𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡 | 𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧

００４．

He hadn't thought before he walked out of the hold in search of the dark-haired girl. Hadn't considered that he wasn't supposed to be seen here, that he certainly wasn't supposed to be drawing any attention to the ship that stored something so precious, that he knew nothing about her and had absolutely no reason to trust her. But he was intrigued, and she had cocaine, and so he followed.

Walked out right in the middle of Eberhimi's sentence without a word, not able to be bothered with any more of the captain's bullshit. He'd been going on and on since Rafe had arrived, explaining how the ship could only stay at port for so long, how the profits his crew lost every day they waited would soon outweigh the profits they gained once Rafe and Ward sold the cross.

Rafe had been so fed up with the stupid excuses that he considered killing him. Just for a second, he considered it, out of desperation and frustration. But with no way to get the cross off of the ship without help, and with a crew downstairs that was blindly loyal to the captain and the captain only, he'd thought better of it.

Besides, he was sick a of getting rid of bodies.

So when he'd strode down the stairs toward the crew quarters only to hear Mack talking about secrets, how he was a sucker for pretty girls, Rafe was disappointed by the realization that he might have to kill Mack, too.

It was that flustering combination of excitement at the prospect of a score and poorly-concealed anger at Mack's openness about incredibly private shit that put Rafe entirely off his game when he stepped into the kitchen. And because he was off his game, he didn't think to question when the dealer lied so poorly about the shortage of her stash and then asked to see him again. And he was entirely unprepared when she asked him for his name.

He hadn't looked hard enough at his new ID when his father had handed it to him. Didn't have a clue what his name was supposed to be in this new life. And so he had spat out the first name he could think of, the name of one of Sarah's prick ex-boyfriends.

He might as well have told her his name was John B Routledge.

But if the girl -- Ren, she'd said her name was -- wanted him to come back, that was fine. He was more than willing to spend his night off doing a few lines with a pretty dealer in her daddy's club, willing enough that he didn't allow himself to consider that she could be one of the very threats he had worried about.

Rafe had decided that he would deal with that possibility later. After he had a chance to score enough of a stash that he could handle the ever-building stress of these past few weeks. And then he'd stepped back to let her hurry up the stairs, wondering if she might be concussed after backing into the doorframe so forcefully.

He couldn't suppress the grin that tugged at his features as he watched Ren go. She had a nice ass.

The grin dissolved just as quickly as it had appeared, though, when the door to the deck slammed shut behind her and he turned to look at Mack.

"What, you think she'll bang you for information?" Rafe demanded as he took a step closer, that familiar anger born anew in his chest as he got within an arm's distance of the crewmate. "Cut the creepy bullshit when it's my fucking family you're talking about, man. If you don't learn to keep your mouth shut, I'll shut it for you."

Mack scoffed, shoving Rafe away hard enough that it was all Rafe could do to keep from swinging on him then and there.

"This island is Valetta territory, dumbass. Her dad owns half of the buildings and half of the people. Of course she was curious about the newbies," Mack said dismissively, "and I didn't tell her shit." He shouldered past Rafe roughly. "Keep in mind who it is that's doing you and your pops a huge fucking favor," Mack tossed over his shoulder before taking the stairs two at at time to join the rest of his crew.

Rafe turned the kitchen table on its side, shattering plates and glasses in one clean motion, before he could rein in his anger enough to go find his father.

                                           ______________________________________

"Thank you for dinner, Rose," Rafe muttered around a mouthful of pasta, though he didn't look up from his plate.

Wheezie, Ward, and Rose, however, all looked at him in the same instant, identical shock written across each of their expressions.

It took a moment before he realized they were staring at him, and held each of their gazes slowly. He set his fork down and leaned back against his chair, crossing his arms across his chest. "What," Rafe snapped, "I can't thank somebody for cooking?"

Ward chuckled, looking to Rose with raised brows and a there's-a-first-time-for-everything kind of grin. "Not at all, son," he said, turning his attention to Rafe now, "we're -- well, we're just not used to you being in such a good mood."

Rafe scowled. "I'm always in a good mood," he muttered.

At that, Wheezie howled, her fork clattering against her plate as she clutched her stomach and laughed harder than Rafe had seen her laugh in weeks.

Something in his chest loosened as he watched his baby sister cackle until she snorted, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. He used to love making his sisters laugh. He'd forgotten what it looked like.

Rafe couldn't help but laugh himself, shaking his head as he held his hands up incredulously. "I don't know what's so funny, Wheeze. I'm the most pleasant person at this table."

And that was when the entire room burst into hysterics, Ward having to cover his face with his hands as he roared in laughter and Wheezie's fit igniting all over again. Even Rose smiled, giggling until she had to wipe her eyes as she looked at Rafe across the table.

His smile broadened as he watched them laugh. This was what he'd done everything for. What he'd killed Sheriff Peterkin for, what he'd searched for the cross for, what he'd fought tooth and nail to protect. And it was the reason he'd find Sarah, and he'd bring her back.

His family.

When the laughter finally died down, when Ward was all but wheezing with the remnants of his amusement and Wheezie was struggling to keep her giggles maintained, Rafe was still grinning like a kid.

"I ought to cut you a break more often if it'll make you this easy to be around," Ward said between bites of pasta, still chuckling to himself every so often.

Ward had no clue just how right he was. Rafe's temperament had improved all day as he looked forward to leaving, to finally getting a rest from worrying about the cross and the gold and Sarah. He just needed a break every so often, a chance to step away from reality, and he would be okay.

Though he'd never admit it out loud, the way that he'd felt all afternoon made him hopeful. Maybe he wasn't past fixing, after all.

Rafe leaned his elbows on the table, looking at his dad expectantly. "Uh, speaking of that," he hinted, holding one palm face-up on the table.

Ward reached into his pocket, drawing out the keys to the boat. He clutched them tight in his hand as he fixed Rafe with a stern look. "I'm trusting you tonight, Rafe. Remember what I said about the drugs."

"Of course, Dad, yeah," Rafe replied hurriedly, "I won't touch any drugs. Scout's honor."

It was a good thing he'd never been a Boy Scout, or else Rafe might have felt bad. But Ward was seemingly satisfied by his son's lie, passing over the keys without another word.

Rafe was full-on beaming as he stood from the table. He even went so far as to wrap his arms around Wheezie's shoulders, giving her a squeeze before offering a brief goodbye to his family.

"Don't wait up for me," he called over his shoulder as he made his way onto the front porch.

He heard his family's peals of laughter again, even through the front door as he shut it behind him. Rafe kept smiling all the way down to the dock, onto the boat, and toward the port at Sainte-Anne.