You ain’t know what Barry was thinking. Rich boys like that? Better as customers than mules. Sure, it looks absolutely spankin’ on paper. What had Barry said again? Like a fuckin' idiot; rich boy, plus rich friends, equals rich Barry. Maybe it'd work, with anyone else.

Except, you know, that this boy is a fuck-up. Otherwise, he’d be content to loll back and bask in the Cameron luxury like the wet rag he is, rather than be running orders for a goddamn drug den. Like; what the fuck?

Rafe’s a liability, and while you don’t even deign to speak to him much at all, whenever he drops by for a stash; he can see it written all over your face.

Yet, that’s always been something’s that riled Rafe up. Disappointment— triggers up somethin’ old and angry and familiar to him. Everytime you give him that fucking up and down, like you’re better than him. Roll your wrist for him to make his way through with a drill, “Pop up your collar, pretty boy.” He wants to hurl himself towards you and kiss the smarminess out your goddamn mouth.

Hold on. That ain’t what he wanted to say. What the fuck?

Except, your points been proved right, time and goddamn time again. You can't quite believe his audacity, though, because pleading for another job, leveraging a pretty little bike like that, just to blow it so spectacularly is worse than a rookie movie, or one of Tommy's stunts. It's just plain fuckin' dumb.

“Listen— listen. I know, I know I fucked up. But I’ll get your money back, alright?” The greasy lil’ shit’s begging? He's snivelling, hair flopping with each jitter. "Seriously. Just one more, one more, and I'll fix it. I'll make it right."

Granted, it was Barry’s job he fucked up, so you ain’t know what he’s begging you for, but what you do know— is that that boy is bad for business.