, her arm dangling limp off the edge, a tangle of blankets twisted around her legs. Her face was buried in a pillow, hair splayed messily, a telltale throb pulsing behind her eyes. Her head was still spinning from the night before—Rafe’s searing presence burning too close, Luke’s ghost clinging to her like smoke, and the weight of too many drinks trying to bury too many memories.

From the kitchen came the soft clink of a mug being set down.

Marlowe moved with practiced care, her steps nearly silent against the worn linoleum. Her hair was twisted into a lazy knot, her face free of makeup, but her uniform was crisp, ironed with the kind of ritual that helped keep her thoughts from unraveling. 

She clutched her travel mug like it might anchor her. Her hangover wasn’t from liquor, but emotion—Rhett’s kindness, the confusing warmth of it, and JJ’s tone echoing in her head, his disappointment threading through her ribs like guilt. That moment in the woods had left a mark she didn’t know how to name.

She paused beside the counter, scribbled a quick note on the back of Wren’s grocery list, and tore it off with a quiet rip.

Heading to the bank. Text if you need anything. – M

She set it gently beside the couch, casting one last glance at Wren’s still figure.

Wren didn’t stir. Marlowe didn’t expect her to.

The Wabang Community Bank sat on the corner of Main Street like it had for decades, its stone façade and arched windows giving it the quaint gravitas of a place where old money could hide in plain sight. 

The gold-lettered signage gleamed faintly in the morning light, polished to perfection but edged with dust, as if time respected the building just enough not to touch it too fast.

Inside, the air was cool and still, humming faintly with fluorescent lighting and the steady rhythm of the printer behind the front desk. Marlowe walked through the side entrance, nodding politely at the branch manager, who barely looked up from her monitor. 

She slipped behind the counter and into her teller window with the ease of ritual, her hands moving automatically as she logged in, straightened her cash drawer, and scanned the morning’s register.

The start was slow, peaceful, almost. Familiar faces trickled in, most of them ranchers or older locals, weathered and friendly. There were rodeo checks to deposit, small talk about the dry season, and a passing mention of Rhett’s bull ride last night. 

That quiet didn’t last long.

Outside, the Pogues wandered the main street in loose formation, their pace easy but their energy restless. JJ led, eyes constantly scanning. Pope trailed just behind, nose half-buried in his phone, probably looking up something about the Void or gold or Ward’s assets. Kiara and Sarah were mid-conversation, gesturing as they spoke, their words lost under the wind. John B lingered at the back, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, watching everything with a quiet kind of tension.

They might’ve passed right by, but then Sarah stopped walking.

“Is that—?” she began.

JJ cut her off. “What the hell is he doing here?”

Ward Cameron.

Stepping through the heavy glass doors of the bank with the kind of composure only someone deeply dangerous or deeply confident could wear. His shirt was pressed, collar sharp. Cowboy boots polished to a mirror sheen. He walked like he belonged there, like he owned more than just a huge property and secrets.

The Pogues froze for half a breath, then surged into motion.

They crossed the street in a quick, unsynchronized wave—like instinct. JJ peeled off toward the window first, his posture tight and keyed up. Kiara and Sarah followed, whispering sharply between them. Pope hesitated just a second before joining, and John B lingered in the rear, glancing up and down the block like he expected someone else to appear behind Ward.

They stopped just short of the bank’s front windows, fanning out like they weren’t obviously trying to get a look. JJ leaned on the sill, staring through the glass. Kiara pulled her phone out and started tapping at it, pretending to text. Sarah tugged at her sleeve, trying to play it cool but watching intently.

Inside, Marlowe didn’t notice them yet. She was already halfway through Ward’s deposit, her fingers scanning the bills, her practiced tone polite and neutral, but her gut was a knot.

The Pogues couldn’t hear what Ward was saying.

They couldn’t hear the way he thanked Marlowe softly, almost warmly, as he handed over another small deposit—cash, again. Couldn’t hear how he asked if her friend Wren was well, or how his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

But they saw enough.

And it wasn’t sitting right.

Inside the Bank

“Good morning, Mr. Cameron,” Marlowe greeted evenly. 

Ward returned her gesture with a smile—polished, polite, and unsettling in a way she couldn’t quite name. “Just a small deposit today,” he said lightly, his voice smooth as bourbon and twice as dangerous. “Appreciate all your help, Marlowe.”

She nodded, lips pressed into a neutral line as she took the slip and counted the bills. It was low. Again. Always small. Always cash. Neatly stacked. Crisp edges. No explanation ever offered—and none she felt safe enough to request.

Her gaze lingered for a second too long on the bottom corner of the slip. Another hand-written reference number. A string of digits that didn’t match anything standard in their system. 

Random-seeming, but not random. She’d looked once, weeks ago, just out of curiosity—but they led nowhere. Nothing in the system matched. It was almost like they were meant to be unreadable.

She didn’t ask. She never did, but she noticed. She remembered. Every number. Every time. A private ledger was slowly building in the back of her mind.

Ward tipped his hat with a nod of perfect civility, the way men did when they were used to being underestimated. Then he turned and walked out with that same eerie calm, like he hadn’t just left a trail of questions in his wake.

Marlowe exhaled only after the door closed behind him, the weight of unspoken suspicion still lingering like static in the air.

No sooner had the bell above the door jingled closed than the Pogues pushed through it. JJ beelined to Marlowe’s window, his voice already hot.

“What did he want?” he snapped. “What was Ward doing here?”

Marlowe blinked, taken aback. “It’s a bank,” she said carefully. “He was making a deposit.”

JJ wasn’t having it. “What kind of deposit? How often does he come in? You’ve gotta see his transactions, right? Can you pull them up?”

“JJ,” she said, voice firming. “I can’t do that. It’s illegal. I could lose my job.”

Kiara leaned over the counter. “You’re telling me you’ve never noticed anything weird?”

Marlowe hesitated—but Pope stepped closer, placing a calming hand on JJ’s shoulder. “Ease up,” he said under his breath. “You’re gonna make a scene, let’s not do this in here.”

JJ yanked his arm free, jaw clenched.

Marlowe looked between them, her hands curled into small fists beneath the counter. Her voice was quiet, but firm. “I’ve noticed some things… yeah. But I can’t just hand over his records. That’s not how this works.” She glanced at JJ, eyes flickering.

“Fine,” JJ muttered. “We’ll figure it out ourselves.”

They left in a huff, the door banging shut behind them.

Marlowe let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, already regretting everything that was about to come next.

Later that afternoon, the sun had shifted west by the time Marlowe made it home, her posture a little too stiff, her jaw tight from holding it clenched too long. She walked through the front door without her usual care, letting it shut a little louder than she meant to.

Wren was still on the couch, but sitting upright now, a mug of reheated coffee cradled between her hands and a blanket still tangled around her waist. Her eyes tracked Marlowe instantly, brow furrowing at the look on her face.

“You okay?” she asked, voice low and scratchy with sleep.

Marlowe dropped her bag by the door and gave a dry laugh. “No,” she said flatly, stepping into the kitchen and opening a cabinet just to close it again. “Not really.”

Wren waited.

Marlowe leaned against the counter, arms crossed, expression pulled taut. “JJ showed up at the bank today with the others. Right after Ward left.”

Wren’s brow lifted. “Seriously?”

“They were—” She broke off, rubbing a hand down her face. “They were pushing me. Asking what Ward was doing there, what he deposited, and how often he comes in. JJ wanted me to pull up his records on the spot.”

“Jesus Christ,” Wren muttered. “Did you?”

“Of course not. I told him no. But he just kept pressing—like I’m not already risking enough just being civil to that man.”

Marlowe settled into the couch, her hands loosely folded in her lap. She glanced at Wren before she spoke again, her voice low, almost hesitant this time.

“Ward’s a real estate mogul. Back in the Outer Banks, he was the kook king of the island. Everyone acts like he’s this community pillar, but he’s a manipulative snake. Pure poison wrapped in a suit.”

Wren frowned, turning toward her. “What’d he do?”

Marlowe exhaled fast, words tumbling out like a dam breaking. “Besides pulling every string behind the scenes? There’s this rumor about him and John B’s dad—Big John, they called him. They were chasing this treasure, treasure from a shipwreck or something. Then Big John just disappears. No body, no explanation. And suddenly Ward’s got all this cash, expanding Cameron Development.”

Wren’s eyes narrowed. “Sounds pretty sketchy to me.” 

“It is,” Marlowe said softly, biting her lip. “Ward keeps this perfect public face, but he’s always around when things get messy.” She glanced down at her hands.

Wren’s fingers tapped nervously on her knee. “So what about his kids? Are Rafe and Sarah caught up in all this?”

Marlowe nodded slowly. “Rafe’s… he’s dangerous from what I’ve heard. Angry in a way that scares people. Sarah ran away from the whole family, ended up with the Pogues like I did. Then there’s Wheezie. She’s the youngest, but she’s quiet. Always watching. Probably the only one who really understands what’s going on, but no one pays attention to her.” 

Wren leaned back, eyes thoughtful. “So what do you think Ward’s after now?”

Marlowe stared out the window, voice low and serious. “I don’t know yet, but nothing good ever follows him. I’ve noticed things. Just never said anything.”

Wren straightened slightly. “Like what?”

Marlowe sat on the edge of the couch, facing her. “He comes in once a week. Sometimes twice. Always alone—never with Rafe. The deposits are small, always in cash. Neatly stacked. Crisp. Like, fresh-from-the-safe crisp.”

Wren stayed silent, trying to process what this could all mean herself. 

“And he always writes this little number on the bottom of the slip. Like a reference code. I thought it was for internal tracking at first, but it’s not. It doesn’t match any account or business number. I checked the first day he came into the bank.”

“Think it’s a cipher or something?” Wren asked, more to herself.

“I don’t know,” Marlowe said. “But it feels off. Like he’s keeping a separate log, and the bank’s just a stop along the way.”

Wren leaned back, her mind already working. “Did JJ see the slip today?”

“No. I didn’t let him get close enough.” Marlowe’s lips twisted into a tired smile. “Barely avoided a full-blown scene.”

“Good,” Wren said, and meant it. “You did the right thing.”

But Marlowe didn’t look reassured. She stared at her hands instead, voice low.

“I just wonder how long I can keep doing the ‘right’ thing… when the wrong one might be what actually helps.”

The quiet stretched again, and for once, neither of them filled it. Outside, a pickup rolled down the street, crunching gravel under its tires. Inside, the weight of too much thinking and not enough resolution made the air feel thick.

Wren was the first to move. She tossed the blanket off her lap and stood with a slow stretch, joints popping, head still aching faintly. “Alright,” she said, voice lighter than before, like she was trying to shake the mood off her shoulders. “I need to do something that doesn’t involve conspiracies or the deep-fried mess that is Rafe Cameron.”

Marlowe huffed a tired laugh. “Amen.”

Wren disappeared into the kitchen without another word. A few seconds later came the crack of the fridge opening, the hiss of a beer can, and the jangle of keys hitting the counter.

Marlowe glanced over, confused. “What are you doing?”

Wren reappeared in the doorway, hair flowing past her shoulders freely, tank top swapped for something tighter, meaner. She grinned like she had a plan and didn’t care if it was a bad one. “Going out.”

Marlowe blinked. “Now? Again?”

“Yeah. Round two.” Wren cracked her neck like she was stretching before a fight.

Marlowe leaned against the counter, skeptical. “Don’t you think maybe we had enough ‘steam’ blown off last night?”

Wren crossed the room in three easy strides and plucked the beer from Marlowe’s hand, taking a swig like it made her point for her. “That was a purge. This is a resurrection.”

Marlowe arched a brow. “You’re one tequila shot away from getting a mugshot.”

Wren grinned, unbothered. “Wouldn’t be my first.”

That earned her a look.

“But seriously,” Wren added, softer now, “you’ve been locked up in your head. Don’t lie. I see it. You’ve got that look like you’re trying to be small again. I hate it when you do that.”

Marlowe dropped her gaze.

Wren stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Come with me. Just for a bit. No plans, no promises. Just music, sweat, maybe a little sin.”

“I don’t have anything to wear,” Marley said weakly.

Wren was already halfway to her closet. “You do now. You’re gonna wear those tight black jeans I love on you, and I’ve got a top that’ll make Rhett cry.”

Marlowe hesitated, but Wren could see her cracking.

A beat passed.

Marlowe snatched the clothes out of her hands with a sigh. “If I end up in a montage of bad bar decisions, I’m blaming you.”

Wren just smiled, full and wild and warm. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The Pit Bar was already halfway to lawless by the time Wren slid onto the scene like a rodeo queen with a secret. The jukebox was stuck on a classic rock kick, and the floor was sticky with spilled beer and regret. It was perfect.

She told Marley they were “just going out for one drink,” but Marley knew better. One for Wren meant one bad idea, one wild night.

Tonight, she had more than one reason to reset. Her best friend is caught in the middle between two guys, Rafe being Rafe, and Ward Cameron, who was up to no good, but they had no explanation as to why. 

And to add to her list, her ex Luke texted her.

Saw a girl that looked just like you tonight..weird

After five years of being broken up, but only four months of radio silence, Wren knew the battlefield she was choosing. What was he trying to do, haunt her inbox thinking he was cute?

By the time “Cherry Pie” kicked on, Wren had already peeled off her flannel, revealing the now-infamous white crop top that screamed ‘COWBOY PILLOWS’ across her chest. The hem danced just above the peak of her sternum tattoo. A tattoo that marked the moment she decided to never touch drugs again. It was her most painful tattoo, physically and emotionally, and the one she keeps covered the most of the time.

The bar lights caught on her red cowgirl boots as she climbed up onto the second-tier platform by the jukebox without asking permission or forgiveness.

“Wren,” Marley warned, taking away Wren’s sweating bottle of Modelo. “Don’t—”

Boots planted wide, arms lifted to the low ceiling, Wren let the beat take her. Her black cowboy hat dipped low over one brow, mouth twisting into a dangerous, devil-may-care grin. Every sway of her hips was a raised middle finger to expectation. A dance born of heartbreak, heat, and maybe three tequila shots too many.

She wasn’t polished. She was possessed. Wild. Messy. Magnetic.

Men stared. Girls cheered. Someone whistled. A bartender rolled his eyes, muttering, “You can’t be up here.”

Marley? She couldn’t look away. This was the side of Wren that rarely surfaced, completely reckless yet radiant, untamed and untouchable, dancing like she was both the fire and the match. Marlowe admired her. Hell, wanted to be just like her deep down.

There was no shame in her. Just sweat-slicked skin, a loud laugh, and the kind of freedom Marley envied deep in her bones.

A ripple moved through the crowd by the pool tables—laughter, a muttered curse, a sudden shift in mood that made Marley glance over her shoulder. That’s when she saw him.

Rafe Cameron. Leaning on his cue stick, smug and golden and out of place in the grime of The Pit like a country club boy slumming it for fun. He was surrounded by locals but not part of them. He never really was.

Marley stiffened. He hadn't been there when they first arrived. But now? He was watching and not the game.

He caught Marley’s eye, something unreadable flickering behind his, then passed off his cue to a guy beside him and started toward her. Casual. Unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world and no one better to talk to.

“She’s gonna regret this tomorrow,” Rafe murmured, taking a seat next to Marley at the bar.

Marley side-eyed Rafe but didn’t respond. She adjusted in her seat at the bar, minding her own. 

Wren spun, dropped low, then lifted her hips first as she stood, slow and deliberate, like the platform was hers and the song owed her money. The Pit lost its damn mind.

Just when the crowd thought she might stop, Wren hooked her thumbs into the belt loops of her Wranglers and gave one final, swaggering hip roll that nearly knocked a beer out of some poor bastard’s hand. He didn’t even flinch, just stared like he’d seen the Virgin Mary with a whiskey chaser.

The song blasted on, but Wren was already hopping down from the platform with a practiced hop and a stumble that somehow looked intentional. She landed in a crouch, then stood tall again, fixing her hat and flashing the crowd a smile. 

“Next round’s on Luke Tillerson’s tab!” Wren shouted, voice hoarse and gleaming with heat. “Cheers to my ex who couldn’t handle the real thing.”

Someone in the back howled. A few regulars lifted their glasses in a chaotic, half-drunk salute. Marley just shook her head, grinning despite herself.

Wren slid into the booth across from her, hair a mess, eyes shining, cheeks flushed with booze and freedom. She looked like every warning label on a bottle of tequila.

“You good?” Marley asked.

Wren grinned. “Never better. I just peed on the ghost of Luke’s ego.”

Marley snorted into her beer. “Is that like..a Wyoming tradition?”

“Only if you’re lucky.”

A moment passed, quiet slipping in beneath the noise. Wren’s smile dimmed just a little as she peeled the label off a napkin-wrapped bottle. “Have you ever danced like that? Not for anyone else, just ‘cause the ache inside you got too loud?”

Marley didn’t answer right away. Her eyes tracked Wren’s wild orbit like she was watching some other species, freer, louder, untouchable.

“I never did,” she said finally, voice barely above a breath. “Not once. Not homecoming. Not prom. I wasn’t allowed to go.”

Wren blinked, the noise of the bar softening in the space between them.

Marley let out a humorless laugh. “The first time I ever danced was in my bedroom with the door locked and headphones on. I was fifteen. It was gospel music.”

Wren didn’t tease. She didn’t joke. She just stepped closer, eyes shining beneath the brim of her hat.

“Then we start here,” she said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “And this time, let me pick the song.” 

Marley’s lips twitched, the start of a real smile breaking through—until a shadow sliced between them. Wren didn’t clock Rafe until his voice cut through the noise, low and unmistakable.

“Is there gonna be a private show, Wrenley?”

“Rafe,” she said flatly, pivoting to face him, the curve of her mouth never quite catching up to her glare. “Should’ve known you’d find a way to make this about you.”

He grinned, too damn smug for his own good. “Hard not to, sweetheart. Especially when you’re up there dancing like that.” 

Wren folded her arms, weight shifting to one hip. “Oh, so you were watching?”

“Of course I was.” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough to graze the edge of her nerve endings. “Would’ve kept playing my game in pool if I hadn’t been so distracted.”

Marley cleared her throat awkwardly and stepped back, sensing the air change between them like a barometric shift. She knew when to give space, even if it made her feel like an extra in her own night out. “I’m gonna—uh, grab another drink or something.”

Neither Wren nor Rafe looked away from each other.

“Run away, church girl,” Rafe called after her without heat, just that trademark mischief. “I’ll save you a dance.”

Wren elbowed him hard. “Don’t call her that.”

Rafe tilted his head, surprised, but not sorry. “Touchy.”

“She’s my best friend,” Wren said, jaw set. “You don’t get to reduce her to a punchline.”

Something flickered behind Rafe’s eyes, gone too fast to name. He took a small step closer, crowding her space, but not threatening, not quite. Just there, like he couldn’t help himself.

Wren rolled her eyes. She knew what he was trying to do. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not.” His voice had gone husky with something heavier, roughened around the edges. “Just gotta say, you looked free up there. Dangerously hot, actually.”

Wren scoffed, but her cheeks flushed with the heat of tequila and something more. “You always talk like you're trying to get me into bed with you.” 

“Maybe I am.” His gaze dropped to her mouth for half a second before snapping back up. “You’re the type of girl who makes it real hard for me to keep my distance.”

“Well,” she said, stepping in, chest brushing his. “I think you should.”

Rafe let out a slow breath, eyes narrowing like he was trying to solve a puzzle she’d already set on fire, but instead of kissing her, instead of anything expected, he leaned in like he had a secret to tell.

“You missed a spot,” he said, brushing a knuckle across her cheekbone.

She flinched slightly at the contact, but not enough to stop him. He pulled his hand back slowly, showing her the shimmer on his skin. “Glitter,” he said with a lazy smirk.

Wren froze, just for a beat. Then she swatted his hand away and muttered, “You’re lucky I’m buzzed.”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping back, cocky smile returning. “Lucky’s one word for it.”

And just like that, he was gone, back into the blur of The Pit like nothing had happened.

But Wren? She felt like she’d been branded.

Wren wiped her hands on a rag behind the bar, the sharp scent of spilled beer and sawdust hanging heavy in the air. Adrenaline still thrummed beneath her skin, but none of it dulled the sudden flare of irritation that shot through her the moment Luke Tillerson caught up to her outside for some fresh air.

“Still a badass, huh?” he said, with that smug grin she’d grown to hate. “Some things don’t change.”

Wren arched a brow. “What do you want from me, Luke?”

He stepped closer, eyes drifting over her like he had a right. “Just saying hey. Maybe seeing if you’re still mad at me or if this is one of those nights where we forget all that.”

Wren scoffed. “You think that’s how this works? You just texted me not even an hour ago about some other girl.” 

He smirked, undeterred. “Come on, Wren. It’s not like we haven’t had our moments. What’s the harm in one more?”

She stepped back. Her voice was sharp and cold. “That was a long time ago and every time since was a mistake I don’t plan on repeating.”

Luke’s smile faltered.

Wren didn’t give him a chance to answer. Without a word, she turned and headed back inside the bar, slipping past a few locals lingering outside with their cigarettes.

Rafe, leaning against a fence post not far off, had seen everything. He hadn’t missed the way Wren’s posture stiffened the moment Luke arrived, or the look in her eyes when she walked away. No interest. No ambiguity.

Just done.

Inside, the bar pulsed with noise—twangy music from the speakers, the loud chatter of conversation, and the occasional pop of a bottle cap hitting the ground. Luke stood off to the side of the bar entrance, he nursed a half-drunk beer, his expression sour. His usual smirk had slipped, replaced by something tighter. Irritated. Bruised.

He didn’t notice Rafe until he was already beside him.

No announcement. No dramatic entrance. Just the quiet scuff of boots on dirt and the casual rustle of a jacket as Rafe Cameron came to a stop a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets like he had all the time in the world.

Luke glanced over, instinct flaring. “You lost, country club?”

Rafe didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked toward the crowd, like he wasn’t really looking at Luke at all—just sizing up the energy in the air. Then he spoke, voice low and calm.

“Wren doesn’t want to see you.”

Luke’s head tilted, eyebrows raising. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not looking to start shit,” Rafe said, still not looking directly at him. “Just figured I’d save you the embarrassment.”

That got Luke’s full attention. He straightened slightly, taking a step forward. “You her bodyguard now?”

Rafe turned to him then. Slowly. A half-smile curled at the corner of his mouth—something not quite friendly. “No,” he said. “But I pay attention and I know what a no looks like. She gave you one. Loud and clear.”

Luke scoffed, but the edge in his eyes gave him away. “We’ve got history, you wouldn’t understand.”

Rafe finally looked at him, expression cooling. “Yeah? History doesn’t mean a future, and I think you’ve overstayed your welcome once already.”

Luke’s face darkened. He took another step closer, chest puffing slightly like he might be stupid enough to escalate it.

Rafe didn’t flinch. Didn’t move at all. His smirk disappeared.

“You don’t get it,” Luke muttered. “She always comes back.”

Rafe’s voice dropped, quieter now, but sharp enough to cut through the music and the laughter. “Not this time.”

He took a deliberate step forward, closing the space just enough to make his point crystal clear.

“Next time you think about pushing it,” he said, eyes locked on Luke’s, “remember this moment. Because I won’t be so nice.”

They stood there, a heartbeat too long.

Luke blinked first.

Rafe turned and walked off, casual again, like nothing had happened. Like the conversation had been a passing comment.

But the tension in the air didn’t go anywhere.

And Luke didn’t follow.

Later, after Wren’s adrenaline had wound down, she pushed through the back door of The Pit, Marley right behind her. The cool night air hit her face as Marley headed straight for the truck, pulling out the keys and sliding inside to start the engine.

Wren lingered behind, stretching out the tightness in her shoulders. That’s when Luke appeared from the shadows near the bar’s exit, stepping into her path like he owned the night.

“Hey, Wren,” he called out, voice low but carrying that same smug edge she hated.

She froze, the irritation flaring fresh and sharp as she turned to face him. His eyes flicked her up and down like he had the right.

“Rafe Cameron found me earlier, after you walked away from our chat.”

That got her attention. Her gaze snapped to him.

Luke raised his eyebrows. “Said you ‘don’t want to see me,’ and that it wasn’t a threat—‘just a favor.’” He mimicked the words, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Then he got real quiet and real close and told me next time, he won’t be so nice.”

Wren narrowed her eyes. “He threatened you?”

Luke scoffed. “You could call it that. Felt more like a warning. Thought you might want to explain why some guy I don’t even know is speaking for you.”

“I didn’t ask him to do anything.”

“So what, are you with him now?” His tone sharpened, taking on that old bitter edge she knew too well. “Is that what this is? You slum it with me, then trade up the minute some big name shows interest?”

Wren turned fully to face him, disgust flashing hot behind her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. There was no ‘slumming.’ There was regret. There was damage and there was me finally learning not to go back to things that don’t serve me.”

Luke stepped closer, jaw clenched. “You always did love a project. Guess now it’s North Carolina’s golden boy, huh? He flashes you a few smiles, throws out a few lines, and suddenly you’re done playing in the mud with me?”

She stepped back, voice low and sharp. “I’m not with anyone, Luke. Least of all you.”

Then she turned and walked off, teeth gritted, fists clenched at her sides.

When she found Rafe, he was leaning against the side of the building, arms crossed, eyes glued to his cell phone. 

Wren squared her shoulders and stepped closer to him. “You threatened Luke?”

He looked up, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “I was just doing him a favor.”

Wren’s gaze sharpened. “You don’t know me, Rafe.” 

Rafe’s smirk faded, replaced by something quieter, almost serious. “Maybe not. But I know one thing—I like you more than I like him.”

She shook her head, half amused, half frustrated. “That’s a bold thing to say when you barely know me.”

He took a step closer, lowering his voice. “Maybe I don’t need to know everything yet.” 

Wren huffed a humorless laugh. “You think I can’t handle my own ex?”

“I think you shouldn’t have to,” Rafe said simply.

Wren stepped closer, jaw tight. “Look. I don’t know what game you’re playing, or what you think this is, but I don’t need anyone speaking for me. I’ve been dealing with Luke since I was fifteen.”

“Right,” Rafe said, a slight edge in his voice. “And how’s that been working out for you?”

She flinched. Just barely. Then her eyes hardened.

“Stay out of my business, Rafe,” she said, voice low but firm. “I don’t need your protection. I didn’t ask for it.”

He didn’t flinch. “Didn’t do it for thanks.”

She shook her head, stepping back. “Then don’t expect any.”

For a second, they just stared at each other. Tension thick between them—not just anger, but something electric. Something neither of them would name.

Wren turned first, walking away without another word.

Rafe watched her go, jaw set. And though he didn’t say it out loud, the smirk that tugged at his mouth wasn’t just smug—it was intrigued.

By the time Wren reached the truck, her hands were still shaking. Marley didn’t say anything—just gave her a look, steady and knowing, before shifting into gear and pulling away from The Pit.

Neither of them spoke on the ride back. The radio stayed off. The night air through the cracked window was the only sound, brushing against Wren’s flushed skin like a balm. Her head rested back against the seat, eyes closed, breath slow and deliberate.

When they got to Wren’s place, Marley killed the engine and looked over. “You good?”

Wren opened her eyes, blinking slow. “Not that drunk. Just... tired.”

Marley gave a soft huff. “Yeah, and I’m a fairy princess. Come on.”

Inside, Wren barely made it past the couch. She dropped her hat, kicked off her boots, and collapsed onto the cushions face-first. Marley didn’t press—just watched her for a second before quietly stepping around, grabbing the throw blanket from the armchair, and draping it over her.

Wren mumbled something unintelligible into the pillow. Marley reached down and brushed a stray piece of hair off her face.

“I know you can handle yourself,” she said softly. “But you don’t always have to.”

Wren didn’t respond. Her breathing had already started to even out.

Marley stood there a moment longer, then turned off the lights and headed down the hall to Wren’s room. 

Marlowe paced the length of Wren’s bedroom, her arms crossed tight over her chest, fingertips digging into her sides like they could keep everything from unraveling. She was unable to sleep due to the events of the day prior- she worried about everyone and everything.  The soft creak of the floorboards beneath her boots was the only sound in the room besides the slow, steady rhythm of Wren’s breathing.

She stole another glance at her best friend, curled up on the worn leather couch, a blanket half-slid off one shoulder. The dim light from the bedside lamp painted Wren’s face in soft gold, she hadn’t stirred since they got home—hadn’t spoken, hadn’t cried. Just collapsed.

Marlowe’s heart tugged, but it was threaded through with something sharper: worry, helplessness, a gnawing frustration that she couldn’t fix this. Not the way Wren needed.

She checked the time. 11:57 PM. The day had run them both ragged.

With a sigh, she sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on her knees. Her phone was still on the nightstand, screen dim. She reached for it slowly, hesitating before unlocking it. Her thumb hovered over JJ’s name for a long second, indecision knotting her gut.

Was it too late? Would he even care?

She swallowed the doubt and started typing.

Hey. Can we meet up tomorrow? Just lunch. Noon at Dippie's. We all need to talk.

She didn’t expect a reply right away, but her screen buzzed almost immediately.

We’ll be there.

That was all it said. No questions, no snark. Just those three words. But somehow, it made her breathe easier.

Marlowe exhaled and set the phone back down, the screen glowing briefly in the dark before fading out. She peeled off her cardigan and kicked off her boots, her body heavy with exhaustion. She tugged a hoodie over her tank top and crawled beneath the thin blanket on Wren’s bed, letting the familiar scent of cedar and lavender soothe her.

Outside, the Wyoming wind whispered against the windows.

She let her eyes flutter shut.

She didn’t dream.

Author’s Note: And that’s Chapter 6, where tequila-fueled chaos meets ex-boyfriend, and Rafe Cameron reminds us all why he’s both the red flag and the fire.

If you made it this far, thank you for riding the high (and low) with us!

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Taglist for Secrets in Wabang: @msfirth | @deeninadream

[s1ut-4-rafe]

SECRETS IN WABANG | Part 5 | Outer Banks x Outer Range

MASTERLIST (Series - In Progress)

Pairing 1 - Wren x Rafe Cameron

Pairing 2 - Marlowe x Rhett Abbott

Summary - Marlowe (Marley) and Wren thought they’d left the worst behind. They’re rebuilding their lives in the quiet town of Wabang, Wyoming — chasing peace, purpose, and a little distance from the chaos they escaped. But peace doesn’t last. When the Pogues and Camerons show up, everything begins to unravel. Old loves resurface. New dangers emerge. Secrets that were never meant to be found start clawing their way back into the light. And as the past collides with the present, Marley and Wren find themselves caught in the middle of a mystery bigger than they imagined, and emotions they aren’t ready to face.

Word Count - 3366

Content - Angst, enemies to lovers, unexpected alliance, betrayal, cowboys, emotional conflict, sfw/nsfw

Navigation - | 4.5 | 05 | 06

The music pulsed from a battered speaker on the edge of the field, just loud enough to feel in the chest but not enough to drown out the buzz of cicadas or the occasional burst of laughter from the fire pit. Marlowe stood with Rhett and the Pogues, her posture soft but alert, fingers curled around a sweating soda can she hadn’t sipped in a while. She didn’t speak much—just smiled when someone looked her way, nodding like she was present even when her thoughts clearly wandered.

Rhett hadn’t said much either. He stood beside her, beer in hand, eyes flicking from face to face as he listened to the rhythm of their banter—JJ talking fast and sharp, Pope throwing out commentary, Kie laughing like this was all easy. Familiar. Marlowe laughed too, quietly, but it never quite reached her eyes.

Still, Rhett stayed where he was. Close enough that their shoulders nearly touched, like he wanted to be a steady presence without crowding her.

“So… still no sign of Rafe?” Pope asked eventually, glancing toward the shifting crowd across the pasture.

JJ’s mouth twitched. “If he’s here, he’s waiting to make it count.”

Marlowe shifted, just slightly. Rhett saw it—a pause in her breathing, the subtle way her fingers tightened around the can. He didn’t say anything, just watched her from the corner of his eye. Quiet.

JJ was the one who broke the silence. “Hey, Marley…” he whispered to her, his breath dancing across her cheek. “Can I talk to you? Real quick?”

Rhett’s gaze snapped to him. 

The group stilled for a beat, everyone catching the undercurrent of something more. But the conversation picked right back up. Marlowe didn’t look at Rhett—not at first. She just nodded to JJ and then finally turned to Rhett. “Only be a minute,” she told him, her hand touching his arm. 

Rhett grunted in reply, his hand coming up to place itself over hers. She smiled, then let go. Marley started off toward the woods, brushing past JJ as he turned toward the treeline. 

Rhett didn’t stop her. He just stood there, still and quiet, jaw set and brow furrowed faintly. His fingers flexed once around the base of his cup, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t make a scene.

He watched them go and listened to the crunch of boots on dry grass as they disappeared into the dark. Didn’t say a word.

The further Marlowe and JJ walked from the field, the quieter everything became—until the thump of music turned to a pulse behind them, swallowed by the hum of crickets and wind in the trees. Party lights faded behind trunks and brush. Here, it was just the two of them. The air smelled like warm pine and dust.

JJ stopped near a tree, one hand braced on it like he needed the grounding. Marlowe stayed a few feet back, arms folded tightly, but she wasn’t cold. Just guarded.

He turned to face her, jaw clenched like whatever he wanted to say had been stuck for days. Weeks. “You look different.”

Marlowe let out a breath that was almost a laugh, tired and wary. “Why did you drag me out here? To tell me I changed?”

“No,” he said quickly. “I just… I didn’t know what else to say.”

She looked at him for a long moment, lips pressed into a line. “You could’ve started with ‘sorry.’”

JJ flinched, subtle but real. “I didn’t know he’d send you away.”

“You didn’t know,” she echoed, voice flat. “You didn’t know my father would yank me across the country when he found out I was sneaking out to see a Pogue?”

JJ didn’t answer right away. He looked down, scuffed his boot in the dirt. “You stopped answering.”

“You stopped trying,” she countered.

That hung between them like fog. Stuffy, blinding, disorienting.

The leaves above them rustled in the wind. Somewhere far off, someone yelled near the fire pit, but it may as well have been another world. They were in their own bubble of reopened wounds and salt waiting to be rubbed in.

JJ stepped forward, just a little. But not enough to invade her space. “I didn’t stop thinking about you.”

Marlowe’s eyes flicked up to meet his, sharp and unsure. “You think that makes this easier…?”

“No.” His voice was low now, softer. “...No, not at all. But it’s true.”

She swallowed, arms still crossed tight. “It’s been three years, JJ. I’m not the same girl.”

“I can see that,” he said, almost a whisper. “You look…like you belong here.”

Marlowe’s voice cracked when she spoke. “I don’t. I’m trying. But I still feel like I’m pretending to be someone who fits.”

JJ’s hand twitched like he wanted to reach for her, but didn’t. “You never had to pretend with me.”

She blinked hard, eyes glassy but not falling. “I did. I had to hide everything. From everyone. You just never noticed.”

They stood in the quiet for a moment. Long enough for regret to settle like dew.

Finally, JJ stepped back. Gave her space. “I just needed to say it. I never stopped caring, Mar.”

Marlowe looked at him—really looked at him. The boy she once gave everything to, who still made her heart ache and her stomach twist, but who no longer felt like home.

“I know,” she said softly. “But that doesn’t mean I come back.” Her eyes drifted to the ground, as if it held the answers to solve this mess. She shook her head a little, then glanced back at the party. The lights of the bonfire and the stringed bulbs danced faintly in the distance. 

“That guy you were with,” he said. “The one with the belt buckle and the whole cowboy thing. Who is he?”

Marlowe slowed, shoulders tightening. She didn’t turn around right away.

“His name’s Rhett,” she said after a beat.

“--He said his name earlier,” he cut her off abruptly. 

Marlowe took a moment to recover, visibly swallowing down the lump in her throat.  “He’s… someone who’s been good to me.”

JJ scoffed, not loud, but sharp enough. “Good to you, huh?”

She turned this time, expression unreadable. “Yes, JJ. Good to me.” She whispered.

His jaw worked, like he was chewing on words he knew better than to say. “Just didn’t peg you for the rodeo type.” he muttered.

Marlowe’s brows lifted slightly, something cold flickering behind her eyes. “Maybe that’s the point.”

JJ looked at her, really looked, and the smirk he wore so often had vanished. “Is he your boyfriend?”

She didn’t answer right away. That was answer enough. “No. Not yet.” she murmured, as if she was afraid to hurt JJ.

“I didn’t come out here to talk about Rhett,” she said finally, voice quieter now. “And I didn’t come out here to play catch-up on what we used to be.”

JJ’s mouth opened like he had more to say—but nothing came.

Marlowe’s gaze softened, just a flicker. “You’ll be alright, JJ. You always are.” she insisted, gently taking his free hand into her own. Giving it a firm squeeze paired with that warm smile of hers.

And with that, she turned again—this time for good. Leaving JJ in the woods with his silence. The taste of regret, and the name Rhett echoing in his head like thunder about to break.

Wren barely made it ten steps toward the Pogues before someone stepped into her path—grinning like he'd been waiting.

“Figured I’d find you sniffing around the outsiders,” Luke Tillerson drawled, arms crossed, beer dangling from his fingers.

Wren didn’t stop walking, but she slowed just enough to show she’d heard him. “Evening, Luke.”

“Evening,” he echoed mockingly. “Didn’t realize Rafe Cameron was your type.”

Wren stopped then, tilting her head with a forced smile. “Didn’t realize I had to file paperwork with you before talking to someone.”

“You know,” he went on before she could reply, “I always figured if you wanted money, you’d at least go for the subtle kind. Not some out-of-state golden boy with designer denim and a damn pearl snap shirt.”

Wren kept her gaze forward, jaw tight. “Nice to see you’re still projecting.”

Luke clicked his tongue. “C’mon, Wren. Don’t play coy. You cozyin’ up to a guy like that? Rich, cocky, reckless... Sound familiar?”

Her jaw clenched. “That’s funny,” she said. “I didn’t think he reminded me of anyone.”

Luke’s smirk faltered for just a second before sliding back into place, more bitter this time. “Guess I just figured you’d want to avoid the same mistake twice.”

She stopped walking then, turning just enough to meet his eyes. “I wasn’t aware we were doing roll calls for the local disappointment list.” She stepped closer, closing the space between them with that quiet, steady heat in her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

That stung—she saw it flash in his eyes even if the grin didn’t waver.

“You can screw whoever you want,” he said, voice dropping a little lower, more pointed. “Just figured you had more sense than to fall for the first wallet with a pulse.”

She stepped closer, chin tilted up. “Is that what you think this is about? Money?”

Luke’s smile thinned. “With you? No. But with him? Baby, you’re just a vacation.”

Luke leaned in too, his voice dropping just enough to feel like a warning. “He’s not gonna stick around, Wren. Guys like him don’t. They play cowboy for a weekend, then fly home and forget your name.”

“And you think I care?” she shot back, cool as ice. “He’s not the one who promised me things and bailed when it got hard.”

That hit its mark. Luke’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

Wren didn’t wait for him to recover. Wren didn’t flinch. She just blinked slowly and gave a soft, humorless laugh. “God, you’re exhausting.” She stepped around him, brushing past his shoulder with intent, her boots crunching gravel as she headed toward the Pogues—toward new trouble, sure. But at least it wasn’t old.

Behind her Luke watched, his jaw tight and his bottle forgotten in his hand. Little did Luke know said Golden Boy hadn’t been too far away from their conversation. 

Across the field, from the shadowed edge of the trees, Marley stepped out of the woods, fast. Frantic almost. 

There was a tension in her shoulders, Wren knew well—the kind you got from trying to swallow back a fight or a truth too loud to keep quiet.

Wren slowed her approach, eyes narrowing slightly as she tracked Marley’s path. The girl moved like she didn’t want to be seen, but her pace gave her away. She beelined past the fire pit, straight toward the truck parked just outside the party’s glow. Her head was down, arms folded tight like armor.

Wren turned slightly, scanning the woods. It was oddly still tonight, and there was no sign of JJ.

Interesting.

Rhett was still standing where he’d been earlier, talking to Pope and John B—but now he was watching Marley with quiet intensity. His jaw worked once, and Wren could tell he wanted to go after her but didn’t know if he should.

“You must be Wren,” he greeted with a small crooked smile. “Glad you made it.”

“Yeah,” she said, glancing again toward the trees. “You lose someone out there?” Her tone was anything but nice. 

JJ’s absence was obvious now. The others followed her gaze, visibly connecting dots they weren’t ready to say out loud.

Wren peeled away from the group, her boots crunching softly over gravel and grass as she made her way toward the row of trucks lining the back edge of the field. The music felt distant out here, replaced by the steady chirp of insects and the occasional crack of a beer tab being pulled in the dark.

She spotted Marley before she heard her.

Pacing. Short, uneven strides between two tailgates, her arms tight across her chest like she was holding herself together with sheer will. Her breathing came fast—too fast—and her fingers kept flexing and curling like they couldn’t decide if they wanted to fight or flee.

Wren didn’t say anything right away. She stood at the edge of the light wash from a string of bulbs, just watching for a second. Marley looked like she might shatter if someone breathed too loud.

Then, gently: “Hey.”

Marley froze. She didn’t look up right away, just dragged her sleeve across her cheek even though there weren’t any tears yet. “Sorry,” she muttered. “Just—needed some air.”

Wren took a few slow steps forward. “Looks like the air’s fightin’ back.”

That got a shaky, half-laugh in return. Marley exhaled through her nose, but her jaw was still tight, and her eyes darted everywhere but Wren’s. 

“...You okay?” Wren asked, her voice softer now. She took a few steps closer to Marlowe. 

She immediately shook her head. “No–” she choked out, taking a second to compose herself. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I shouldn’t’ve come. I thought I could handle it, but—”

Marley gave a short, bitter laugh, but there wasn’t any humor in it. “I don’t know. It’s been three years. And he just…looked at me like I killed his dog or something.”

“You showed up with Rhett,” Wren said gently.

“I know.” Marley wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s not like I planned that. It just happened.”

“You wanna talk to him again?” Wren asked. There was a hint of clear judgment in her tone.

Marley hesitated. She looked down, scuffing her boot in the dirt. “I don’t know if he’d even want that. But I kind of wish I could just… explain. Just so he knows it wasn’t what he thinks.”

Wren nodded. “You don’t owe him anything.”

“I know,” Marley said. “But maybe I owe it to myself.”

“Do you? Or are you convincing yourself you do?” 

Marlowe knew she didn’t have an answer for that. 

“You saw JJ again,” Wren sighed. “And Rhett’s right there. That’s a lot.”

Marley nodded, lips trembling as she pulled in a breath that hitched halfway through. Wren stepped in closer and didn’t hesitate—just reached out and wrapped a hand around Marley’s wrist. Grounding. Steady.

“You’re not crazy,” Wren murmured. “You’re overwhelmed. And it makes sense.”

Marley blinked hard, and for the first time, looked Wren in the eye. “I feel like I’m splitting in half. Like I can’t breathe around either of them.”

Wren gave her wrist a light squeeze. “Then don’t pick either right now. Just breathe.”

A blanket of silence fell over both of them, comfortable and warm, even. 

“Thank you.” Marley stammered, steeling herself before she went in for a hug. Marlowe Harper hated hugs, but from Wren? They were a comfort. A luxury Marlowe was not afforded fairly often. 

“Come on.”

They slipped through the back gate of the ranch, away from the music and chaos, moving quickly across the open stretch that led to the edge of the woods. The air was cooler here, thicker. Quieter. The night pressed in with all its unanswered questions.

Meanwhile, on the far side of the west pasture, Pope, John B., and Kiara had peeled away from the noise of the party—drawn by something quieter, something stranger. Pope had noticed it on the walk over: a shimmer in the distance, a distortion in the field like heat rising off pavement, but wrong. Now, curiosity tugged at their bones like gravity.

They weren’t expecting what they found.

It wasn’t a gathering or a bonfire or some forgotten truck bed with a cooler. It was a hole. A perfectly round, impossibly black void carved into the earth. No edges. No bottom. No light. Just absence.

Pope crouched near the rim, squinting into it like his eyes might adjust. They didn’t. He picked up a rock—smooth and pale from the sun—and held it for a second, weighing it in his palm like it might change his mind. Then he dropped it in.

There was no sound. No thud. No splash. No echo. The rock didn’t fall. It vanished.

“What the hell is that?” Kiara whispered, her voice barely rising over the wind.

John B. took a slow step back, eyes locked on the void. “That’s not natural. That’s not a sinkhole.”

“No,” Pope said, his voice thin and wary. “It’s something else.”

The silence around them deepened. Even the crickets had gone quiet. The wind moved through the dry grass, but the sound felt off—as if it was muffled or filtering through something unseen.

Then came the creak of leather and the low, deliberate thud of hooves. Another figure stepped out from the shadows.

Royal Abbott.

He emerged like a ghost from dust and shadow, hat pulled low, shoulders squared. His weight shifted the whole field. He wasn’t shouting. He didn’t have to. 

Royal Abbott looked like he’d been carved out of the very land he walked. Dust clung to the creases of his weatherworn face, the lines etched deep like dry riverbeds. His eyes—shadowed beneath the wide brim of his hat—were unreadable, dark as the void behind him, and somehow older than they should’ve been. Not old in years, but in weight. In knowing.

“You kids,” he said, voice like dry gravel sliding down a slope, “stay the hell off my land.”

It hit like a punch—sharp and cold.

No one said a word. Pope’s breath caught in his throat. Kiara took half a step behind John B., who stood frozen, eyes still on the hole like it might open wider if he blinked.

Royal didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t explain. He turned, slow and sure, climbed onto his horse like something out of a story older than time, and disappeared into the open pasture without another word. Gone, like he’d never been there at all.

The three of them stood rooted in place, staring after him. Because they hadn’t just found a hole. They’d found the start of something huge. And none of them—not even Pope, the logical one—could make sense of what they’d just seen.

Kiara finally broke the silence, her voice brittle. “Did he… know we were here? Like—before we showed up?”

John B. didn’t answer right away. His gaze was still locked on the hole, like it might whisper something back if he stared long enough.

“I bet he always knows, like some hill-billy sixth sense.” Pope muttered. “That guy’s probably been living out here forever. If something like this was on my land, I’d keep tabs on it too.”

Kiara rubbed her arms, like she’d caught a chill despite the warm night. “There’s something wrong with this place. Seriously wrong.”

Pope nodded slowly, eyes scanning the field like it might twist and shift if he blinked too fast. “It’s not just that hole. It’s everything. The way the air feels. The way it’s… quiet.” He hesitated. “Like we’re not supposed to be here.”

John B. took a cautious step closer to the edge again, peering down, but it was just as black and bottomless as before. His fingers twitched like he wanted to throw something else in—but he didn’t. “We need to tell Sarah and JJ–.”

“And say what?” Kiara shot back. “That we found a portal to hell behind a pasture in Wyoming? That some guy showed up out of nowhere like the grim reaper and told us to scram?”

Pope sighed. “She’s not wrong. They’d think we were drunk or messing around.”

“Maybe we are,” John B. said, running a hand through his hair. But the way his voice cracked—uncertain, small—made it clear he didn’t believe that. Not really.

Still, they started to move, slowly backing away from the hole like it might lurch up and swallow them if they turned their backs too fast. The wind picked up again, rattling the dry weeds. And somewhere in the distance, a horse snorted.

None of them said another word as they made their way back toward the party lights glowing faintly in the distance—back to the noise, the firelight, and the illusion of normal.

Only that it felt like the ground beneath them had started to change.

And the hole was still there. Waiting.

Chapter 5 is here! Old wounds, unsaid words, and tension thick enough to cut with a pocketknife. Marley and JJ finally talk… but it’s not the conversation either of them expected.

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[s1ut-4-rafe]

SECRETS IN WABANG | Part 4.5 | Outer Banks x Outer Range

MASTERLIST (Series - In Progress)

Pairing 1 - Wren x Rafe Cameron

Pairing 2 - Marlowe x Rhett Abbott

Summary - Marlowe (Marley) and Wren thought they’d left the worst behind. They’re rebuilding their lives in the quiet town of Wabang, Wyoming — chasing peace, purpose, and a little distance from the chaos they escaped. But peace doesn’t last. When the Pogues and Camerons show up, everything begins to unravel. Old loves resurface. New dangers emerge. Secrets that were never meant to be found start clawing their way back into the light. And as the past collides with the present, Marley and Wren find themselves caught in the middle of a mystery bigger than they imagined, and emotions they aren’t ready to face.

Word Count - 3721

Content - Angst, enemies to lovers, unexpected alliance, betrayal, cowboys, emotional conflict, sfw/nsfw

Navigation - | 04 | 4.5 | 05 |

Wren moved through the chaos behind the scenes like a second wind, checking on riders, calming a nervous bronco, restocking the VIP platform with hands that trembled only slightly from exertion. Her arms ached, and her sweat-soaked shirt clung to her spine like a second skin. The dust, the heat, the constant noise—she wore it all like armor.

When the final rider cleared the gates and the last cheers faded into night, the arena manager clapped a heavy hand on her shoulder. “You’re good.”

She nodded once, short and tired, then wiped her brow with the hem of her shirt, revealing a flash of toned stomach under the grime. Her boots were caked in dirt, her braid falling loose from where she'd knotted it that morning. But instead of heading straight for the Tillerson party like she’d promised Marley, Wren veered left—cutting behind the stables where her old pickup waited, loyal and dust-covered.

Fifteen minutes later, she wasn’t the same girl.

Gone were the work jeans and dirt-streaked tee. In their place: frayed denim shorts that hugged her hips, an olive-green tank that dipped low and clung like second skin, and a worn black vest slung open at the shoulders—equal parts cowgirl and rebel. A cracked leather belt cinched her waist, silver buckle catching the light like a dare. Her boots were still the same, scuffed and scarred from long days, but now they looked like part of the look, not the labor.

She leaned against the truck’s mirror, swiping on a coat of mascara with practiced ease. Then she let her hair down with a single tug, shaking it loose until it spilled in waves around her shoulders. It wasn’t just a change of clothes. It was shedding the day. The work. The weight. This version of Wren wasn’t here to run errands or earn approval.

She was here to raise hell.

The drive out to Tillerson land was short, but every minute thrummed with anticipation. Her window was down, warm air licking across her skin as country music thumped faintly in the distance, growing louder with each curve of the dirt road. The sun had sunk below the ridgeline, sky painted in indigo and molten gold. By the time she pulled up, the pasture was already lit with pickup headlights, bonfire glow, and silhouettes dancing in the dust.

Wren stepped out of the truck like she owned the night.

The heat, the booze, the reckless energy in the air—it all curled around her like a welcome she didn’t need to ask for. The barn was strung with fairy lights that blurred into hazy gold halos, casting everything in a dreamlike glow. Laughter spilled from the crowd, bodies grinding to music that made promises it had no intention of keeping.

Wren moved through the party like a slow burn. Heads turned. Boys she knew—and a few she didn’t—gave her long, curious looks. One wolf-whistled, low and appreciative.

She didn’t break stride.

She wasn’t here for them.

She was here for herself.

To blow off steam. To drink. To dance if the mood struck. And maybe, just maybe, to remind herself she was still the kind of girl who could burn a place down if she wanted to.

That mood lasted exactly until she spotted him.

Rafe Cameron.

He was lounging against a fence post beyond the barn, all golden lamplight and sharp smirks. A beer dangled from his fingers, his lean frame relaxed like this was his kingdom, and everyone else just wandered in for the view. His laugh sliced through the air—low, smug—as he leaned in to say something to a Tillerson cousin. Like they were old friends. Like he belonged here.

Wren didn’t like how easy he made it look. She kept her distance. Watching. Weighing. Knowing better.

Boys like Rafe didn’t show up just to drink and flirt. They had plans. They played angles, and Wren Maddox didn’t play second to anyone’s game.

She was about to veer off and lose him in the crowd when her stomach dropped. Her feet slowed.

Luke Tillerson, her ex. 

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Familiar in a way that made her stomach tighten with equal parts memory and regret.

Luke stood near the barn doors, red Solo cup in hand, half-laughing at something one of the guys said. The same guys Wren had grown up around—and outgrown. They still leaned the same, talked the same, never changed more than their boots or who they were chasing that week.

She used to be one of them. His, especially.

And for a while, that felt like enough.

But tonight, all she saw was the past standing under a string of party lights, grinning like it still had a claim on her.

He hadn’t seen her. Yet.

Rhett’s truck rumbled up the gravel road, headlights carving through the dark. Marlowe leaned her elbow against the door, fingers curled under her chin, watching the trees blur past.

Rhett glanced over, hands steady on the wheel. “You don’t have to go if you’re not feelin’ it.”

“I said I’d show up,” she said quietly. “I can handle showing up.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just let the tires crunch on in silence for a few more seconds.

“You been quiet since we left the house,” he said eventually, his voice low. “And not in the good way.”

Marlowe exhaled through her nose. “There’s a good way?”

Rhett gave a half-smile. “Yeah. The kinda quiet where I know you’re dreamin’ somethin’ up. The other kind…” He trailed off, eyes still on the road. “Feels like you’re bracing for something.”

She sat with that for a moment, then reached over and picked at the frayed edge of his flannel sleeve. “I don’t know. I guess... seeing them again just stirs things up.”

“Those friends of yours? The ‘pogues’, Wren said?”

She nodded in silence.

Rhett let out a long breath. “You don’t owe anybody anything, you know that?”

Marlowe turned her head, watching his profile lit by the faint dashboard glow. “Not even you?”

That pulled his eyes from the road for a second—just long enough to soften. “Me? You don’t owe me a damn thing, darlin’. But I’m still here.”

She smiled, small and tired. “I know.”

Marlowe was out of the passenger seat before the engine even fully cut, boots hitting gravel in one clean motion like she’d been holding her breath the whole ride. Rhett trailed after her, a silent shadow—close, but cautious, like he wasn’t sure what version of her he was walking behind.

Wren caught the movement from her spot near the barn and tilted her head, watching Marley move like someone trying not to be seen, but hoping to be noticed all the same. She ducked her head, tugged at the hem of her tank top, adjusting it even though it didn’t need adjusting. Nervous. Self-conscious. The quiet kind of restless.

Their eyes met through the dust and noise. Wren smirked—slow, knowing, a little wicked.

Marley didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.

Rhett peeled off toward the keg line, boots crunching through gravel and leftover hay. That left Marley standing alone for half a second—just long enough for her to catch sight of something that made her shoulders go taut.

Her whole posture shifted.

Wren followed her gaze and sighed under her breath.

JJ.

He was near the treeline, bottle in hand, talking to who she figured had to be Pope and Kiara. But his eyes—his eyes weren’t on them. They were locked on Marley. And that look on his face? It wasn’t neutral. It wasn’t casual. It was the kind of look that was remembered.

And Marley? She hesitated—for just a blink—then turned sharply on her heel, heading after Rhett without a word.

Not a glance back.

Wren blew out a slow breath, shaking her head as she turned away. Oh girl, she thought. You just poured gasoline on whatever fire that boy’s been sitting in.

JJ didn’t say a word at first. Just stood there, still as stone, the lip of his plastic cup hovering near his mouth.

He watched Marley step out of that truck like she was made for the dust and firelight. Like she belonged here in a way that twisted something low in his gut.

And then—she didn’t even look their way. Didn’t look his way.

Just turned on her heel and followed that guy—whoever the hell he was—like she’d already made up her mind and never even considered him in the equation.

JJ’s jaw flexed, teeth clenched behind a bitter sip of warm beer.

“Yo.” Pope’s voice cut into the haze. “You good?”

JJ didn’t answer. He tilted his bottle back and drank instead, watching Marley disappear into the crush of bodies near the kegs, that cowboy sticking close behind her like a damn shadow.

“You know him?” he asked, voice flat.

Pope followed his gaze. “The cowboy? Nah. I remember seeing him at the rodeo.” 

JJ let out a humorless laugh. “Of course he was.”

Next to him, Kiara’s posture shifted. She’d seen that look on JJ before—tight around the mouth, that storm building slow. Her grip on her drink tightened.

“She looked right at you, you know,” she said lightly, not quite teasing.

JJ finally cut his eyes toward her. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“She did.” Kiara stepped a little closer, her voice dropping. “Right before she followed him.”

There was something edged in her tone—half observation, half challenge.

JJ raised an eyebrow. “What’s your point?”

“My point,” Kiara said coolly, chin lifting just enough to be a warning, “is that if you’re gonna stand here brooding over every girl that walks past, maybe don’t do it in front of the one who’s actually still standing next to you.”

The tension cracked between them like dry kindling catching flame.

JJ’s smirk came slow—and bitter. “Right. Copy that.”

Kiara’s jaw tensed. She looked away, toward the bonfire, anywhere but at him. “Forget it.”

She didn’t wait for him to stop her. Just turned and walked off, head high, the sway in her shoulders a silent middle finger.

JJ let out a sharp exhale, frustration simmering beneath his skin. But his eyes? They went right back to the crowd, searching for Marley even though he already knew she wasn’t looking back.

The keg station glowed beneath the haze of string lights and bonfire smoke, the kind of golden warmth that made everything feel a little too cinematic.

Rhett handed Marley a plastic cup, their fingers brushing—a little too long to be casual. She didn’t pull away.

“Not bad for Wyoming beer,” she teased, trying to start a conversation. 

Rhett grinned. That stupid lopsided smirk that always made her heart melt on sight. “Don’t get too picky. Your options are this or something that was brewed in a gas can.”

Before Marley could respond, a voice behind them slipped in like a blade beneath the ribs.

“Well, this is new.”

They turned.

Kiara stood with one hip cocked, a half-smile playing at her lips. Friendly enough, but there was a sharpness in her gaze—especially when it landed on Marley.

“Kie,” Marley greeted, keeping her tone even.

“Marls.” Kiara’s nod was slight, tone off. Her eyes slid to Rhett. “And you are?”

“Rhett.” he said, offering a hand. Kiara laughed lightly as she shook it. “Good to know. Kiara. I’m—well, it’s complicated, but we go way back.”

Her gaze flicked to Marley again. That smile never fully dropped, but it tightened.

“Come on,” Kiara said after a beat, motioning with her cup. “You should meet the rest of our dysfunctional little crew. They’re over by the fire. JJ will love this.”

Marley froze for half a second—just long enough for Kiara to notice.

Rhett looked at her. “You good with that?”

“Sure,” Marley said, adjusting her grip on the cup. “Let’s go.”

Kiara wove through the crowd like she owned it, not bothering to look back. She tossed a casual, “So… Marley, I didn’t realize you were into the rodeo scene now. Or cowboys.”

Marley smiled tightly. “It’s new.”

Kiara hummed, amused. “Figured.”

When they reached the fire pit, JJ looked up first—and the shift in his expression was immediate. Eyes on Marley. Then Rhett. Then Marley again.

“This is Rhett,” Kiara announced, falsely cheerful. “Marley’s cowboy tour guide.”

JJ didn’t say a word. Just took a slow swig from his bottle.

Pope gave Rhett a polite nod. “You ride bulls?”

“Eight seconds at a time,” Rhett said with a grin, all charm and ease.

“Longer than some guys around here,” Kiara added, smirking sideways at JJ.

JJ huffed. “Cute.” He muttered, clearly his ego hurt. 

Marley didn’t look at him. She turned to Pope instead, eyes bright with a genuine admiration for Rhett. “Rhett was the best ride of the night.”

JJ flinched—barely.

Rhett rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly. “I don’t know about that. Givin’ me too much credit, darlin’.”

Kiara leaned into JJ’s side, her voice soft, quiet. But sharp as a blade. “Told you this trip would be a waste.” 

And for a moment, the air cracked—not loud, but enough to feel.

Marley stood there, drink in hand, surrounded by heat and smoke and history. The firelight flickered across familiar faces and unspoken wounds.

The cooler was half-submerged in a puddle of melted ice water, tucked beneath someone’s dented tailgate and surrounded by crushed cans and boot scuffs. Wren crouched down just as someone else got there first.

Rafe Cameron glanced up, hand already wrist-deep in the slush. His signature smirk tugged at his mouth like it had nowhere better to be.

“You want one,” he said, “or are you just here to supervise?”

Wren arched a brow. “Don’t trust you to find the good stuff,” she returned, cool and disinterested.

He grinned, shaking water off his hand like a wet dog. “Oh really? I’ve got good taste.”

“Mm,” she said dryly. “Questionable.”

Rafe chuckled, digging deeper into the ice with mock concentration. “Alright, Wyoming. Impress me—what’s the good stuff look like to you?”

“Something that doesn’t taste like regret and a headache.”

He pulled out a longneck, held it up like an offering. “This meet the mark?”

She gave it a once-over and hummed. “Barely.”

Still, she held out her hand.

Rafe popped the cap on the bumper and passed it to her, fingers brushing hers deliberately. She didn’t flinch, didn’t thank him—but she didn’t walk away either.

She stayed.

He leaned back against the tailgate, bottle in hand, one foot crossed over the other. “Are you always this charming, or just with guys who look like trouble?”

“I grew up around horses,” Wren said, taking a sip. “I know how to spot a skittish one.”

“Ouch.” He dropped his gaze to the drink in his hand, bobbing his head a little. He took a silent second to himself, sucking his teeth before he spoke again. “And here I was just trying’ to be friendly.”

“You’re not from around here.” It wasn’t a question. Wren could tell. 

“North Carolina,” he said, lifting his drink in a mock toast. “Family vacation. Or whatever my dad’s calling it.”

His tone was light, but Wren caught the flicker of something else behind it. Half-truths. Maybe less. But then again, who was ever really honest?

“Let me guess,” she said, tipping her bottle toward him. “He drag you out here to find God or just some cowboy PR?”

Rafe laughed. “Hell if I know. But the view’s been decent.”

His gaze lingered—not crude, but deliberate. 

Wren didn’t look away. “You’re not subtle, are you?”

“Never claimed to be.” He leaned in slightly. “But you—you were solid today. The way you handled those horses? Like they were dogs that owed you money.”

That earned the faintest laugh from her, barely more than a breath. “Been around ranches since I could walk. Doesn’t take a genius to be kind.”

“No,” he said, watching her closely. “But it takes someone who gives a damn. And you clearly do.”

She glanced over at him again—this time slower, a flicker of curiosity in her expression. “What do you care?”

He shrugged. “Just trying to figure you out. You’re not like the other girls here.”

“You don’t know the girls here.”

“True,” he said, smirking. “But I’m starting to know you.”

Wren sipped her beer, masking the faint pull of a smile. “You’re real confident for someone in borrowed boots.”

“Confidence looks better with dust on it,” Rafe said, tilting his head. “And maybe I’ve got a thing for a challenge.”

She gave him a long, unreadable look. “You keep pushing, and you might get one.”

He leaned in just a little more, not touching her, but close enough to catch the scent of dust, beer, and the faintest trace of her shampoo.

“Good,” he murmured. “I hate easy.”

That did it—Wren finally smiled. Small. Secretive. Dangerous.

Wren took another sip of her beer, the glass cool against her lips, and let her gaze drift past Rafe’s shoulder—past the cooler and tailgate and the low hum of a country song rattling from a speaker.

Across the field, she spotted Marlowe.

The girl stood stiff as a fence post near the edge of the group, shoulders drawn up like she was bracing for judgment. Rhett Abbott was beside her, easy and grinning, holding a beer like it was part of his hand. The Pogues were laughing about something, and even from a distance, Wren could tell Marlowe didn’t quite know where to put her arms.

Wren’s mouth tugged into something between a smirk and a sigh. God, she looked nervous.Like she’d wandered into someone else’s life by mistake.

It was kind of adorable.

But there was more to it than nerves.

Wren knew that look—the wide eyes and half-swallowed words, like Marlowe was waiting to be told she didn’t belong. She’d seen it before. In the mirror. In girls raised to be polite and perfect and small.

But Rhett didn’t seem to mind. He leaned toward Marlowe when he spoke, close enough for the brim of his hat to cast a shadow over her cheek. And Marlowe—bless her—was trying to keep up, nodding like she wasn’t on the verge of short-circuiting.

Wren didn’t worry. Rhett might’ve been a little reckless, but he had that soft core under all the cowboy. He’d be good to her.

Wren’s brow lifted slightly at the thought.

Wren turned back to Rafe, the smirk still ghosting her mouth. Now this guy? He knew he was trouble.

Then she straightened, bottle in hand. “Come find me again when you’re not trying so hard.” She stated firmly, dismissing herself to go find her church mouse. She could already hear Marley panicking. 

“Hey—” Rafe’s voice trailed after her before his boots did, crunching over gravel as he caught up. “You always leave a guy hangin’ after a compliment like that?”

Wren didn’t look at him, just kept walking toward the outer edge of the party where the porch lights didn’t quite reach. “Wasn’t a compliment. Just an observation.”

He fell in step beside her, bottle swinging at his side. “Still the nicest one I’ve gotten all week.”

“You must be talking to the wrong people.”

“Nah,” he said. “Just haven’t found many worth listening to.”

That earned him a sideways glance. Wren didn’t slow her pace, but the edge in her eyes had softened just slightly.

They walked past a row of trucks and hay bales, the party fading behind them into background noise—laughter, country guitar, the occasional shout from a drunk ranch hand. Out here, it felt quieter. Dustier. Real.

Wren finally stopped near the split-rail fence that marked the edge of the pasture. She leaned against it, the wood warm from the day’s sun, and took another sip of her beer before speaking.

“You’re real persistent.”

Rafe leaned on the fence beside her, close but not crowding. “You make it real easy.”

She snorted. “That another line of yours?”

“Nah.” He turned his head toward her. “If I was tryin’ to charm you, you’d know.”

“Oh?” She cocked an eyebrow, amused now. “So what’s this?”

“This?” He grinned, slow and lopsided. “This is me not trying.”

“Must be exhausting, being you.”

“Only when I want something.”

Wren looked at him fully now. Her face in shadow, but her eyes caught just enough of the moonlight to glint. “And what exactly is it you want, Cameron?”

He met her stare, his voice lower now. “Still figuring that out.”

A beat passed. The wind tugged lightly at her hair.

She looked away first. “You’re playing with matches.”

“I like fire.”

Wren gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “You’d better learn how not to get burned.”

“Already been,” Rafe said, his voice quieter now. Less flirty. More honest.

That made her glance at him again, just for a second too long.

She looked away. “Good.”

That one word hung there—not cruel, not soft, just true.

They stood in silence for a moment longer. Both of them holding something unsaid between their fingers like an unstruck match, and then Wren broke it. “So what’s your deal, really? The North Carolina rich boy act… You keep that up all the time or just when you’re bored?”

Rafe laughed, but it wasn’t as cocky this time. “Guess I don’t know how to be anything else yet.”

“Guess that makes two of us.”

He turned to her, clearly more interested now. “Yeah?”

Wren didn’t answer. She took a drink and let the silence speak for itself. 

Rafe watched her, still and thoughtful. Then, with a grin tugging at his mouth again: “You know, Wyoming... I think I like you.”

Wren finally smiled—sharp and dry as flint. “Don’t get attached.” She stated, her voice dripping with warning—a threat, even. 

She jabbed a finger in his direction while backing away, her chocolate brown eyes narrowing in mock annoyance before she spun on her heel. Her hair defying gravity for just a moment, making a statement on her way out of the conversation. 

Her stride was quick and purposeful. Wren was the type of woman whose presence demanded attention. She oozed confidence, making it easy to see that she knew who and what she was. Rafe drank in the sight of her retreating form, basking in the memory of her, for the moment. 

Author's Note: Here we go—Chapter 4.5 is live and the chaos is far from over! Chapter 5 is coming soon!

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Taglist for Secrets in Wabang: @msfirth | @deeninadream

[s1ut-4-rafe]

SECRETS IN WABANG | Part 4 | Outer Banks x Outer Range

MASTERLIST (Series - In Progress)

Pairing 1 - Wren x Rafe Cameron

Pairing 2 - Marlowe x Rhett Abbott

Summary - Marlowe (Marley) and Wren thought they’d left the worst behind. They’re rebuilding their lives in the quiet town of Wabang, Wyoming — chasing peace, purpose, and a little distance from the chaos they escaped. But peace doesn’t last. When the Pogues and Camerons show up, everything begins to unravel. Old loves resurface. New dangers emerge. Secrets that were never meant to be found start clawing their way back into the light. And as the past collides with the present, Marley and Wren find themselves caught in the middle of a mystery bigger than they imagined, and emotions they aren’t ready to face.

Word Count - 2202

Content - Angst, enemies to lovers, unexpected alliance, betrayal, cowboys, emotional conflict, sfw/nsfw

Navigation - | 03 | 04 | 4.5 |

Sarah led the Pogues along the gravel path behind the main grandstand, weaving past groups of ranchers, rodeo families, and camera crews that buzzed with dust and heat. Her boots clicked with purpose, posture stiff, but not from nerves. From resolve.

“Booth’s just ahead,” she called over her shoulder. “Try not to make it obvious we’re watching them.”

John B. gave a mock salute. “Subtlety’s our specialty.”

Kiara snorted. “Right. That’s why you wore your ‘Free the Cut’ shirt, huh?”

Pope chuckled quietly, but JJ said nothing. His eyes stayed trained on the far VIP box—the one where Ward Cameron sat stiff as a statue, and Rafe lounged like a coiled snake with a drink in hand.

Sarah ducked under the rope and into their designated section. Shaded by stretched canvas, it was close enough to see Ward’s face but far enough that they couldn’t hear whatever poison was dripping from his mouth. She pulled the folding chairs into a tighter semicircle, like that might make them feel safer.

JJ stood at the back, hands on his hips, jaw flexing. He hadn’t looked once toward the other box. But Marley was still out there. Somewhere.

Meanwhile, on the outer edge of the arena, Marley shifted her weight from one boot to the other. She and Wren stood just beyond the food tents, a patch of relative quiet in the churn of the crowd. Smoke from a barbecue pit drifted by, blending with the dry scent of hay and leather.

Marley chewed the inside of her cheek. “Sarah snuck them in,” she said finally, more to herself than to Wren. “I figured she would.”

Wren followed her gaze toward the rope-line seating across the way. “They look like they’re casing a target.”

“They probably are.” Marley’s voice was flat. She crossed her arms. “Ward doesn’t go anywhere without a motive.”

“You think he’s here for a cover?” Wren’s brow quirked upward. 

“I think he’s here for something.” She sighed, eyes flicking toward the booth where JJ now stood, tension carved into every angle of his body. “And whatever it is, it won’t be pleasant.”

Wren glanced at Marley, then toward the sky, already starting to tinge orange with the promise of sunset and spectacle. “You sure you’re not just worried about having seen him again?” Marlowe knew she meant JJ. 

Marley didn’t answer right away. Just traced the edge of her silver cross and muttered, “I’m worried about what he’ll see in me.”

Wren’s brows lifted slightly. “Well, I can assure you I’m not seeing much in him,” Wren muttered back. But she didn’t press further. Instead, she reached for the radio on her belt, thumbed the button, and muttered something about checking in with the bullpen.

“Come on,” she said, nodding toward the stands. “Let’s get some distance before the first round starts.”

The two of them moved toward the outer walkways, boots crunching over packed dirt, but split ways at the gates.

“I’ll find you after,” Wren said.

Marley nodded, already scanning the crowd for an open spot to settle in. “I’ll be watching.”

Wren offered a quick half-smile, then disappeared behind the bleachers, ducking into one of the roped-off pathways that led to the back pens.

She barely made it a dozen steps before someone stepped into her path.

“Easy, darlin’.”

Luke Tillerson’s hand shot out, catching her by the arm, just long enough to make her skin crawl.

Wren yanked free with a sharp jerk. “Watch it.”

He grinned, all beer breath and sleaze, boots planted like he owned the place. “You headed out to the party later?”

She didn’t answer right away, just stared at him like he was something she'd scraped off her boot.

“Hate to miss your grand entrance,” he added, taking a lazy step closer.

“Try harder,” she muttered.

His laugh followed her down the walkway, sharp and mocking.

She didn’t look back.

Marlowe stepped lightly over the rope and into the Pogues’ section, her heart hammering louder than the music.

Sarah looked up first. Her mouth curled into a smile—grateful, maybe—but there was a flicker of relief there, too. "You made it."

Marley gave a small nod, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear as she scanned the familiar faces: Pope offered a polite smile, Kiara gave a slow, cautious nod, and John B. raised his soda in a half-toast.

Then there was JJ.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at her like the ghost of someone he used to know had just climbed over the fence. His expression was unreadable, but the storm in his eyes hadn’t faded—not in the slightest.

“Hey,” Marley said, her voice steady but quiet. “Room for one more?”

JJ leaned back in his chair, boots tapping lightly against the riser rail. “Didn’t think you liked sittin’ on this side of the rope anymore.”

Sarah cleared her throat sharply. “She’s here to help.”

JJ’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t argue.

Marley slipped into the chair beside Sarah, keeping a polite distance from JJ. She rested her elbows on her knees and focused on the arena, where another rider had just been thrown from a bull that refused to be reined in. The chaos suited her right now.

“I figured I’d keep up appearances,” she said, keeping her eyes forward.

“You talk to them yet?” Pope asked, nodding subtly toward the Cameron box.

Marlowe shook her head. “No, but my friend Wren, who works the rodeo- She’s attending to their box tonight.” she explained. 

The announcer’s voice crackled over the loudspeakers, all energy and grit:

“—and that’s a clean run for Tucker Hayes out of Casper! Let’s hear it, folks, he made it look easy out there.”

The crowd erupted into applause and whistles, a low hum of excitement vibrating through the metal bleachers. Marley scanned the arena, eyes darting between riders prepping behind the chutes and the occasional glimpses of Wren pacing the bullpen gates.

“Up next, we’ve got our local boy Rhett Abbott!” the announcer boomed. “He’s riding a nasty one tonight—Blue Steel out of Texas. This bull’s only been ridden to the buzzer twice, and both times ended in hospital visits. Let’s see if Rhett can change that story tonight, folks!”

Marley’s eyes snapped toward the far end of the pen, where Rhett was adjusting his rope and nodding at the gate operator. She sat upright, clearly giving Rhett all of her attention. Not a surprise to anyone.

A beat of silence fell.

Then the chute flew open and all hell broke loose. 

Blue Steel shot out like a cannonball, back arched high, front legs kicking out like pistons. Rhett’s body snapped with the motion—his hips riding the chaos, his free arm slicing the air for balance.

The bull twisted midair. Landed. Kicked again, harder.

Rhett stayed with him, legs clamped tight, jaw clenched. One Mississippi. Two. Three.

The crowd was on its feet.

Blue Steel bucked with savage precision, dropping his front hooves and launching his hindquarters skyward like a whip crack. Rhett jolted forward, almost lost the grip, but recovered. Four. Five.

Then came the spin.

The bull wheeled sharply to the left, a violent, last-ditch shake like it wanted to throw every atom of Rhett off its back. The torque ripped through him.

Six.

His center shifted too far.

His shoulder pitched forward. Fingers slipped.

And in the next blink, he was airborne.

Rhett hit the ground hard, the breath knocked clean out of him as dust swallowed him whole. The bull stormed past, all rage and momentum, chased down by the pickup riders who moved in like cavalry. One tossed a rope, the other rode a blockade. The bull veered, corralled at last.

Rhett didn’t move right away.

The silence from the crowd was heavy. Then came the wave of relief when he rolled to his side, pushed himself up on one knee, and stood.

Dust streaked his back. Blood from a split knuckle. But he was upright, walking off on his own.

The buzzer had never sounded.

The eight seconds had slipped through his fingers.

Again.

Marley had already slipped out of the stands by the time Rhett’s boots hit the dirt. She moved like she had a purpose, weaving through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd with a look that warned don’t stop me. Her hand skimmed the top rail of the fence as she walked, fingers trailing over worn wood and cool metal, her gaze locked on the arena.

Rhett spotted her near the back gate, just past the holding pens, sweat cutting a clean line through the dust caked on his temple. His mouth was tight, his jaw clenched—but his shoulders gave him away. Tension coiled beneath his frame, the kind that didn’t come from pain but pride bruised in front of a hometown crowd.

Marley leaned into the railing, arms folded over the top, fingers laced loosely. She didn’t look at him right away.

“You alright?” she asked, her voice calm. Not cold. Not pitiful. Just...steady.

Rhett gave a short nod, still catching his breath. “Wasn’t my cleanest.”

“No,” Marley agreed. “But it wasn’t on you.”

He turned slightly toward her, caught off guard. She finally met his eyes.

JJ leaned forward in his seat, forearms braced on his knees, a toothpick rolling between his teeth as he tracked Marley’s movement.

She stood up mid-announcement, right as the last bull was called. Didn’t say a word. Just slipped out of the box with a practiced sort of ease, like she’d done it a hundred times.

JJ’s eyes narrowed.

She didn’t look back. Didn’t even glance toward the rest of them. Her hair caught the dying light as she moved along the fence line, weaving through the crowd like she belonged to the dust and the dusk more than she ever had to the Pogues. Like she’d shed something in the bleachers and was stepping into something else.

His jaw tightened.

“Where’s she going?” he muttered under his breath.

John B. didn’t answer. Pope was distracted, and Kiara leaned half out of her seat to get a better view of the ring.

But JJ didn’t look away from Marley. Not once.

The way she walked—quick, purposeful, like she knew exactly where she was going—twisted something in his chest. She always used to walk like that when she was looking for him. Back home, when things were still theirs. Now?

She disappeared behind a group of ranchers clustered near the back gate.

He caught a glimpse of her hand trailing the railing. Familiar. Intimate. Too familiar.

A bad taste climbed the back of his throat.

JJ shifted in his seat, the wood suddenly too hot, too stiff, too wrong. The noise of the arena blurred around him, but he didn’t care about the bulls or the scores. All he could see was Marley walking toward something or someone, with a look on her face he didn’t recognize.

“I heard the ranchers near me talking,” Marley said, chin tilting toward the bleachers. “Said Blue Steel’s been tossing riders all season. No one’s made it past six seconds.”

Rhett exhaled through his nose. His hand came up to rub the back of his neck, silent.

“One of them mentioned you hadn’t had a solid ride in a while,” she added, watching his reaction. “But even they said your form was clean. Best ride of the night—even if it didn’t stick.”

A faint huff of breath escaped him. Maybe a laugh, maybe not. “Nice to know I’ve got fans in the peanut gallery.”

“Small town,” she replied with the ghost of a grin. “They keep tabs on all the good ones.”

That got him. Just a flicker. The corner of his mouth pulled up—not quite a smile, but close enough to count. He looked at her, really looked, and the weight of the arena noise fell away for a second. It was all dust and gold light and the thud of his heartbeat in his chest.

“You going to the Tillerson range party?” Marley asked, voice lighter now. “Wren thinks I should show up.”

Rhett hesitated. “Figure I’ll go. Once I rinse the taste of dirt outta my mouth.”

Marley gave a slow shrug, still leaning on the railing. “The rodeo does that to people. Or so I’ve been told.”

Another beat passed between them. Rhett shifted his weight, then glanced back at her, brows lifting just a little.

“I can give you a ride,” he offered. “If you want.”

Marley turned toward him, the fading sunlight catching the edges of her cheekbones. Her smile came slowly—small and a little wary, but real.

“Yeah,” she said. “Okay.”

He nodded, brushing a streak of dirt from his jeans. “I’ll find you after.”

“See you then,” she murmured, pushing off the railing.

As she walked away, Rhett watched her go for just a moment, then turned toward the pens. The last bull was being led back behind the gates, the announcer’s voice fading beneath the roar of the crowd.

The rodeo was done for the night.

The arena emptied quickly, boots crunching gravel, laughter rising and falling like smoke. The sun slipped lower behind the hills, bathing everything in warm amber and long shadows.

Author's Note: Next up? Chapter 4.5 (yes, we’re pulling a Half-Blood Prince move). It’s still part of Chapter 4, but it became too disjointed to remain intact. Buckle up for more chaos soon!

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Taglist for Secrets in Wabang: @msfirth | @deeninadream

[s1ut-4-rafe]

SECRETS IN WABANG | Part 3 | Outer Banks x Outer Range

MASTERLIST (Series - In Progress)

Pairing 1 - Wren x Rafe Cameron

Pairing 2 - Marlowe x Rhett Abbott

Summary - Marlowe (Marley) and Wren thought they’d left the worst behind. They’re rebuilding their lives in the quiet town of Wabang, Wyoming — chasing peace, purpose, and a little distance from the chaos they escaped. But peace doesn’t last. When the Pogues and Camerons show up everything begins to unravel. Old loves resurface. New dangers emerge. Secrets that were never meant to be found start clawing their way back into the light. And as the past collides with the present, Marley and Wren find themselves caught in the middle — of a mystery bigger than they imagined, and emotions they aren’t ready to face.

Word Count - 2934

Content - Angst, enemies to lovers, unexpected alliance, betrayal, cowboys, emotional conflict, sfw/nsfw

Navigation - | 02 | 03 | 04 |

Marley sifted through the pile of clothes Wren had dumped across the bed, her fingers hesitating over each bold option. Her bottom lip tugged between her teeth as she stared at them like they might bite back. Wren’s wardrobe was a world away from her own — Marley was all lace-trimmed dresses and faded cardigans, like a snapshot from some sepia-toned Southern Gothic reel. She dressed like she was still trying to please someone who wasn’t looking anymore.

Wren’s style, though? It was a challenge wrapped in denim and defiance. Cropped tanks, ripped jeans, boots with stories in their scuffs. She looked like she could ride a horse through a bar fight and walk out with your number and your last cigarette.

“You’re not gonna make me wear that, are you?” Marley asked, holding up a cream-colored crop top that tied in the front. It felt scandalous just to touch it.

Wren grinned, eyes gleaming like she’d just pulled the best card in a game Marley didn’t know they were playing. “The rodeo’s not your Sunday church service, Mar. Time to have a little fun. Trust me — you’re gonna own it.”

Marley groaned, but didn’t argue. She didn’t have the fight in her tonight. Not after seeing JJ again — three years of silence cracking open with just one glance — and not with Rhett’s face still etched in her mind from that last conversation that lingered like smoke.

She needed a distraction. Wren’s chaos came wrapped in confidence, and Marley was desperate to borrow some.

Wren tossed the crop top aside and pulled out a softer option — a white tank with a textured finish, still flattering but less skin-showy. “Here,” she said, handing it over like a peace offering. “Still hot, but you won’t feel like you need to clutch a Bible.”

Before Marley could respond, Wren was already behind her, slipping a delicate silver cross necklace around her neck and fastening it with a quiet click.

“Wren,” Marley muttered, fingers brushing the pendant, “I feel like I should be in a country music video.”

Wren stepped back with a wicked grin. “Exactly. This is rodeo night — wrong night to play a saint.”

Next came the jeans — low-rise and faded, hugging Marley’s hips just enough to make her squirm. Wren cuffed the ankles and handed over a pair of worn leather boots, stitched and broken-in in all the right places.

“You’re so hot it’s rude,” Wren said, circling her like an appraising curator. “You don’t need to dress like you’re scared of being looked at.”

Marley rolled her eyes, blush creeping up her neck. “Easy for you to say. You wear stuff like this to the gas station.”

“And you wear prairie dresses like you’re auditioning for Little House on the Judgmental Hill. We balance each other out.”

“It’s godly to be modest,” Marley said under her breath, the old echo of her mother’s voice not entirely her own.

Wren tossed a straw hat onto her head with a flourish. “Well, tonight it’s godly to be hot.”

Marley turned to the mirror and froze. The top clung but didn’t suffocate. The jeans made her feel like someone reckless. And the necklace — silver and delicate — gleamed at her collarbone like a secret only she knew.

The ride to the rodeo blurred past in a haze of nerves and heat. The parking lot was alive with energy — string lights glowing overhead, music pulsing from speakers, laughter mingling with the shuffle of boots over gravel.

Marley stepped out of the truck and immediately felt it — eyes shifting, pausing. Not judging, not unkind. Just noticing.

Then Rhett appeared. His boots crunched softly as he crossed the lot, that easy gait of someone born in spurs. His smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as his gaze swept from her boots to her eyes — lingering just a heartbeat too long on the tie of her top, the rise of her jeans, the glint of the cross.

“You don’t have to change how you dress to fit in around here, darlin’,” he said, voice low and warm, meant just for her.

Marley blinked, surprised by the tenderness in his tone.

“I like you better in those long, flowy things you wear, suits you.” he added, even quieter now, like he was afraid he might break something if he said it too loud.

Her cheeks flushed, but not with shame this time. She touched the cross lightly. “This was Wren’s idea.”

Rhett smiled wider, soft and knowing. “Figures.”

He tipped his hat and passed her by, boots echoing in the dusty glow of the floodlights, leaving her breathless and standing in the middle of everything — caught between two pasts and a future she hadn’t dared to name yet.

Wren appeared beside her again, arms folded, one brow arched like she’d been watching the whole time.

“He so likes you,” she said in a sing-song voice that made Marley want to groan and laugh at once.

“Don’t start,” Marley muttered.

“What?” Wren shrugged. “That was a ‘come back in a sundress and ruin my night’ kind of comment if I’ve ever heard one.”

Marley rolled her eyes, but her blush deepened.

Wren nudged her, smug. “Relax. You look amazing. And now Rhett Abbott’s giving you the kind of eyes they write bad country songs about. That’s, like, the Wyoming welcome package.”

“I hate you,” Marley said — but she was smiling.

Wren laughed, already grabbing her clipboard from the backseat. “I gotta get to work — VIP prep. This place is about to turn into chaos. But I’ll find you later, okay?”

Marley nodded, watching as Wren melted into the crowd with the ease of someone born for it.

And just like that, she was alone. Standing under the thrum of music and heat, heart pounding like a warning bell and a promise at the same time.

But the buzz wouldn’t last. Not with the trailhead waiting.

And not with the past waiting there for her to face it — in boots, in borrowed clothes, and maybe, just maybe, with a new fire in her chest.

Wren had worked the Amelia County Rodeo every year since she was sixteen.

Not for the money, though it helped. Not for the glory—she was never the one in the spotlight. She did it because the horses trusted her. Because the chaos made sense when it was tethered to reins, dust, and adrenaline.

But this year, something felt off.

It wasn’t just the heat, though it clung to the skin like molasses. It wasn’t the horses, though they were more restless than usual—eyes wide, hooves churning up dirt like they could feel something coming.

It was the air. The silence before thunder. The way people whispered more than they spoke and glanced over their shoulders like they knew the sky was about to crack open.

Wren kept her hands busy. Watered down skittish geldings, double-checked cinches, ran a calming palm down a trembling mare’s neck. A patch of her shirt stuck to her lower back with sweat, and she’d already busted a nail on a stubborn stall latch.

She didn’t complain. She liked being needed. This was the one place no one questioned her authority—not the ranch hands, not the rookies, not even Royal Abbott. When it came to horses, Wren knew exactly what she was doing.

She was heading out of the tack shed when the rodeo manager flagged her down. He wiped a sweaty brow with the back of his arm and leaned in like he had something worth whispering.

“VIP group comin’ in. Real money types. North Carolina plates on the truck,” one of the staffers added, clipboard under his arm as he passed. “Might wanna polish the banners. And keep the kids from sneaking into that section.”

Wren raised an eyebrow. “North Carolina? What the hell are they doing way out here?”

The guy just shrugged. “Dunno. But they’ve got their own box. Be on your best behavior.”

She smirked faintly but nodded, already hauling a cooler of complimentary drinks up the makeshift stairs. The so-called VIP box was a glorified platform with folding chairs and sun sails—usually reserved for local sponsors or washed-up politicians pretending they still had ranch in their blood.

Halfway up, she paused. A wooden sign clipped to the railing read:

Reserved for: Cameron Group – NC

Her stomach dipped.

Marley had mentioned the Camerons once or twice—vaguely. Old money. Oil-slick reputation: impossible to wash off, slippery to pin down. Somehow tangled up with the Pogues, though Marley had never offered details.

Wren took a breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped onto the platform.

Two men were already seated.

One older—square-jawed, neatly groomed, boots too clean for the dust, eyes sharp and practiced like he could spot a lie before it was spoken. He radiated control like a man who didn’t often hear “no.”

Next to him lounged a younger man, brown hair, sunglasses, boots kicked up on the railing like he owned the view. He didn’t look at her right away—just smirked in the direction of the arena like the show was already his.

Wren set the cooler down with a quiet thud, her voice calm and professional. “Evening, gentlemen. Complimentary drinks—water, soda, some local beer. I’ll be checking in if you need anything else.”

The younger one—Rafe, she guessed, based on the dripping entitlement—finally turned. His eyes moved over her slowly, deliberately.

“No tray service?” he drawled.

Wren didn’t blink. “Budget cuts.”

Ward chuckled softly, but his gaze never left her.

Rafe leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the smirk never leaving his mouth. “You’re not one of the waitresses.”

“No, sir.”

“Then what are you?”

“Caretaker,” she said smoothly. “Horse training, safety, and sometimes guest relations when no one else wants to deal with them.”

Rafe tilted his head like he was trying to figure her out. “You from around here?”

“Yes.”

“And what else do you do?”

She wiped her palms on her jeans. “Make sure none of you get trampled when a bronco decides it’s had enough of being ridden.”

Something flickered in his expression—amusement? Respect? Interest? She couldn’t tell. Didn’t care.

He let his gaze linger a second too long. “Well. You make the place a little more interesting.”

Wren’s expression didn’t shift. “Appreciate the feedback. I’ll be around if you need anything.”

She turned to go.

“Hey,” Rafe said behind her.

She stopped, but didn’t look back.

“You always this friendly,” he asked, “or just when there’s a crowd?”

Wren turned slowly. Her smile was gone now, her voice quiet but cool, edged in steel.

“I’m just doing my job. Don’t mistake being polite for something else.”

Rafe lifted his brows, clearly entertained. “You’re feisty.”

“And you’re predictable,” she shot back, already turning and walking off before he could reply.

But she could feel his eyes on her back, sticky as sweat and dust. And that told her everything she needed to know.

The sounds of the rodeo faded behind her as Marley slipped past rows of trucks and trailers, her boots clicking softly against the gravel. Floodlights cast long shadows that thinned with every step, until all that remained was the hush of crickets and the low rustle of wind through the trees.

She should’ve stayed and blended into the crowd, but she lost herself in the noise. Rhett had made it too easy to forget what she was walking toward — but forgetting didn’t erase history.

The trailhead came into view, tucked just beyond the fence line where the land dipped into shadow and familiarity turned sharp.

She slowed when she spotted them — silhouettes gathered near the start of the trail. JJ stood out immediately. Even in the half-light, she could see the way he shifted from foot to foot, like standing still was a punishment.

Pope sat on a boulder nearby, scrolling through his phone with a frown. Kie paced in tight circles, arms crossed, muttering to herself.

When JJ saw her, his head snapped up. He straightened, hands falling to his sides like he’d just been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Marley paused at the edge of the clearing, stomach churning.

“Well I’ll be damned. Marley Harper in Wyoming.”

John B stepped from the shadows, arms wide like he was greeting an old friend at a beach bonfire instead of a quiet mountain trail. He looked exactly the same — sun-kissed, slightly scruffy, and wearing that crooked grin that once made sneaking out of church feel like rebellion.

Marley blinked, surprised. “John B?”

He wrapped her in a quick, familiar hug before she could say anything else, then pulled back with a smile. “Didn’t think we’d see you again. Guess the rodeo’s got more pull than the preacher, huh?”

She laughed before she could stop herself — light, unguarded. “Don’t get used to it.”

John B winked. “Too late.”

He clapped JJ on the shoulder — a silent handoff that said everything and nothing — then melted back into the dark, giving them space.

Funny, how someone could live so fully in your bones and still feel like a stranger after enough time passed.

“Hey,” she said softly, hugging her arms over her stomach.

JJ cleared his throat, nodding once. “Hey.”

Pope glanced up and offered a quiet smile. Kie barely looked her way, tossing a dismissive wave as she paced. Only John B had seemed happy to see her.

Marley lingered at the edge of the clearing for a beat longer, unsure if she should step closer. The weight of the last three years hung between her and JJ like fog.

“You look…” JJ started, then stopped, his gaze flicking over her outfit. “Different.”

She huffed a nervous laugh. “Yeah, well. I got creative.”

He nodded, and the corner of his mouth twitched — almost a smile.

Silence stretched between them. Not exactly comfortable. Not hostile either. Just full of things unsaid.

“I didn’t think you’d show,” he said, voice low.

“Neither did I,” Marley admitted. She stepped forward, slow but sure. “But here I am.”

JJ looked at her for a long moment, like he was trying to figure out what version of her had walked down that path — the Marley he used to know, or the one standing in front of him now.

“Thanks,” he said. “For coming.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” she replied, but her voice lacked bite. “I just… needed to see for myself.”

He nodded again, slower this time. “Fair.”

Behind them, Kie muttered something about checking the trail. Pope followed her, giving them space.

Now it was just the two of them. The quiet stretched.

“I’m not the same,” Marley said suddenly, surprising even herself. “I mean, I still wear too much sunscreen and read banned books under the covers… but I’m not the girl you knew in Outer Banks.”

JJ’s jaw flexed. “Good. I never wanted you to stay stuck there.”

She studied him, then offered a faint smile. “You didn’t even say goodbye, JJ.”

“I know,” he said. “And I’ve regretted it every damn day since.”

That shut her up. For once, he wasn’t dodging.

A horn blared in the distance — a signal from the rodeo grounds.

Marley turned toward the trail, her fingers brushing the silver cross at her neck.

“Let’s go,” she said quietly. “Before I change my mind.”

JJ fell into step beside her — not too close. Not yet. But close enough that when the trail dipped into shadow, she didn’t feel quite so alone.

Wren found Marley behind the food tent, parked in the narrow sliver of shade, working through a bag of sunflower seeds and squinting toward the arena.

“You’re not gonna believe who just rolled into the VIP box.”

Marley didn’t look away. Just cracked a seed between her teeth. “Lemme guess. The Camerons?”

Wren nodded, subtly, motioning with her chin. “One older. One younger. Pretty sure it’s Ward and Rafe. They’ve got that...off energy you warned me about. Like they’re waiting for someone to step out of line so they can break them in two.”

Marley’s jaw tensed. Her gaze swept the stands with quiet precision. She stopped. Eyes locked across the arena, where another VIP section had been cordoned off behind ropes and heavy shade cloth. Wren’s eyes followed her friend’s gaze, spotting a blonde figure ducking through the barrier. Sarah Cameron, she assumed. 

And trailing behind her: John B, Pope, Kiara, and JJ.

Marley’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The Pogues. They’re watching Ward and Rafe.”

She didn’t elaborate, but her stomach dropped. The Camerons didn’t travel for fun, from what she heard. And the Pogues didn’t show up without a reason apparently. 

Before either of them could speak again, Rhett’s voice cut in.

“Hey, Wren.”

She turned to find him stepping in beside them, adjusting the brim of his ball cap with his thumb. His shirt was half-buttoned, dust on his shoulders, eyes clear and focused.

“What time am I up for my ride tonight?” he asked, calm as ever.

“Eighth slot,” she said automatically, distracted, her eyes still flicking between the two VIP boxes like a storm was about to break out between them.

Rhett nodded. His gaze slid to Marley and lingered a second too long. Not sleazy—just...curious. He gave her a small, unreadable smile. “Marlowe.” he greeted for the second time that night, then disappeared back toward the holding pens.

Wren didn’t miss the way Marley’s spine stiffened slightly. Or the way her eyes darted back to Rafe’s section, then to JJ’s.

Something was brewing.

And Wren had a feeling the horses weren’t the only ones picking up on it.

Author’s Note: Thanks so much for reading Chapter 3! We're so happy that you all are enjoying everything so far! Chapter 4 ended up being a lot, so it’ll be split into two parts!

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Taglist for Secrets in Wabang: @msfirth | @deeninadream

[s1ut-4-rafe]

SECRETS IN WABANG | Part 2 | Outer Banks x Outer Range

MASTERLIST (Series - In Progress)

Pairing 1 - Wren x Rafe Cameron

Pairing 2 - Marlowe x Rhett Abbott

Summary - Marlowe (Marley) and Wren thought they’d left the worst behind. They’re rebuilding their lives in the quiet town of Wabang, Wyoming — chasing peace, purpose, and a little distance from the chaos they escaped. But peace doesn’t last. When the Pogues and Camerons show up everything begins to unravel. Old loves resurface. New dangers emerge. Secrets that were never meant to be found start clawing their way back into the light. And as the past collides with the present, Marley and Wren find themselves caught in the middle — of a mystery bigger than they imagined, and emotions they aren’t ready to face.

Word Count - 1805

Content - Angst, enemies to lovers, unexpected alliance, betrayal, cowboys, emotional conflict, sfw/nsfw

Pairing 1 - Wren x Rafe Cameron

Pairing 2 - Marlowe x Rhett Abbott

Summary - Marlowe (Marley) and Wren thought they’d left the worst behind. They’re rebuilding their lives in the quiet town of Wabang, Wyoming — chasing peace, purpose, and a little distance from the chaos they escaped. But peace doesn’t last. When the Pogues and Camerons show up everything begins to unravel. Old loves resurface. New dangers emerge. Secrets that were never meant to be found start clawing their way back into the light. And as the past collides with the present, Marley and Wren find themselves caught in the middle — of a mystery bigger than they imagined, and emotions they aren’t ready to face.

Word Count - 1805

Content - Angst, enemies to lovers, unexpected alliance, betrayal, cowboys, emotional conflict, sfw/nsfw

Navigation - | 01 | 02 | 03 |

The wind was howling again. It slipped through the cracked kitchen window, tugging at the corner of the curtain, rustling the hanging herbs over the sink. 

Wren didn’t bother getting up to shut it. She was buried in blankets on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over her fists, legs curled tight beneath her like she could make herself small enough to disappear. 

The TV flickered with low, ghostly light, some true crime doc she’d seen three times already. The narrator’s voice droned on about blood spatter and unsolved motives, but it was background noise. She just needed a distraction. 

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, but she ignored it.

Luke.

She stared at the name on the screen until it timed out. 

He only called when it was late, and only when he wanted something–to talk in circles, to make her feel like the bad guy for leaving, for letting go, for surviving. 

She picked it up, turning it face down, out of sight, out of reach, like that ever worked.

Outside, one of the horses let out a restless grunt. The stables always creaked when the weather shifted. 

Wren closed her eyes, just for a second. Her chest felt too full and too empty at the same time. Like something was trying to claw its way out, but she boarded up the exits. 

Then–keys in the lock. A familiar sound. Wren didn’t move. 

The door creaked open, letting in a gust of colder air and the scent of asphalt and takeout. Marley stepped inside, the plastic bag of food swinging at her side and her overnight duffel slung over one shoulder like armor.

Wren didn’t look up. She was cocooned in throw blankets on the couch, hoodie pulled over her knees, eyes locked on a flickering true crime documentary.

“Got noodles,” Marley said.

“Bless,” Wren murmured, extending a hand blindly.

They settled in without much talk. Marley sank into the opposite corner of the couch, pad thai container in her lap, barely picking at it. Outside, the wind rustled the siding. In the distance, the stables groaned. A horse huffed, restless.

After a long beat, Wren hit pause on the TV. Static silence filled the room.

“You’ve been staring at that pad thai like it owes you rent,” she said, cocking her head. “Spill. Is this about JJ?”

Marley didn’t answer right away. Her gaze drifted—not just across the room, but far beyond it. Past the range. Past Wabang. Past Wyoming.

It was summer. Warmer than it had any right to be. The ocean hummed like it had secrets to keep. A fire crackled near the dock. Beer bottles clinked. Laughter echoed off the water.

She and JJ had wandered off, barefoot in the sand, away from Pope’s bad freestyles, away from the noise. Just the two of them and the shoreline.

“What’re you thinking about?” JJ had asked, nudging her shoulder with his.

“Just trying to make the moment last,” she’d said, voice soft.

And then—that look. The one that said he didn’t know how not to feel everything all at once. He’d reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She’d leaned in. So had he.

But just before their lips met—

“HEY, DUMBASSES!” Kiara’s voice cracked through the night like a firecracker. “We’re out of beer!”

They sprang apart, laughing too hard, too fast. Nervous. They never talked about that night again. Maybe that was the beginning of the end.

A pillow smacked Marley square in the face.

She blinked back into the present. Wren was watching her, one brow raised.

“Earth to Marley. You back in Poguelandia or what?”

Marley let out a small, humorless laugh. “There was a night… before everything went to hell. We almost kissed.”

Wren didn’t flinch. Then she snorted. “Of course you did. You two radiate unresolved sexual tension like it’s a damn love language.”

Marley shook her head, a flicker of a smile tugging at her lips. But the weight in her chest didn’t lift. “It was right before my father took me home,” she murmured. “I never saw JJ again after that. We talked… over the phone. That’s it.”

Her voice faltered. She looked down at her hands instead.

Silence.

The TV screen flickered black.

Eventually, Marley leaned back against the couch, hands folded on her stomach, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling.

“Do you think I’m being stupid about this whole thing?” she asked, voice barely audible.

Wren didn’t open her eyes. Curled like a cat in the armchair, she exhaled slowly.

“No,” she said. “I think something’s coming. And you feel it. Same way I do.”

Outside, the wind shifted again. The tin siding creaked. One of the horses let out a low, uneasy sound.

Marley swallowed hard. “You still working the rodeo this weekend?”

Wren didn’t answer right away. Her hand found the remote, but she didn’t press play. The screen stayed frozen—grainy surveillance footage paused mid-chaos, timestamp blinking faintly. Wren loved this stuff. Marley had come to love it too. A comfort in the strange.

“Y’know,” Wren said finally, voice low. “You don’t talk about him much. Not really.”

Marley didn’t look at her. “What’s there to say?”

Wren gave a soft snort. “Plenty. But you treat it like it’s radioactive. And I get it. I do. But bottling it up…”

“I’m not bottling it,” Marley said, too quickly.

Wren raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Then what would you call it?”

Silence. It stretched until it ached.

Marley sat forward, elbows on her knees, the pad thai forgotten on the coffee table. Her fingers picked at the frayed sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“I keep thinking about that night,” she said. “Not the almost-kiss. After. How we just… never talked about it. Like if we said it out loud, we’d ruin something. Or maybe we were just scared we already had.”

Wren shifted, finally sitting upright. One of her blankets slipped to the floor.

“And now you’re wondering if saying something would’ve changed anything.”

Marley nodded.

“It wouldn’t have,” Wren said gently. “Not with someone like JJ. You’d still be here. He’d still be there. Some stories just… don’t get endings. Not the ones we think they should, anyway.”

Marley looked over, and Wren’s gaze had drifted toward the window, unfocused. 

“What about you?” Marley asked quietly. “You doing okay?” 

Wren blinked like she hadn’t expected the question. “Yeah,” she said too fast. Then added, “Just tired.” 

But Marley had seen that look before–hollow edges, hands too still. 

“You know you don’t have to talk about it. But…if you ever want to…” 

Wren gave a small, grateful nod. “I know.” 

And just like that, the moment passed–like they both knew neither of them was ready to unpack everything. 

They sat in a silence that wasn’t heavy—just shared, like a blanket between them.

“I ever tell you what I used to do when I couldn’t sleep?” Wren asked suddenly.

Marley looked over. “What?”

“Used to climb the water tower near my uncle’s ranch. Before they condemned it. Sit up there and just… watch the sky. Felt like the only place the world didn’t weigh so much.”

Marley tilted her head, waiting.

Wren’s voice softened. “You’ve got that same look. Like you’re carrying something too big in your chest. And if you stop moving—even for a second—it’ll split you open.”

Marley looked down at her phone screen. Her hands looked pale in its glow. They didn’t feel like hers.

“I thought leaving the Outer Banks would help,” she whispered. “Thought distance would dull it. But the memories just… sharpen.”

“You ever think maybe it’s not about him?” Wren asked. “Maybe it’s about who you were when you were with him.”

That landed like a stone in Marley’s gut. She didn’t answer.

Instead, she stood and moved to the open window. Pushed it wider. Cool air drifted in—dust-sweet and electric with the hint of a storm.

Somewhere outside, a screen door slammed. A dog barked in the distance. The world kept turning.

“You gonna see him?”

“I don’t know.”

“You want to?”

Marley paused. Really paused. “Yeah,” she said finally. “But I don’t know if it’s smart.”

Wren studied her for a long moment. Then, gently—

“What do you think Rhett would say?”

That stopped Marley cold.

She looked out into the dark, where the outline of the stables barely held against the horizon. One of the horses huffed, unsettled.

“I don’t know,” she said. “He doesn’t… ask. Not directly.”

“But he knows something’s up,” Wren said. Not a question.

Marley gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“He’s not the type to push,” she said. “Just gives me space. Lets me talk when I’m ready. Which somehow makes it worse. Like he’s giving me room—and I’m just filling it with ghosts.”

Wren leaned her hip against the windowsill, arms crossed. “You ever think you’re allowed to still be untangling this? That missing someone doesn’t cancel out what’s right in front of you?”

Marley let out a dry laugh. “I don’t think Rhett wants to be someone’s second choice.”

“No,” Wren agreed. “He doesn’t.”

The words hovered like dust in the warm air.

“I think he sees more than you let on,” Wren said. “And I think it scares you that he might actually be good for you.”

Marley’s throat tightened.

“He is good,” she said. “Too good, maybe. He shows up. He listens. He’s steady.”

She paused. “And I don’t know what to do with steady.”

Wren didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she reached over and gently tugged Marley’s sleeve.

“Then learn,” she said. “Because running back to what hurt you doesn’t mean it didn’t matter. But it doesn’t mean it still fits.”

Marley turned to her, eyes glassy but dry.

“I hate how much you make sense sometimes.”

Wren smirked. “Occupational hazard.”

They stood in silence again, until Marley finally let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

“You think he’ll be at the rodeo?”

“Rhett? Absolutely. It’s basically his natural habitat.”

Marley nodded, gaze dropping. “...I think I need to focus on what’s in front of me.”

She glanced sideways. “Have I ever told you how grateful I am to have you?”

Wren’s expression softened. “Not in so many words. But I know.”

“You should start dating again,” Marley said suddenly, nudging her. “I know the pickings are slim in Wabang, but hey—maybe someone cute at the rodeo?”

Wren snorted. “Is this your way of changing the subject?”

“Yes. And also me being a good friend.”

Wren rolled her eyes but smiled. “Noted. But if you’re dragging me into rodeo romance territory, you better be ready to show up for your own.”

Marley gave her a look, half-exasperated, half-warmed. “Touché.”

The silence lingered, but it felt lighter now. Not empty—just… aired out.

Author’s Note: If you’ve made it this far, congrats—you’ve survived one full chapter of emotional damage and unresolved tension. More mess soon, we promise!

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Taglist for Secrets in Wabang: @msfirth | @deeninadream

[etherealwitcherys-blog]

Welcome to My Witchy Corner of the Tumblr!

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[s1ut-4-rafe]

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