Pictures Aren't Mine and Can be Found on Pinterest
Warnings: None , No use of Y/n (Yet)
I ended up writing and posting this for my very 1st mutual @chromeheartsbaby
A/N: This is my first ever fic so it might not be perfect by I did my best. Feedback and constructive criticism is welcome. (Keep it Cute & Classy tho). Let me know if I should make a taglist and if you want to be added to it.
"They say there are five stages of grief: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. Well, I'd like to add one more... REVENGE" - Cruella de Vil, Cruella 2021
When you had the medal of valor wrapped around your neck by the Deputy Sheriff Shoupe as he promised to persecute Sheriff Peterkin’s murderer beyond the full extent of the law, your naive 18-year-old self believed him.
But when John B Routledge was accused of her death, the skinny, seemingly pacifistic boy didn’t seem to have the wherewithal to kill anyone, let alone a decorated law enforcer. The investigation went bonkers with the help of another hurricane, and well, things proceeded to go to shit; it became clear that the police force was full of bumbling idiots and that if you wanted justice, you were going to have to find it yourself.
One criminology degree from Howard and millions of dollars from a combination of Survivor’s Benefits and Life Insurance, later you were on a First-Class flight to the RDU airport, where you would take a ferry to Kildare Island, also known as the Outer Banks.
As a kid, you had a love-hate relationship with the place. As soon as your dad graduated from high school, he moved to Texas, planning to join the Army and never look back. Your Aunt Sue wanted to stay and clean things up, and from what you saw and heard through the grapevine, she appeared to successfully do so, that is, until she was murdered on a private airport tarmac.
From the crime scene photos and the statements taken from Ward Cameron, some things just weren’t adding up, and while Ward is now dead, good riddance, his skeevy ass son was still alive and well. You hired your private investigator, Rhodes, as soon as you turned 21, when you became one of the most angsty millionaires to probably ever exist.
Not only did he gather as much information as possible on the murder investigation, but he also obtained every record anyone could find on The Routledges, The Camerons, Cameron Development, and the Tanneyhill Plantation. And now you had the makings of a plan, and the first step was becoming the girlfriend of the slightly less skeevy and (allegedly) reformed Rafe Cameron, that is, if you could do so and avoid vomiting the whole time.
The last time you had encountered him, you were ten and he was eleven, your aunt needed to talk to his father about “grown-up things,” and she suggested you play with Sarah and Rafe. Sarah was a bit ditzier than you could handle, so you brought your baseball and glove, hoping you could play with her brother, at first, he seemed sweet, until he threw the ball right at your mouth, busting your lip.
When his stepmom came outside from the racket you caused, screaming, she checked your teeth after cleaning up all the blood, and she told him to apologize, which he only did when his father demanded he do so he was sporting a grin that haunted your nightmares for years.
You realized that mother fucker was crazy, and now you were on your way to work your way into being his girlfriend to get access to the information you needed.
Rhodes made it clear that he would be the person who would have the information you would need, but there was no way in hell he’d just give out that information. You needed to get into his house, and gaining his trust was imperative.
You were mentally checking off all the things Rhodes said would attract him to you, rolling your eyes as you did so: hyperfeminine, soft-spoken submissive, vulnerable, nurturing: basically, you’d have to be willing to be a stepford wife, waiting on him while being barefoot and pregnant.
Your growing feelings of disgust as you looked at the most recent photos of him were interrupted by a flight attendant asking how you wanted your steak cooked so they could start preparing First Class’s in-flight dinner.
You decided to pack up all of your files before dinner, since the last thing you needed was more eyes on you; you knew that they could already be talking, given the fact that you had not one but three guns in your checked baggage.
After dinner, you decided to get some shut-eye, knowing you’d do better if you were well rested once you landed. You hated this, you hated being on this flight, you hated all the pilates classes you took to get a trophy wife ready body, you hated the waxing, the face peels, the never ending smell of gun residue from going to the shooter range daily, you hated how your 40 year old private investigator had become pretty much your only friend, you hated all the damn pastels and florals that had been added to your wardrobe, you hated the french manicures, the makeup tutorials, and you very slightly hated your 30” middle part jet black buss down, that you actively had to avoid sitting on.
But all these things had to be done, and when your flight finally landed, you had every intention of putting all that work to use. Because for the past four years, only one thought consistently burned a hole in your mind: “If those bastards won’t get justice for her, I will.”
You hadn’t realized you’d fallen asleep until you heard the pilot’s nasally voice on the intercom: “ Flight 2A, we will be landing at the Raleigh-Durham International Airport soon. Please make sure to fasten your seat belts as we might experience unexpected ground events.”
Once the plane landed, most of the first-class passengers clapped. You hadn’t believed that was a real thing until now. You had some unsavory thoughts about the types of people who flew first class as you collected your items from the overhead bin.
Your purse, a gift from your aunt, had been monogrammed ‘Sweet Pea,’ the nickname you earned at four when you tried to put sugar on your peas. You hated it at the time, but now it strengthened your resolve to get justice, no matter what it took.
Taking a deep breath, you exited the plane, you were able to put on the most Oscar Winning Performance of your life, for her, your Aunt Sue.
What’s your favourite horror movie? Idk probably the fact that the guy who owns the junkyard knows Luke abuses JJ and yet hasn’t done anything about it and it makes me question whether there’s others who know (besides the Pouges) and haven’t done anything to help :(.
(I know JJ most definitely wouldn’t accept help even if someone offered but it would’ve been nice to see someone know and care 💔 like I’m 100% sure Mr Heyward knows he just probably doesn’t wanna force himself into JJ’s life or maybe he already knows JJ will deny it. I’m also 100000% sure Peterkin knew too she just didn’t have enough evidence to do anything about it 🥺)
‘P4L, Right?’ A fic about Outer Banks, told from the point of view of Megan Peterkin.
Chapter 25 | Masterlist | WC: 2.6k
🔆
5:32pm
megs: where are you? we need to talk
megs: like now. we need to talk right now
rafey: Busy. I'll meet you tonight.
megs: no, rafe, it's code red
2 Missed Calls
megs: please pick up
rafey: Princess whatever it is we'll handle it tonight, I promise. Bye
I sigh and turn my phone off. On the way to Ward's private tarmac to try and stop him from kidnapping Sarah and leaving with all of our gold would've been a perfect time to talk, but this man always needs to go about his mysterious shit without telling me about it. Whatever.
"Go in there, guns a-blazin', make Ward Cameron beg for mercy, abscond with as much gold as possible and vamonos, get the hell out of there." JJ's voice brings me out of my own head as I watch him carefully roll a blunt on the back of the Twinkie.
"Send that shit right down the Intercoastal." John B adds.
Kie follows, "Wait for the weather,"
"Exit to Cuba." Pope finishes.
"Cuba?" The blond laughs, "Nah, man. Xcalak, Jewel of the Yucatan. Lobsters so thick, mangoes, and no word for money." He cocks the gun with a sly smile.
A grin that looks a little too much like his forms on all of our faces. "Let's do this shit."
______
The plane hasn't left when we arrive. John B pushes the wire gate out of the way, making a tiny hole for us to climb through to the runway.
Kie runs to catch up, "What's the plan? Broad strokes!"
"I don't think we got that far." The boy responds. We stand still, not daring to come in unless told so.
Through Pope's binocle we can see around 3-4 men loading up the gold into the Cameron's private aircraft. A car horn beeps as soon as John B takes hold of the thing, revealing Ward rushing in with Sarah in the car. We can't really hear a word they're saying, but one of the men dressed in all-black is talking to a frowny-faced Ward.
"He kinda looks like Bob from Luke's yard." I whisper to JJ.
"Nah," He shakes his head, "Bob wouldn't work for a Cameron in a million years."
I rub my fingers together, "Not unless he got his share of it."
The boy shrugs, knowing that my point is valid. When you live a life like those men in the Cut, you'll do pretty much anything for a bit of extra cash. Even if it means sacrificing your dignity.
"He's hurting her." As the words come out of John B's mouth, we hear faint protests from Sarah fighting not to get into the plane. "They're fighting."
Before the words even escape his lips he's already running through another hole he just made on the gates by smashing the Twinkie right in the middle of it, making all the people in the way jump to not get run over.
"Shit," JJ whispers a second before sprinting after the boy who's on the way to face Ward Cameron without as much as a failed plan.
"JOHN B, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" We try, but before we know it he's stepping full gas onto the runway. The plane is moving, starting its course, and that seems to only motivate him to drive faster.
"Don't be a hero, please, don't be a hero." I whisper to myself in hopes that by some alignment of the universe, he'll hear it. Sadly, it doesn't seem to be the day for miracles, so just like the rest, I run to keep up with him.
No matter how fast we go, a car — for as old as that thing is — much faster than all of us combined. I have to take a moment to catch my breath, squinting to try and see what's happening. John B is driving as fast as the plane, side by side, trying to talk Sarah into calming down. He places an even heavier foot on the gas, passing the aircraft;
"Don't do it." Pope is the one reasonable enough to say what we are all thinking.
John B slams his foot on the break, drifting the van sideways and taking it to a halt not even 50 feet away from the plane. Our heartbeats can be heard beating out of our chests as we watch Ward not even slowing down, but instead going faster towards where our friend is parked.
"JOHN B!" Kie shouts in desperation.
By some unknown miracle — probably called Sarah — the plane suddenly halts as it's about to hit him. A large clinking sound echoes through our ears, making us think that the gold was not too well tied up and flew all over the place with the sudden movement.
In unison, all of us sigh in relief as we watch Sarah hopping down from the plane and hugging her boyfriend. Police sirens sounds, making our heads turn back in a quick and painful motion. Pope's eyes widen, "Guys, I can't get arrested."
"I'm on probation." JJ adds.
"Look, we're no good if we're all in jail." Kie says, taking our backpacks from the floor.
As she hands me mine, I can't seem to take it. The siren, Susan is probably in it. And John B and Sarah, I can't leave them. And there's something deep in my gut telling me I should stay.
"C'mon," JJ nudges.
"Y'all go ahead," I shake my head, "John B has a lesser chance of being arrested if I'm here.
"You sure?"
I nod, "Go. Run."
And they do as they're told. I, on the opposite hand, run towards what feels like imminent trouble. Still, Susan always tells me my gut is the most valuable thing I own, and I should listen to it. I hope she remembers this before grounding me tomorrow.
"Oh, thank God you're here!" Ward's voice sounds as soon as Susan hops down from her vehicle. "Susan, I told you he's lost his goddamn mind."
"Hey," I pull Sarah into a hug and watch as her eyes widen in fear.
"What are you doing here? Are you insane? You're gonna get arrested!" She hurriedly tries to push me to run, but I stand my ground.
"My mom wouldn't let that happen. Just trust me."
She nods, but I can still see the fear in her eyes.
"Put your hands on your head." Susan demands, walking up and acknowledging me with anger in her eyes but not a word out of her mouth.
Ward turns to us with a winning smile, watching as Sarah tries to shield John B with her body, "I'd do what she said, kid."
Susan then pulls her gun out, cocking it and aiming at... Ward?
This doesn't make any sense. Why would she arrest Ward when all signs point to John B being the only fugitive within a 100-mile radius?
"She's talking to you, Ward." John B replies.
Ward turns, that cocky smile quickly fading from his face. "You're under arrest for the murder of Big John Routledge."
Sarah gasps as a tear rolls down from her face, her body failing to stand upright and falling onto John B's arms. "I got you," He whispers, not a single trace of shock in his voice.
"You knew?" I ask. He stares blankly at the ground.
Oh my God. My chest tightens in pity of the poor boy. I cannot even begin to imagine how much it must hurt to look into the eyes of the man who killed you father and got away with it for so long.
"Are you kidding me?" Ward exclaims angrily.
"Put your hands on your head." Susan demands once again, not once faltering.
"Are you kidding me, Sue?" He tries again, stepping closer to her.
"PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!" She shouts. He stops moving, standing there like a man with a failed cause. Slowly, we watch as he raises his hands behind his head. "Turn around." He does as told, looking at nothing but the eyes of his own daughter.
Sarah has her mouth open, not being able to make sense of a single thing happening. She shakes in fear when Susan commands "DROP TO YOUR KNEES!"
Both Cameron's eyes shut at the sound of her voice, but thankfully Ward is intelligent enough to do as he's told. "I don't like being used." Susan states as she lowers her gun, taking out the handcuffs to place on Ward. I smile at the sight — only she has the power to make a man who sees himself as the biggest, look so small. On his knees, powerless, and cowardly.
"I waited a long time for this." She pushes him, watching as he falls to the ground, and brings her gun back out.
The gunshot echoes all around us. Sarah gasps and falls to her knees, but I just feel John B's terrified stare coming my way.
A body drops to the ground, lying flat.
But it isn't Ward.
Susan's eyes widen in pain as she takes deep breaths, dropping her gun and losing control over her body.
"No," I run to hear, my legs feeling like jelly and making me drop by her side. Her eyes, looking deep into my soul, fill with water as she gathers all her strength to take her hands in mine.
"I'm so sorry. I'm sorry," Sarah and I both tell her at the same time.
She groans in pain, still looking at us with the kindest eyes, "It's not your fault, sweethearts,"
Her eyes find mine, after much struggle, as she subtly calls out for me. "Oh, my baby."
It comes out as a whisper as her head drops ever-so-slightly to the side, her open eyes now staring at nothing.
No.
It can't be.
Even though I can feel the commotion around me, my world goes silent. A scream comes from deep within me as the tears run down from my face and onto her chest. I lay my head on her stiff body, begging for this not to be real. Not her, please.
"You're all I have, Suz, please. Kitty needs you. I need you. Please, God, please."
I place both my hands on where the bullet is, trying my hardest to stop the blood from gushing out. "Please don't leave me. I need you here. Please, mom, I can't do this without you—"
"Just hold still, mommy, okay? Hold still. Does it hurt? It looks like— looks like it hurts. Just stay still, mom, I'm right here,"
"DO SOMETHING!" I beg for help, seeing Sarah crying in shock on the floor. John B rushes to my side, taking the bandana off his neck and applying it to her wound. He pulls the radio off of her now lifeless body, to try and call for help, but stops when someone yells something and points a gun at him.
"I got it, calm down," Ward says to whomever as he pulls the radio off of John B's hands. I don't have it in me to take my eyes off of Susan, but he boy by my side quickly stands up, and I feel a pair of arms try to lift me from the floor, and I can't make sense of what he says. "JOHN B STOP, I NEED TO SAVE HER. LET ME GO—"
I try to fight him off, but as I look up, I see Rafe walking from behind the plane holding a gun. His eyes are swollen, like he doesn't have any control over himself anymore, and I watch as he trembles in place.
"Rafe, no," Sarah's shaky voice calls.
It's only when she whispers that my brain makes sense of it.
Rafe smiles proudly, "I saved you, dad." His smile widens as he sighs in relief, "I saved you."
Before Ward can reply, Rafe's eyes meet mine, and the world goes silent.
Everything around me disappears. The world stops spinning.
And for a moment, it is just me, Rafe, and my dead mother on the ground.
"What did you do—" My tear-stained hot cheeks turn progressively redder as I feel the anger coursing through my veins. "What the fuck did you just do, Rafe?"
His expression drops. He's not able to mutter a word as he stares at me with insincerely apologetic eyes. My blood boils at the sight,
"YOU FUCKING COWARD," Before I know it, I'm lunging towards his figure with all the strength I have in me. I push him, punching as hard as I can, getting angrier when he doesn't even budge.
"I'm sorry," I hear him whisper.
I slap his face as hard as I possibly can, pushing him further until he falls, "I TRUSTED YOU. YOU MURDERER. YOU FUCKING IDIOTIC SON OF— JOHN B, LET ME GO!" I once again try to fight off the boy's arms that forcefully drag me away from the man who killed the only real mother I've ever had. "YOU BURN IN HELL, RAFE CAMERON. I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU, YOU HEAR ME? YOU ARE DEAD TO ME."
John B drops me in Sarah's grip as she yells at him to run. He looks at me and Susan with broken eyes, whispering a hurried "Sorry," Before running as fast as he can.
"WHERE ARE YOU GOING, HUH?" Rafe shouts when he sees the boy in motion "WHERE ARE YOU GOING, JOHN B?"
When he tries to rush after him, Ward, Sarah and I fight to stop him.
"PLEASE STOP, DON'T," Sarah cries as he shoots onto the open field John B's fleeing through. Ward manages to get a hold of him, slapping the gun off his hand.
Ward hides it on his pockets, pacing side to side without knowing what to do. "Megan, sweetheart, you need to go—"
"Your son just killed my mother," I cry, pressing firmly on my heart as it feels like it's just crawled out of my chest. "You're all murderers. I hate you," My gaze turns to Rafe, "You fucking disgust me. I hate you." The words don't come out right as they're covered among sobs and the snot running through my nose.
My world has ended, just here, just now.
They fight with Sarah to bring her home, I can hear their figures moving all around me, but I can't look at anything other than Susan's lifeless body just laying on the ground. I fall next to her once again, feeling Sarah's hug forcefully being dragged away from me as she shouts endless apologies.
Rafe drives her away, and I pretend to listen to Ward's reasons as to why I should leave, but my tears drown out the sound of his voice. To me, nothing else exists except me and her right now.
I don't know how much time has passed, or who called him, I just know at a certain point Mr. Heyward, who was working the grounds, is pulling me from her body as he says he'll drive home with me, and he'll take care of me. He wraps a blanket around my shivering body and carefully brings me over to his car, patiently holding the door open for me.
I take one more look at her before getting in,
"I need you, mommy."
That's the last thing I ever say to the woman who saved me.
Ward Cameron is the reason Sheriff Peterkin is dead. Rafe might have shot her but Ward let her die. Remember, Rafe was not in the right mind. He did not go in there with premeditated murder on his mind. He pulled the trigger. But afterwards, this is a big thing. Afterwards, Peterkin was bleeding and hurt. She tried to call for help and Ward stopped her. Who knows, she might have lived if she got help fast enough. If John B kept the pressure on her wounds. (Not that it’s John B’s fault for leaving. He had to run because of Ward and Peterkin even told him too). Point is, Ward blames Rafe. But let’s not forget, he had no problem letting her die. A good Dad, who was truly concerned about what his son had done, would call the police and ambulance. Get her help, then explain everything. Get a lawyer for Rafe. Explain his drug addictions and how he was not attempting murder. Etc. I’ll end with this again: “Rafe Cameron shot Peterkin, but Ward let. her. die.”
rafe cameron driving around in a truck with a blue lives matter sticker IMMEDIATELY after killing a black female cop will never not give me goosebumps. like jesus fuck, ok OBX, damn
