Rafe didn’t understand why you had a job.

He made it clear after you moved into his shiny new mansion that he would be handling all of the bills, not wanting you to work your little Pogue ass off anymore. He’d give you an allowance, of course. A couple grand a month should hold you over, right?

But you relented, saying you liked the routine, the independence of having a job. Eventually you found a compromise, you’d work part time at a bar if you got him and his friends drink tickets. You eagerly accepted.

Rafe puts the cigarette out, flicking the butt out as he waits behind the bar for you. It’s late, almost 2 am, and even though you insisted your coworker would give you a ride, he insisted on coming to get you himself. He didn’t want to risk anything.

The back door opens and he stands up straight, hands in his jean pockets. You file out, holding the door open for your coworker, hair tumbling down your back and shining in the moonlight in a way that made his jeans tight.

Your coworker stepped out after you, a 21 year old frat boy. Logan, he thinks, is the name you gave him. Just another wannabe Kook. Rafe watches as you and Logan chit chat, your figure slowly retreating towards him and his car.

Logan suddenly reaches out, grabbing your ass with both hands, his movements tipsy as he pulls you closer. Even though you’re quick to push him off, Rafe is faster.

He points the gun right at Logan’s forehead, wrapping one arm loosely around your neck, tugging you backward against his chest.