[ xxvi. midsummers ]

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WILLA DEVERAUX NEVER WORE her hair straight.

Granted there were many things that she did not typically ever do when she was not faced with an approaching summer ball.  Midsummers had crept up quickly over the town of Kildare and the shimmering event was all that anyone could talk about for nearly the entire month of July. For that, Willa hated July. She already could not wait for August, when her world might finally begin to settle down again.

But for now, Willa was lost in a whirlwind of pompous glamour and fervent preparation. Seemingly her entire physique had been altered to accommodate this grand and special evening meant to celebrate the wealthy and adolescent generation that was set to one day inherit the riches of the island. After hours of erasing her knotted curls and the deepened bags under her sage green eyes as she sat beneath the blinding lights of her mother's vanity, Willa looked like she was ready for a movie premiere rather than a simple summer ball. She half-expected that there would be a line of paparazzi waiting for her red-carpet debut to the highest courts of the Figure Eight elite families. But that would just be silly.

And as if this night were not already going to be silly enough.

Willa thought that the entire existence of Midsummers was all ridiculous.  She hated all of it.  She was disgusted by her dress most prominently.  She had despised it when she had been forced to wear it for her first altering and she despised even more now, even though it now clearly fit her better. The shade of her dress reminded Willa of her mother's favorite bottle of sangria but despite how much she hated the off-purple color, the gown adamantly hugged Willa in all the right places and the reflecting golden and amber bedazzles that covered her entire torso made her shine bright like a diamond. Her dress then flowed down in gentle waves around her ankles and, as she anticipated, there was a provocative thigh slit that crept dangerously close to revealing more than just her leg, but she was no longer phased by it. She no longer cared for the other kook daughters and mothers and grandmothers that may deem her a slut for daring—and succeeding— to pull off such a show-stopping and scandalous dress.

Because Willa knew that she looked good. She did not feel beautiful, no, but she knew she would make an impression and that was seemingly all that was supposed to matter when it came to the midsummer ball.

She also knew that her scabbed and bruised knees would make any perverted head that turned her way, hoping to sneak a peek, hastily look in another direction.

Oh, and dare she mention the gloves?

Clearly, considering they did not even match the shade of her dress, the gloves were a last-minute addition to attempt hiding the mangled aftermath of Willa's bruised and gashed wrist. Maren had forced her daughter to wear the uncomfortable silky garments that cinched around her mid-forearms and made her palms wet with sweat. Willa hated them almost as much as she hated the golden heels she was wearing, and she was not sure what she had wanted to cut off more—her hands or her feet—by the time she had been forced to leave the sanctuary that was her bedroom.

Now she was standing outside on the stone steps that led upward and into the Island Club. It was a lavish four-story clubhouse, that rested right on the crest of a luscious green golf course that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean, whose charm and class could rival even the complexity of the White House.  The sun was just now setting over the island of Kildare and the sky was painted a vibrant sherbet pink color that Willa might have enjoyed if she were standing in another other place in the world. However, she was not, so she was simply miserable knowing that she night was only just beginning. A clash of crude scents was also assaulting her sensitive nose from where she stood; one-by-one the salt off the ocean, the overwhelming combination of varying colognes and perfumes, a tartness of champagne, and smoky fumes from an outdoor pig roast all twisted their ways into her system and she felt nauseous.

"Just so you know," A cold voice suddenly snickered in Willa's ear, making her entire body stiffen, "every girl is dying to stand where you are right now. The least you could do is pretend to appreciate it."

The warmth of the dying sun fell from away Willa's exposed skin as the frigid bitterness of Rafe Cameron's tone engulfed her. She did not turn to look at him, but he stood close enough behind her that she could feel the rough fabric of his gray tux brush against her bare shoulder. He was towering over her, and his icy eyes felt like they could burn a hole into the back of her head.

"Why should I bother?" Willa muttered back through clenched teeth.  She was feigning a smile, but she was certain it looked much more like a grimace.  "I'm just saving them from falling into a similar trap."

Rafe chuckled dryly and his cool breath pushed several straightened strands of dark hair into Willa's painted face. Before she could even dare to fix them herself, he side-stepped around her, now effectively shielding her from the rest of the Island Club, and tucked her smooth hair back behind her ear. "Always the martyr, huh?" Rafe sneered. His words were coated with poison, but his fingertips were soft and though Willa tensed, she never flinched at the rise of his hand to her cheek. She did not try to stop him from touching her either, no matter how much she wished she could. There were too many eyes on her.

But, thankfully, no one was standing close enough to eavesdrop. "Martyr?" She repeated with a dead scoff. "That's a pretty big word for you, Rafe."

His hand fell away from the side of Willa's head and his eyes narrowed into a glare. She found it hard to stare back at him, though, when her attention continued to drift towards the fresh cut underneath his left eye. A large bruise had kissed the length of his cheekbone and the under bag of his eye socket was an ugly purple, and it was all thanks to Willa's own punch.

It was a nasty wound, yet it had been left without stitches. Funnily enough, Willa thought that it mirrored JJ's.

Aside from Willa, there had been only one other person who had been brave enough to point out the ugly, westering cut on Rafe's face and there had been only one other person who had managed to get away with it. That person had been Willa's own father. Alden Deveraux had been the one to answer the front door earlier in the evening when Rafe had arrived to pick Willa up at five o'clock sharp like he had sinisterly promised. She had been standing in the dining room, stealing airplane shots from her parents' liquor cabinet, hidden just out of sight of the front door but safe within earshot to eavesdrop.

"That's one hell of a shiner there, Cameron," Alden had joked.

"Oh, this?" Rafe had playfully laughed back. He had sounded so polite, so poised with a gentleman's swift tone, Willa had barely recognized his voice. "Just a little roughhousing with the boys, sir."

"We've all been there," Alden smirked. "Tell whoever gave you that," he had then motioned to the mess of fresh purple bruises, "that they've got one hell of an arm."

Rafe never told Willa anything.

Alden also never knew that his own daughter, who had been standing right behind him, listening to his every last word, had been the one with one hell of an arm.  And it was likely he would never know. It had been weeks since Willa had had more than a five-minute conversation with her father. They never saw each other. They never tried to see each other. Even now with the promise of a father/daughter dance in the midst of the ball, Willa wondered if she would find him on the dance floor. She did not hold herself to hope.

The movement of Rafe's large hand falling to the curve of Willa's waist pulled her from her thoughts and her posture automatically straightened as she felt the Cameron boy twist them both towards the entryway to the Island Club. Three more couples had gathered around them. Hudson and his boyfriend, Wesley Nations, with their horrendous, matching polka-dotted ties. Ace and Katie Griffin, who was dressed up in a long and silky, sky blue gown. Cruz and his unwanted date, Matilda Rowe, a kook girl from his class, with sleeked inky hair, that was much more excited to be there than the boy beside her. Each pairing appeared more or less prepared to walk into the country club where more than a hundred piercing eyes would be watching them, looking for their pristine perfections and highlighting their fatal flaws.

Of these pairings that surrounded her, though, Willa quickly realized that she was related to all of them, and that confused her because she was not the only kook princess on the island. Rafe should have had a sister to walk beside him, into the country club, as well.   Where was she?  Then, with a subtle look over her shoulder, Willa spotted the Cameron princess standing beside her groomed father and her over-the-top, Lady Liberty-looking, stepmother. Caught between two intensities, even Willa could admit that Sarah Cameron looked stunning in her simple white gown that contrasted perfectly against her naturally deeply tanned skin. Atop her head was an intricately woven flower crown that held her wavy blonde locks down against the persistent ocean wind, so that her face was seemingly framed in a permanent golden hue.

Only there was a variable missing to the perfection that was seemingly Sarah Cameron's nature. There was a wariness in her dark chocolate eyes; an emptiness that could only be the result of missing someone that should have been standing beside her in the space that her father now attempted to fill.

"Where's Topper?" Willa questioned aloud. In the back of her mind, she smugly hoped that, perhaps, the damage that Pope had inflicted on the Thornton boy from the evening prior had been enough to keep his ugly, snide, and pointed face at home.

But she could never be that lucky because Rafe was quick to answer with a shrug, "He's here somewhere," He acknowledged. "Sarah wanted to walk with our dad and Rose instead."

Willa frowned.  Trouble in paradise for Sarah Cameron?  Then again, maybe she simply wanted to walk with her father who was to be honored later in the evening for an accomplishment within the community.  Willa wished she could have been allowed the choice to walk with her father into Midsummers.  She wondered if Rafe might have longed for the same right. 

"Did you have that option?"

Rafe's expression hardened at Willa's question as he allowed his beady blue eyes to linger on his proud and unsuspecting family, but not a single Cameron returned his gaze.  "No," He admitted.

There was a stiffness in his tone that Willa recognized deeply, so deeply that her stomach burned with an unwanted empathy that she could not help but let tighten into a knot against the underside of her ribcage.  The feeling of being unable to control your own person, your own future, when the weight of an entire family name rested on trembling shoulders was painstakingly familiar. 

"Me either," Willa swallowed.

Regardless, no matter how she understood the pain that unfolded behind closed curtains in empty mansions, that did not change the way that Willa felt about Rafe in the slightest.  Even if one did have a reputation to uphold that was bigger than themselves, there were numerous ways to go about it.  Every coin had two sides.  There was a lightness and darkness in every family, in every person; one may not have the option of controlling how much lightness and darkness there was within the tainted roots of their family tree, but they always had the option to choose which side they allowed themselves to plant their own seeds in.

So when Willa Deveraux and Rafe Cameron were finally instructed to enter the Island Club, whilst they may have come from the same lavish, old-money background, it was adamantly clear that their pledged futures would not be intertwined.  For no matter how harshly their connection was forced by the inner workings of their parents, even the eldest of the Figure Eight elites could understand that there was no flame in their young and defiant, and unparalleled hearts.  Rafe and Willa were too different.  A sinister prince and a glowing princess.  Their pairing would not bring about a glorious union that the entire island had been waiting for.  It would only bring about the island's final severing.  A match that was promised in heaven yet would only unleash a catastrophe of hell.

Dozens and dozens of heavily done-up faces peered back at Willa as she clung to Rafe's arm and allowed him to pull her through the giant maze of golden and silver décor that had overcome the country club.  She was not certain she had ever seen so much money in one place though there was a stubborn and rebellious reassurance within Willa when she knew, with absolute certainty, that she was one of the richest youths to stand within the gleaming halls of fame and fortune.  Even the lionizing boy beside her that was admired by more individuals than Willa would ever be could not reach the tip of her wealth.  At least she would always have that to hold over him, to keep him at bay when the wrath of his touch or his words threatened to betray him.

But for now, there would be no violence.  There would be no anger or betrayal.  Instead, Willa and Rafe would both play the roles they had been raised to inhibit.  The eldest son of the Cameron clan and the eldest daughter of the Deveraux brood would stand side-by-side and smile.  Smile like the world was not about to implode over their heads; like they were just beginning to take the fateful steps of their perfectly prearranged happily-ever-after.

Yet even the most perfect of pairings were allowed to separate every now and then, which is why when they finally made their way through the country club and out into the garden that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean, Willa stepped away from her escort, away from the judging eyes of all who dared to follow her every move, and simply breathed.  Her shoulders, once so sharpened and poised, sunk and her hands clenched into feeble fists despite the ache she felt in her torn and bruised fingers.  She was not wearing her rings due to the gloves, and she missed the familiar weight on her knuckles.  It felt as if every piece of herself had been stolen away and put on a shelf for this evening.

Standing outside, her ears echoed with the crashing of waves and the distant hum of classical music.  The live band that had been hired was still setting up on the far end of the garden, the five older men livened by lights of the large gazebo they stood upon, so Willa knew that wherever the music currently was coming from was from someone's computer or some other prerecorded device.  Willa hoped that the band might never be ready to play; if they were, then she would have to return to the fray and dance beneath the ill-fated stars with an angry boy who had nearly broken her ribs less than twenty-four hours ago, all because he knew that he could, and had wanted her to know how easily it would have been to hurt her.

She still felt the pain of his hold if she thought about it long enough.  The memory made her shiver, first with fear, and then with fury.

Willa wished that one day someone might be able to show Rafe the terror that he had truly become.  She wished that someone might hurt him the way that he had hurt her, and Kiara, and Pope, and JJ.  She simply wished for Rafe to hurt.  It was a cruel thought, but Willa could not seem to shake it.  She did not know what had gotten into her. 

The girl that Willa had recognized in the mirror from June would not have been like this.  The girl from June would have been terrified of the girl that July had coldly embraced.  She did not want to imagine what the following weeks might bring.  Who might that girl Willa once recognized be by the time that August rolled around?

"Willa!"

At her calling, Willa's head snapped up and away from the fake green grass of the golf course below her golden heels.  She had not even realized that she had left the outskirts of the Island Club's garden.  Now, standing on the crest of a grassy hill, Willa turned at the chirp of her name, and her sage green eyes fell to none other than Kiara Carrera and Pope Heyward, standing near a large smoky grill.  Her jaw dipped with disbelief at the sight of them both standing together, Kiara in her own beautiful lilac gown and pink flower crown (Willa was beginning to think she missed a memo on the flower crown trend), and Pope in a thick brown apron, seemingly following in his father's footsteps as lead cook for the night.  For weeks, Willa had known that Kiara would be there that evening, representing for her mother and father of the working lower-kook class, and she had been keeping a lookout for her familiar face since she had arrived, but Willa had not known at all that Pope would be there, and the elation of his presence was evident in her rapidly brightening features.  It was the first true smile she had given since she had stepped foot on the Island Club's stone steps.

"Thank God," Willa huffed with relief as she crossed over to stand beside the two teenagers.  Their voices were snuffed out by the loud roar of the grill and with Willa's back turned, she did not fear whoever might be choosing to watch them from the garden.  Her mother could have been watching her for all that she cared, and she would have not pulled away.  "It's so good to see your faces."

"I almost didn't recognize you," Pope admitted carelessly.  Then, as if realizing how crude his comment might have sounded, his eyes widened with alarm.  "But!—But I really like what you've done with your—your hair."

Willa snorted.  "Thanks.  I hate it."

Pope's expression twisted uncomfortably.  "Oh, uh—"

"What he means to say is," Kiara interrupted with a playful smirk, "you look like a clown, Wills."

"Aw, so do you, Kie," Willa replied in a sing-song voice.

"It's the flower crown, isn't it?  Can you tell that it's fake?"

"I can.  But that crown has nothing on these gloves."

Both girls erupted into obnoxious galls of laughter as they compared their midsummer outfits, but it was Pope who stole the argument with a single, disgusted gesture to his own apron.  The heavy fabric practically covered him from head-to-toe and he had already tripped over the string ties twice since he had started cooking.  He said that he was lucky he had not joined the menu alongside the roasting pig by accidentally tripping into the roaring, smoky flames, and the image that comment had conjured up sent both Willa and Kiara into hysterics.  It was not even that funny.  Perhaps their tight dresses were cutting off the oxygen to their heads, but neither of them seemed to care if they looked foolish.  The whole entire midsummer scene was a joke to them—a nightmare that if they could not sleep their way through, then they would try to laugh their way through.

It was several minutes after before any of the trio could catch their breath, but when they did the air outside began to feel different.  The sun was steadily slipping over the horizon, plunging the surrounding area into a golden shadow, and more and more exotic and luxurious guests were continuing to arrive and infiltrate the club.  As a result, more and more eyes had begun to find Willa all over again and though she could not hear what was being said by the adults who lingered in the garden at a distance, she immediately knew what they were talking about.

Why was she alone?  What was she wearing?  Why was she talking to the staff?  Where was her Cameron boy?  Where were her parents?

Over and over the invasive and nasty questions pounded into her skull and made her ears ring.  Through the buzz, she could hear the faint chime of live music.

"You ever seen this many kooks in one place?" Kiara questioned.  She was following Willa's gaze back towards the Island Club.  It was a glowing beacon in the growing dark.

"Yeah, last year," Pope muttered.

Kiara tensed.  "We're in the lion's den."

Willa swallowed grimly as her eyes found Rafe in the distance.  He was not watching her, thankfully, for he seemed to be distracted by Kelce as he helped the latter fix his salmon-colored tuxedo.  The bright suit was a ghastly sight against the whiteness of the building behind him.  Now, Willa knew that the intention of Midsummers was to dress to impress, but there was such a thing as going over-the-top.  Granted Kelce Walton was not the only one to butcher his evening attire.  Many women seemed to have come to the same conclusion that floral gowns would make perfect sense at a summer ball, but in the end they all looked like they had jumped the gun at an Easter luncheon.  And do not even get Willa started on the headbands.  Flower crowns were one thing, barely tolerable—but it was another issue entirely when a woman was wearing a tiny top hat on the side of her head simply because it matched the shade of her dress.

"Hey, have you heard from JJ?"

Pope's question caused Willa's head to abruptly snap to the left.  "He's out," She informed.  Her response was almost instant; like a piece of her subconscious had been simply waiting for someone to ask.

"Did you bail him out?" Pope gasped.  His dark eyes were wide with surprise and relief now.  Beside him, Kiara was motionless.

"No," Willa confessed and her stomach tightened uneasily as she watched Pope's expression falter.  "He was gone by the time I got there."

But she had went there.  Unbeknownst to Kiara and Pope, less than an hour after Shoupe had taken JJ to the station, she had been quick to follow, stirring up her own cloud of dust in her wake.  Unfortunately, she had taken her time collecting the money to match his bail, assuming that getting him booked into a cell would take most of the morning, but in her hesitance someone else had plucked the Maybank boy from behind bars and swept him away from her reaching grasp.  The officer at the front desk had been shocked at the stack of bills Willa had laid on the counter when she had walked into the station, a protective storm of her own hellfire and fury, but her show of fortune had been otherwise lackluster.  A parental guardian had already taken claim of JJ and would be responsible for his wellbeing until his court date, the officer had told Willa.  Somehow, despite the fact that JJ was free of handcuffs, Willa had not felt reassured by his fate in the slightest.

If JJ was free why had no one seen him?  It had been nearly twelve hours since his arrest, and less than ten since his disappearance.

"Neither of you have heard from him?" Willa questioned.  She would never have suspected JJ to seek her out, to thank her for attempting to bail him out, but to not reunite with Pope or Kiara?  That was not like JJ at all.

"He'll be all right," Kiara attempted to reassure, even as her expression said otherwise.  She looked less than convinced at the knowledge that JJ was out there, somewhere, and willingly choosing to convey radio silence.  "He's got the survival instincts of a cockroach."

"Could he be with John B.?" Willa prodded.  At the mention of the Routledge boy, her empty stomach somersaulted.  She had not seen him in two days—not since the day out on the water—and he, too, had not chosen to reach out.

"I mean, maybe," Kiara pursed her lips.  "He could—"

"It's all my fault," Pope grumbled with a shake of his head.

"Stop it," Willa immediately chastised.  "JJ chose to do what he did on his own free will.  You didn't force him to take the blame."

"Topper almost killed you, Pope," Kiara reminded him.  "Remember?"

"What's to stop him from trying again tonight?"

"He won't," Willa promised.  "I won't let him."  She lifted a cautious hand to Pope's bicep and gave his arm a gentle squeeze.  He barely seemed to acknowledge her touch, his eyes locked on a faraway sight, and she followed his gaze as it led her right to the Thornton boy.  Topper had come to join Rafe and Kelce in the center of the garden.  All three of the kook boys were looking in their direction now, yet their expressions were smug.  They did not appear malicious, and Willa would not allow it to ever get to that point tonight.  If she had to stand in the middle ground, if she had to pretend to be Rafe's partner to keep him restrained, then she would do it.

Suddenly, Rafe, Topper, and Kelce's attentions were torn away from Willa, Kiara, and Pope, as Ward and Rose approached the three boys and began to converse quietly.  The four men were all keeping a distance from Rose, though, given her wooden, pointy headpiece.  She was laughing loudly at something that Kelce had said and then she abruptly shook her head playfully, all the while nearly stabbing her own husband's cheek in the process.

"She's going to poke somebody's eye out with that," Pope insisted dryly.

"If we're lucky it'll be one of us," Kiara muttered. "One straight shot to the brain."

At Kiara's snide comment, Pope chuckled distastefully but Willa's eyes abruptly brightened with excitement. "Oh!" She exclaimed.  "Speaking of shots . . ." She turned fully away from the Island Club so that the partygoers would not see her indecency as she reached into the top of her gown and pulled several small bottles out from the depths of her strapless nude bra.  "I've got six airplane shots of whiskey and tequila," She announced giddily.  "Either of you want one?"

Both Kiara and Pope were stunned into silence at the sight of Willa's manic and teasing grin, yet they should not have expected anything less of the Deveraux daughter.  Whenever a party was involved, Fireball and Willa were sure to follow.  Pope merely shook his head, likely already predicting how this drunken night would end.  Meanwhile, Willa was already twisting off the cap of her own mini shot, eager to swing it back.  John B. would have been proud of her.  JJ would have been taking one right alongside her.  Kiara let out a gentle laugh, but there was a mischievous glint in her auburn eyes as they locked wickedly with sage green.

"I'm feeling bitchy tonight," Kiara announced to no one in particular.  Then she held out her hand to Willa.

"Give me a tequila."

➸➸➸

WILLA DEVERAUX WAS THREE airplane shots into the evening, and it had only been an hour since she had arrived at the Island Club.

Currently she had no idea concerning the whereabouts of her supposed 90-day-fiancé, but she found that she did not care in the slightest about where Rafe might have been.  At the moment, all that she could focus on was the feeling of how graciously thankful she was that she had managed to escape her mother's grasp after Maren had called her back into the country club only moments after she had taken her first whiskey shot with Kiara.

For the next forty-five minutes, Willa had allowed herself to be whisked amongst the crowds as her mother introduced her to her older friends.  Though she was pliant, Willa had not understood the purpose of introductions when she had already known all their names.  It was not like this was the first night that she was meeting the many kooks that inhabited the Figure Eight.  She knew every face that bothered to look in her direction—even if she had not wanted to know them, her mother forced her to remember.  Connections are everything, Maren had insisted.

Wrong, Willa had wanted to say back.  Money is everything.  On Kildare, no one cared who anyone was unless they had money.

Now, after an abundance of fake smiles and indifferent tones, Willa was standing by herself once more.  She could feel the alcohol beginning to take its hold on her as watched expensive people move to and fro, either into the dining hall or the garden, or the gambling lounge.  She had not been able to find Kiara or Pope again, but at one point she had seen Hudson and Wesley dancing the night away without a care in the world.  At another, she had seen Cruz without his date, but at least he was in the company of their father who was respectable enough to treat him as an adult for the evening rather than a boyish teenager.  Then she had seen Ace and Katie off in a corner, crossing dangerously close into a territory that belonged beneath the sheets.  She wondered how high they were as they kissed like no one was watching; she could smell marijuana faintly in the air and did not have to guess that they had taken part in the smoke circle.  Willa likely would have too—if she knew where the source was coming from.

But since she did not have the effort to try and hunt a joint down, she made her way towards the garden bar instead to get herself another drink.  She was down to two shots left in her bra and she was not about to waste them when it was nowhere close to midnight.  She would sip her garden drinks until they cut her off or they closed down.

Three bartenders were working the long, sophisticated bar when Willa approached, but she did not recognize a single one of their faces as she leaned her gloved arms on the smooth mahogany counter and looked along the line of fancy liquors and extravagant whiskey glasses that lined the wall behind them.  The bartender that had moved to stand in front of her to take her order did not waste time with greetings, so neither did Willa as she pointed towards one of the large brown bottles on the lit-up wall.  "Bourbon, please," She ordered.

The bartender did not move.  His squinty, hazel eyes slowly scanned her face and his chapped lips turned downward.  "Can I see your ID?" He asked.

Willa remained unphased.  "I left my wallet at the bag drop," She bit back easily.  Confidently.

"Then I'm afraid I can't serve you, ma'am—"

"And I'm afraid that you don't know who this is."

An infectiously new voice cut coldly into the cautious exchange between Willa and the unnamed bartender.  The Deveraux daughter automatically stiffened in disgust and spared a glance over her shoulder as an arrogant and pressed Rafe Cameron made his way over to the bar and slid in close beside her.  Their arms brushed, and Willa thought that Rafe might actually put an arm over her shoulder, before she quickly took an immediate sidestep and put more distance between them.

"Rafe—" She warned darkly.  She would be damned if he exposed her and got her in trouble.

Rafe did not even look at her, did not even seemingly hear her.  Instead, he held the bartender's watchful and hesitant gaze and clenched his jaw tightly.  The angry expression reminded Willa of when he had grabbed her in the concession stand line from the day prior.  He was establishing his dominance.  "She's a Deveraux, man," He reprimanded.  "Do you know what that means?"

The bartender's placid stare faltered, and she could see the unsteadiness grow in his eyes.  Rafe had thrown him off guard because the bartender recognized names more than he recognized faces.  That was the Kildare way.  The man behind the counter swallowed stiffly and looked carefully to Willa before back to Rafe.  "I—"

Because who was a pogue bartender to the son of Ward Cameron and the daughter of Alden Deveraux?

"It means she gets whatever she wants," Rafe cut the bartender off icily.  His tone seeped with venom as he drummed his fingers idly on the countertop, waiting for a response. 

The bartender, whose mouth had been open in protest, hastily snapped shut once more and then he turned away to make Willa's drink.  "Yes, sir."

Willa's cheeks were flaming with embarrassment as she watched the bartender's back.  He was so tense that his arms barely moved as he pulled the bourbon off the highest shelf; it was not even the bottle she had pointed at from before.  Beside her, Rafe only chuckled at his own irrational behavior, and Willa snapped her narrowed eyes towards his flushed face.  Now that she was actually looking at him, she could see that he had been drinking, too.

"What the hell was that?" She demanded coldly.

Rafe slapped a hand against his own chest in mocked pain.  "That's not a very nice way to talk to your date," He mused.

"You're not my date.  You're my escort," Willa hissed.  "And I'm pretty sure you're done escorting me."

"I promised my dad I'd give you two dances," He explained with a mindless shrug.

"Two whole dances?" She scoffed with a roll of her eyes.  "What a gentleman."

Between them, the embarrassed bartender silently slid Willa's full glass of sparkling bourbon over to her and then he walked away to the opposite end of the counter just as quickly as he had once arrived.  Willa tried to watch the man go, to briefly attempt an apology on the Cameron's behalf, but Rafe's steely eyes pulled her back in.  "I figure we better at least attempt one of them while we're both still sober," He decided.

Willa Deveraux made a quiet sound in the back of her throat as she lifted the whiskey glass up and tilted it in Rafe's direction.  His eyes were watching her every move and she boldly returned his gaze.  "Best get a move on, then," She taunted.  "I'm not going to be sober much longer."

Then she put the cold glass to her painted lips and swallowed the bourbon with a single swig.  The corner of Rafe's mouth tilted upward into a smirk as he pushed off the bar and held out a luring hand to her.

"Neither am I, sweetheart."

~~~~~~~~~~

this was pretty much a willa and rafe centric chapter without being entirely overwhelmed by just the pair of them, but anyhooooo i hope you enjoyed this intro to midsummers!! it's only going to get crazier and drunker from here on out.  willa and fireball do not mix.  now, expect a lot of sporadic time jumps throughout the evening as we speed this trainwreck disaster up.  it's going to be great and suspenseful, and funny, and painful, i promise.  aaaaaaaannnnnnndddddd we might be meeting a new character in the next chapter???? ummmmm???!!!!! i'm excited!!!!

so, what are we thinkin? how do we feel about willa and rafe's relationship? is their pairing really going to set off a catalyst for the entire island??  are they a recipe for disaster or do they have more in common than you thought??? also, what do we feel about willa actually attempting to bail jj out????  predictions for the rest of the midsummer night???? what are your thoughts?! tell me everything!!!!!

i appreciate all votes and comments of feedback!!

stay safe and stay well.

--B.