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EMMA HAD called Topper that afternoon. After a friendly enough chat — during which she learned the address and that a DJ booth was already set up — he even offered to pick her up in his Jeep.

But she’d rather do anything else than let her brother run into him. John B would sooner drive her himself than watch her get in a car with Topper Thornton, who never missed a chance to blame Pogues for every bit of chaos on the island.

And honestly, she didn’t want to make an entrance at her first house party alongside one of the most well-known Kooks. She needed her own way there — unless she planned on hiking half the island.

For now, she was more concerned with finishing her eye makeup. She knelt before her mirror, dragging a blue kohl pencil along her waterline — the color making her already bright eyes pop — and blending a dusting of silver glitter shadow over her lids, even though she was usually more of a gold girl. But silver and blue just worked better together.

JJ was stretched out on her bed, arms tucked behind his head like a pillow, watching her work.
“Doesn’t that hurt?”, he asked.

Emma turned from the mirror, the kohl pencil still in her hand. The blond Pogue traced a circle around his eye with his finger, just to make it clear what he meant.

A small smile tugged at her lips. She shook her head. “No. Want me to show you?”

JJ hesitated — honestly, he couldn’t picture it not hurting. He rocked his foot against the mattress, then gave her a little shrug.
“Alright.”

She hesitated for a moment, wondering if black might suit him better — but decided against it. His eyes were blue, after all. That would be perfect as a match.

“You know, that’s something I like about you. You don’t care what other people think. Boys can wear makeup too, or paint their nails. There’s nothing wrong with it. But most people make fun of it, just because they’re scared of what others might say,” she said, loosening her posture and sliding onto the bed beside him. The mattress dipped under her weight.

“Sure, I even wear glitter just because I feel like it.”

Gently, Emma lifted his chin, angling his face to where she needed it. JJ let her, his gaze fixed on her.
She looked stunning — her full hair with its light streaks perfectly framed her oval face, golden hoops catching the light and warming her complexion. JJ swallowed. Her lips were close enough for him to wonder how they might feel under his fingertips.

When she looked up, she laughed — soft, insistent, almost like a giggle. It pulled a smile to his lips without him even realizing.

“I’ll be careful, but you have to look at me and stay still,” she warned, because his gaze had drifted away for a second, pure happiness distracting him.

“What? Like it’s hard to look at you?”

She set her thumb under his left eye, dragging the pencil gently along his waterline. JJ didn’t flinch — unusual for him, since even a butterfly flying too close could make him jerk back.

He could feel her nervous breath on his skin — long enough to bring goosebumps to his arms.

His mind flickered to the day he’d taught her how to wax her surfboard. Deep red, shiny, beautiful — and completely unused, since she didn’t surf.

The next morning he’d taken her to the beach anyway, knowing it would be empty this early. He knew she didn’t like being watched.

That day, he’d held her hand for the first time.

She stood on the board lying in the sand, and he stood beside her, steadying her. God, he’d felt like the third-grade version of himself. But of course she had to learn to surf — John B’s twin sister, as if she were his sister too.
Only … she didn’t feel like a sister. And that was the problem.
I can’t tell her what I feel. She deserves someone calmer, not a ticking time bomb like me.

Emma checked his expression before moving on to the other eye.

“Feels like you’re drawing in my eye.”

“Nope, I’m finished.”
She smiled as she capped the eyeliner.

“Close your eyes and rub them gently,” she instructed.

He obeyed.
“I’m gonna be blind by tomorrow,” he muttered, blinking.

“Wow,” she began, then grinned wide. “Sexy is what I wanted to say.”

“Oh yeah?”
His cocky grin earned him a playful shove to the chest, and she laughed. He swore he’d done something right in that moment.

“Your chicks are gonna love you so bad,” she teased, tucking the eyeliner into her bag. “Oh, and can I take your bike?”

Before he could answer, she held out her hand.

Reluctantly, he dug into his pocket and dropped the key into her palm — but walked her out to his dirt bike anyway. It was dark now, and he didn’t want anything to happen to her.

Emma kicked the stand back and swung a leg over the seat.

“Alright, rockstar,” he said. “Show them what pogue life sounds like.”

His fingers lingered on the brake lever before he stepped back.

“And if any guy gives you trouble — call me. I’ll bring my surfboard and your gun.”

Something unspoken hung between them, but she understood it anyway: Be careful.

“I’m scary, you know. They won’t.”
She widened her eyes at him for a second, while he kicked a stone with his foot, laughing it off.

Emma pushed down on the kickstart, the engine roaring to life, and JJ watched as the taillights disappeared into the brush.

It didn’t took her long to recognize the lit-up house on Figure 8, the noise impossible to miss. She parked the Enduro next to another bike, switched off the engine, and hooked her helmet over the handlebar.

Her hands, slightly damp and steeped in nervousness, she wiped off on her beige cargo pants. Then she followed a couple through the garden until she reached the bar.

“Hey,” she said, easily resting her forearms on the counter thanks to her height. “Could you tell me where I can find Topper Thornton? I’m supposed to mix the music here.”

The bartender was just sealing a silver shaker, giving it a shake first to the right, then to the left beside his head, before pouring the dark red liquid into two separate glasses.
“No, sorry.”

“Okay. Thanks anyway.”

Emma made her way past the bar and up the stairs. She walked past a table flanked by two empty sofas without stopping. Unfazed, she kept going — and just ahead, there it was: an insane, top-of-the-line setup that made her own gear pale in comparison. She ran her hand gently, almost reverently, over the knobs, sliders, and turntables. This had to be worth at least three thousand dollars.

“I see you’ve found your workstation.”

She flinched slightly and took a step back. Topper had appeared behind her, flashing a relaxed grin.
“Want something to drink?” he asked, attentive.

She shook her head. “I can still do that later on my break.”

He shrugged in acceptance. “Alright — then I won’t keep you. You’ll find me right here at this table if you need anything.”

Half listening by now, Emma Rose started hooking up the headphones hanging to the left of the board, along with the mic in case she needed it. This was beyond amazing — getting to use such high-end tech, all while having a view of the entire garden like she was standing on a stage. She was nervous, sure, but the adrenaline flooding her veins more than made up for it.

She clipped her phone to the handle so she’d have control over her playlist, slid the headphones on, and powered up the board. Instantly, an array of switches lit up — probably overwhelming to anyone unfamiliar with it, but Emma knew exactly what every control did, like she’d grown up on this deck.

She’d decided to kick things off with the 2000s, so Around the World boomed through the speakers first — likely keeping a quarter of Figure 8 from sleeping. At key points, she amped up the bass, threw in pauses for the crowd to sing along with the “lalalas,” and then slid into her next track: Don’t Be So Shy She loved that song to death — especially when you knew exactly how to tweak it.

Holding one headphone cup to her ear with her right hand and adjusting the lows with the other, she swayed along lightly.

Every so often, she caught glimpses of the sea of wealthy Kooks sprawled across the lawn, red beer cups in hand. Some danced, some chatted, others lounged by the bar or floated in the pool.

She could feel eyes on her from time to time, which made her quietly pleased. No complaints, everyone seemed relaxed — so she switched it up to the ’90s with Rhythm Is a Dancer, The Rhythm of the Night, and Usher’s Yeah.

She cycled through the process several times, tailoring transitions to both her plan and the vibe she wanted to share — and feel.

Sweat was beginning to bead along her forehead, unavoidable in such a warm summer night spent in motion.

A break sounded more than fair, she thought.

But she couldn’t just cut the music without killing the mood, so she queued up a few tracks, giving herself about half an hour of breathing room. Because she also needed to hit the bathroom.

Now she just had to find it. Overthinking, she headed downstairs, scanning her surroundings. But aside from the pool, the bar, and Kooks flashing her grins as she passed, there was no bathroom in sight. Weaving her way around the house, she smiled when she spotted Sarah at the far end of the veranda, deep in conversation with Topper.

The blonde girl could definitely help.

The closer Emma got, the more she picked up on the heated tone of their discussion — and she didn’t exactly want to insert herself into it.

“Have you been flirting with him, huh?”

Sarah arched her brows in disbelief.
“No, Top. Of course not,” she said. “Why would you even think that?”

Thornton glared at her.
“You know, Sarah, we said we’d go to Midsummer together.”

“Yeah, and nothing’s changed about that,” the Kook princess defended herself, adjusting the fallen strap of her dress back onto her shoulder. “Sorry, but I don’t get why you’re mad.”

She brushed past him and greeted Emma with an easy hug.
“I’m so glad to see you.”

Emma smiled. “Could you maybe show me the bathroom?”

Sarah nodded without hesitation. “Of course. Follow me.”

Grateful, Emma followed her new friend, holding the door open when she spotted it on the other side of the veranda. Silently, they each ducked into separate stalls, until the soft sigh of the Kook girl drifted through the room. Emma couldn’t help but ask, carefully, about what she’d just seen.

“Hey… is everything alright between you and Topper?”

She waited for an answer, but the only sound in the bathroom was the flush from either side, until they met again at the sinks.
“Yeah.” Sarah turned on the tap, rinsing her hands. “He’s just … so jealous. Makes up stuff in his head, then we fight, and he’s giving me these lectures about how awful you Pogues are.”

Emma pressed her lips together in sympathy as she washed her own hands, then leaned back against the counter.
“Sounds like you need a new boyfriend. Short version.”

Sarah’s full lips curved into a reluctant smile as she ran her fingers through her long hair. “Yeah … maybe you’re right.”

“But first, you talk to him. Tell him what’s not okay and how it makes you feel. If he doesn’t get it, doesn’t want to change? Then you change the boyfriend.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Putting people in their place is easy — for me atleast.” Emma’s eyes were steady on hers. “But you can do it too, and we girls have to look out for each other.”

“Thanks, Em.”

Emma shook her head with a faint smile.
“You're welcome, Sarah. I’m just gonna have a smoke before I get back to work, 'kay?”

Sarah dried her hands, following the so-called Pogue Princess out of the bathroom. She sank onto a bench just outside, thoughtful. Emma lingered for a moment.
“You know … if anything ever comes up, you can always come to me.”

Sarah scrunched her nose, a little shy. “You’re so sweet. That means a lot.”

To Emma, it wasn’t a big deal. Offering help — being there until someone felt better — had always been second nature. Whether or not she needed help herself didn’t matter.

Through the speakers, The Weeknd’s House of Balloons still pulsed as she fished a pre-rolled joint from her pocket and wandered up the stairs. The party was warm and bright, everyone seemingly happy to have her there — but she didn’t quite feel like she belonged. Loneliness wrapped itself around her, soft but persistent.

That feeling dissolved quickly once the weed smoke filled her lungs. JJ always got it from his cousin, but Emma had smoked in Colorado before — it was legal there.

Her eyes drifted to the group gathered around a coffee table, two couches pulled close, white lines drawn out with credit cards. Coke. Disgusting.

Blowing smoke out into the warm night air, she kept watching. An older Kook with a middle part — a face almost like Christian Bale’s — counted bills before clapping Topper on the shoulder as he joined them. A dealer? Or just some bored Kook handing it out so everyone could be as wired as him?

Then he looked at her — direct enough to make her tense.
“You want some?”

Now the rest of the table was looking too. Emma didn’t flinch, joint still between her fingers.
“God, no,” she said plainly. “I might smoke weed, but I’m not losing my mind with that crap. And you shouldn’t either.”

The man gave a short, sharp laugh — more a puff of air than anything — but she’d already turned away, stubbing her joint into the soil of a potted rosemary and heading back to her spot. She didn’t notice the older Kook watching her for a moment longer.

Her voice carried over the music as she announced the next track. Nearby, Topper — face twisted with confusion and irritation — was trying to get through to his friend.

“… and then she just left!” he said, leaning forward. Rafe hadn’t so much as looked at him. Topper blew out a frustrated breath. “Have you heard a single word I’ve said, man? Your sister’s lost it.”

Rafe sat rigid on the couch, fingers at his lips, watching Emma. She wasn’t like the other Kook girls who giggled beside him or hung around his sister. She was detached, calm — just mixing music without a care. Beige cargo pants slouched low on her hips, white top cropped enough to flash skin in the gap. His gaze flicked down to the dance floor; everyone’s hands were in the air, cheering when she spoke into the mic.

“She’s got everybody hypnotized,” he muttered, brows pulling together. He shoved the wad of bills into his pocket and downed the rest of his drink.

He didn’t like this — her just showing up, soaking up attention like she owned the place. Like these were her friends. Like she was a Kook.

Everyone knew there was only one Emma Rose on the island — John B’s twin sister — a little Cut-side celebrity with her sweet music talent.

“I told you Sarah’s not trustworthy,” Rafe finally said, dragging his eyes away.

“What am I supposed to do, man? She was pissed. Like, seriously pissed.” Topper’s voice had that searching edge.

“Here.” Rafe pointed to the neat line of powder on the table. “Take one, and then stop letting her screw you over. She’s a bitch.”

Topper hesitated, then bent down and cleared the line, sniffing hard before exhaling sharp.
“That’s your sister. You can’t call her a bitch.”

Rafe shrugged, clearly uninterested.
“I call her whatever I want, alright? She’s not on my side anyway.”

Topper didn’t reply. No siblings of his own, he could never understand the war between him and Sarah — or maybe he just refused to see the battle unfolding right in front of him.

Both of them looked up as Emma’s voice came through the speakers — calm and steady, a slight laugh in her tone as she announced the final song of the night and thanked everyone for coming. From the crowd on the lawn, the Kooks shouted in unison:
“We want more!”

Rafe leaned back, running a hand through his hair, letting out a quiet sniff before a grin slowly crept onto his face. Lovin’ on Me by Jack Harlow — he recognized it immediately. Usually, that song only played when he, Topper, and Kelce were drinking late into the night.
But now, through her, it sounded like he was hearing it for the first time.

Emma soaked up the well-deserved applause from the few Kooks who hadn’t drunk too much yet — or those who were just starting to shout and cheer. Her heart was pounding so hard from the effort she thought she might not get enough air. But inside, it sparked the most intense euphoria she’d ever known, fueled by the success she’d carved out tonight.

She pulled her phone out to check the time — and there it was, a message from her twin brother. He’d gotten home two hours ago and was worried about where she was. JJ had fallen asleep, and even when he’d woken him, all he’d said was that she was working.

Hurriedly, Emma fumbled through her pockets to make sure she had everything. Then she demanded her money from the Topper.

“I’ll pay her.” Rafe stood from the couch, reaching into his back pocket and stopping just short of her. In his left hand was his wallet; with his right, he pulled out several hundred-dollar bills and looked back up at her.

Only then did he realize he could meet her eyes without tilting his head down — something that rarely happened.

Emma held his gaze steady, never once looking away. Her posture was strong, defiant, and challenging — like she owned the room and dared anyone to question what belonged to whom.
“Thank you—” she started, searching for his name.

“Rafe,” he said with a smirk spreading across his face. “Rafe Cameron.”

Emma gave a curt nod from Rafe back to Topper, who slumped exhausted on the couch, then turned and left the party. Something pressed down on her chest that night, like a premonition. She looked back once more, barely knowing why.

Rafe stood outside on the terrace, hands resting on the wooden railing, his gaze locked on her. The light behind him cast his face in shadows, leaving only his eyes sparkling like two silent questions she didn’t know how to answer.

He watched as she mounted her Enduro — parked right beside his own. A brief, almost imperceptible nod, as if confirming something to himself.

She had come here,
into his world,
among his people,
onto ground she didn’t know.
But he felt no urge to chase her away.
On the contrary.

He didn’t want anyone to snuff out that cautious, rebellious spark in her eyes — the flicker he’d caught during their brief conversation.

He wanted her to get used to him.
To his stare.
To his presence.
To the way he controlled everything moving around him.

A shadow of a smile twitched at his lips — the kind that hovered between mockery and an unspoken threat.
She’d feel it eventually.
And when she did, it’d be way too late.

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