Bills don’t care if your dad’s missing.
They still show up — in stacks, in red ink, in final notices stuffed between pizza coupons.
And now they were starting to get personal.
Water: overdue.
Electric: due last week.
Rent: due two days ago, with a warning this time.
You folded the notices quietly, slipping them between the pages of a cookbook in the drawer. John B didn’t need to see them. He already thought the world was ending. No sense showing him the countdown clock.
He was still asleep on the couch when you left for your third shift of the week. Hair a mess, arm thrown over his face, shirt from yesterday. You paused for a second — part of you wanted to wake him up just to say something. But what? Don’t worry, I’ll fix it again?
The Cut always smelled like salt and gasoline, but Barry’s house had something else layered on top — something musty and sour, like mold and old sweat. The kind of place that made you want to hold your breath.
You sat on the edge of a sunken couch cushion, trying not to look like it was your first time here. Trying not to look as scared as you felt.
Barry sat across from you, joint pinched between two fingers, watching you like a coyote watches a rabbit that walked into the wrong backyard.
“You really here to work?” he asked, smoke curling from his mouth like a warning.
“Well I’m not here for fun.”
He laughed. “You ain’t a fun-time girl, that’s for damn sure.”
You didn’t flinch. “I can help you. Move product — quietly. Smart.”
Barry leaned back, raising an eyebrow. “And what makes you think I need you?”
“Because I’m the one they let in,” you said. “Kooks don’t flinch when they see me. They offer me drinks, ask if I’m going to college. I serve their brunches, I clean their boats, I pick up their kids from tutoring. I smile and they think I’m just another harmless, helpful Pogue.Unlike you- no offense”
He tilted his head with a soft grin. “Non taken— but how’s that worth something to you?”
“It’s worth something to you.”
Barry gave a slow, dry laugh. “So let me guess… you get me into Figure Eight, I cut you in?”
He took a long drag, letting the silence stretch. Then:
“And the way in?”
You looked down at your hands, a sigh scaping your throat.
His gold tooth glinted. “Rafe Cameron.”
Barry’s grin spread, all teeth and danger. “What makes you think I can’t just let Rafe do that for me?”
You looked up, eyes hard.
“Because he’s a goddamn drug addict, Barry.”
“He’s erratic. Messy. One coke-fueled tantrum away from burning your whole operation to the ground. You wanna move quietly, you go through me.”
Barry studied you again, that grin now simmering down into something cooler. Sharper.
“Look at you,” he said. “Sweetheart Routledge, talkin’ business like she’s not knee-deep in dishwater five nights a week.”
“I’ve been holding this family together for months and taking care of jb for years,” you said, voice low. “I clean, I serve, I run deliveries,I pick up gigs in the middle of the damn night. And still… it’s not enough. So yeah. I’m here. I’m here because I fucking need this.”
Barry stood, flicked ash into a beer can, and walked past you toward the window.
“A’right,” he said finally. “You’re in.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
He turned. “You’ll meet Rafe tomorrow. Fancy little get-together on Harbour View — some kook party. You dress nice, you keep your mouth shut, and you do what Rafe tells you. That’s your test run.”
You swallowed. “What do I tell John B?”
Barry grinned. “That’s your problem, angel.”
That night, you sat on the front porch long after John B went to bed.
The air was thick with mosquitoes and memories — of your dad’s laugh echoing down the dock, of a time when keeping things together didn’t mean selling part of yourself.
[Rafe Cameron: 9 PM. Don’t be late.]
You stared at the message for a long time before replying.
It was just one party. One dress. One step across a line.
But you already knew — once you crossed it, there was no coming back.
The house was dim, quiet, filled with the low hum of a broken fan and JJ’s laugh drifting from the living room. You paused in the hallway, fingers curled around the strap of your bag. It wasn’t even a lie. yet.
JJ was sprawled across the old couch, tossing peanuts into his mouth and missing half of them. He looked up as you came in, eyes narrowing like he could already tell something was off.
“Where you headed?” he asked.
You forced a smile. “Got called in. One of the girls at The Wreck bailed on her shift.”
JJ made a face. “Come on, Y/N, it’s almost midnight.”
You shrugged. “I need the hours.”
He opened his mouth to argue again, but you cut him off. “There’s food in the fridge. I made that pasta thing John B likes — it’s not fancy, but it’s there.”
JJ leaned back, chewing slowly. “You work too much.”
He watched you for another beat, something skeptical in his eyes. But he let it go.
John B came out of the bathroom, still towel-drying his hair, t-shirt clinging to his back. “You going out?”
You nodded. “Late shift. Just a few hours.”
He frowned. “You serious? You’ve been out all day.”
You walked over and touched his shoulder — soft, quick, like muscle memory. “We need the money, JB.”
He looked like he wanted to argue. But he didn’t.
You reached up, brushing a curl from his forehead, just like you used to when he was little.
“I left you food. Please eat.”
John B nodded, rubbing at his eyes. “You always do too much.”
You hesitated in the doorway. This part was the worst.
He smiled tiredly. “Love you more.”
You didn’t say anything back. Just stepped out the door and into the night, letting it close behind you.
Because if you did say anything, if you let yourself feel the weight of what you were doing, you might not go through with it.
And you didn’t have the luxury of turning back anymore.
