Page 42 of Still Yours
The interior of the Merc is in its familiar frenzied state when I arrive for lunch. I choose to forego a pre-made sandwich and do a light shop for groceries instead. I have enough time off to get back to Mrs. Stalinski and make us a warm meal and give Moo the rare treat of my presence. He’ll be thrilled.
The Mercantile is a one-stop-shop for almost anything while searching for items in Falcon Haven’s downtown district. It has all the necessary groceries, a sandwich and ice cream shop, and a gourmet cafe. If you feel like adding a quick beauty treatment to your errands, Maisy rents out the attached space to Jenny Ridge, a certified esthetician. Maisy also allows local items to be featured in her store, like handmade jewelry and artwork.
I’m distracted from my groceries and holding up a beautiful silver, hand-hewn upside-down crescent moon necklace made by a local metal worker when the shouting begins.
“She took my picture,” a low, rumbling voice says. “I did not appreciate it.”
I inch closer when I register that it’s Stone.
I round the grocery aisles and into the small gap between the back of the store and the loading and storage area.
Stone stands amid overstock boxes and a tower of hay, small pieces sticking to his heaving bare chest. One’s even sticking out of his wind-tousled hair. It doesn’t make him look goofy, or boyish, or any of the things a stalk of hay sticking out from a man’s head should.
He makes it look rough hewn, like the grass belongs on him because he’s been working the fields all day and gained all that muscle through stubborn physical work. The stubble along his jaw and the chestnut hair curling around his ears and forehead add to his homegrown, working-man air, as well as his low-slung jeans and his favorite brown leather belt, beaten up and used since he was a slimmer, ganglier version of himself.
If you didn’t know him, if he wasn’t recognized by the world twice over, no one would guess he’d where he’d gained those muscles. None would think those jeans were designer or that belt something he grabbed out of his teenaged drawer, his personal preference for it long forgotten.
Another man stalks into my eyesight, bringing me back to the present. I hold my grocery basket against my middle with both arms, my eyes wide.
“You touch my girl, you get a punch to the fucking face. I don’t care how famous you are, you pansy-assed bitch.”
Wow. Even I, ever the pacifist and against all forms of aggression, can call those fighting words.
Movement and shuffling sound out on either side of me, the exchange between the two men drawing a crowd.
Stone throws up his hand, his manicured nails dirt encrusted, and the palm blistered and bleeding. Rome must not have given him gloves. Deliberately.
“Talk to your lady. I merely suggested to her that taking a photo of someone without their permission is not the best choice,” Stone says.
“With your fucking shirt off in a grocery store?” the other man asks. “I swear I saw you try to snatch her phone away from her. I know what you’re like.”
“No,” Stone disagrees calmly. Too levelly. I watch his hands, clenched with veins protruding along the tops. “First, I don’t touch women without their clear consent. Second, there is no ‘try.’”
The chubby, leather clad man cocks his head in confusion.
“If I wanted to get the phone,” Stone clarifies quietly. “I would have rendered you unconscious and lifted the phone from her fingers while she stared down at you in shock. But I did not. So I’ll ask you again. Respectfully, delete the picture.”
“Baby.” The woman of the hour creeps out of the aisle she was hiding in (with her phone held up and in video mode). Long, raven hair falls in waves to her elbows, her white tee tight and braless and in cutoffs. “I had to. It’s Stone freaking Williams! Do you know what this will do to my follower count?”
The big man spears a finger at his girlfriend. “Don’t you fucking post that. He’s not wearing a shirt. You post something like that, I’ll be the laughingstock of my club, and I ain’t no punchline. Defy me, and I’ll make sure you regret it.”
I parse through his toxic masculinity enough to latch onto the wordclub.
Shit. He’s part of the White Tigers, a motorcycle gang living on the outskirts of Falcon Haven. They come into town occasionally to grab food, cigarettes, and meet up with those willing to assist them in their underground trafficking. In a small town like this, it’s more people than you’d think.
They’re enough of a presence that those not in their pockets know not to fuck with them. Stone knows it, too, though bythe current look in his eye, he’s decided to ignore their violent warnings.
“Do you usually talk to your woman like that?” Stone asks lightly. I sense a threatening undercurrent, both in his stiffened lips and curled fingers.
More phones go up. I step forward. “Stone.”
Stone’s attention hurtles to mine as if I’d whistled loud and hard. He catches my eyes, locking in place and registering my presence, softening slightly before hardening again.
“Stone,” I say again with a harder whiplash to it. “Don’t. It’s not worth it. Let’s go.”
“Isn’t it?” Stone cocks his head, answering me but looking at the gang member. “He disrespected me, he disrespected this woman, and now he wants to throw a punch at me in front of you. All of which are shitty actions deserving of consequences.”
“What are you gonna do, Rich Boy?” The man laughs. “Those muscles of yours are all for show. You have makeup people who do better work than you ever will. I bury people while you’re in your skyscraper reading and pretending you do tough guy shit. The most you do is jack off while real men do the work for you.”
