Page 14 of Fighting for You
It seems like every time I speak, I give this woman another reason to think I’m a shit person. And I am. I can try and fool her with charm, but at the end of the day, I’m exactly who she thinks I am.
“I’m two years older than Cary. So for a couple years, we were in middle school together. He was kind of a scrawny kid, believe it or not. And kids are fucking mean.” I pause to shove another bite in my mouth, catching her eyes laser-focused on me.
“Long story short, he got picked on some, and one day I decided I was tired of it. I’d caught fucking Colton Riley talking some shit at the bus stop. He was a big kid—maybe bigger than me at the time and much bigger than Cary—and I’d seen him roughing my brother up a few times. I grabbed him by the back of the shirt and dragged him behind some trees. I gotmaybeone good punch to his arm before he hit me so hard I was seeing fucking stars. I tripped on a tree root and stumbled backwards into a low branch—hard. He laughed and walked away. I missed the bus. And I wasn’t about to tell people what actually happened, so I said I fell off my skateboard.
“It bled a good bit. Our neighbor called my parents. My mom was hysterical, and my dad was pissed he had to close the diner for the day to deal with my bullshit. My dad and I were never very close, but I’d pushed his limit that day.” A huff of a laugh escapes me at the memory. He’d said I was being a chickenshit about a little blood. It was a lot of blood. The doctor told my mom I’d gotten lucky I didn’t end up with a concussion too. But fifteen stitches later, I was left with a three inch scar on the right side of my head, just above my temple.
Right as I’m about to take another bite, Margot says, “And then what?”
I give her a confused look. “What do you mean?”
She puts her fork down, the clink of the silverware hitting the edge of the plate echoes through the room. She almost seems… mad?
“I mean what happened to the Colton kid? Did he get in trouble? And if you lied about it, did you at least tell Cary you tried to stop him from being bullied? Did you ever tell your parents you were just protecting your brother?” Her voice is slightly higher pitched than usual. She seems genuinely concerned about an event that happened twenty years ago.
“No, I never told any of them. It wasn’t worth it. And as for Colton, he’s still local and still a pain in my ass.” My tone is serious. I’m not trying to paint myself as a knight in shining fucking armor. The story sounds like I’m trying to win points with her, convince her I’m the kind of person who sticks up for someone in trouble. I’m not. And I wouldn’t have told her the story had she not asked.
“But—”
I cut her off, “Margot, it doesn’t matter. It happened, it’s over. I’ve got a sexy scar from it.” I give her a smirk, attempting to play the whole thing off. “Let’s drop it.”
The rest of our dinner is mostly silent. I can tell she’s still mad, but I’m not willing to do anything about it. When I’m finished eating, I take my plate to the sink, rinse it off, and dry off my hands.
“Thanks for dinner. It was delicious. I should get going.”
She sets her plate on the counter, biting her damn lip, and shuffling her feet on the floor which only draws my attention back to the thigh-highs. “Oh, okay. Yeah. Umm… thank you again for fixing my sink. I really appreciate it.”
Grabbing my keys from the counter, I give her a two-finger salute and walk toward the door. It takes me a second to disengage all the locks, and I’m reminded of how anxious she seemed when I brought them up.
By the time I’ve got them all unlocked, she’s right behind me, ready to lock them all back the second I leave. I’m not sure why, but it brings me some comfort knowing she’ll be safely locked away in her house.
I don’t say goodbye as I open the door, and she closes it immediately without another word.
Chapter Six
Margot
I’m hit with the sound of a tattoo gun buzzing and nineties grunge music as soon as I open the door to Mark of Mason.
Hayes has done a great job creating a space with a gritty yet sophisticated aesthetic. The lounge area in the front has a large black leather sofa pushed against a dark forest green wall, strewn with photos of his pencil drawings and some of the more impressive tattoos he’s done. The whole space is one large portfolio for his art.
Industrial-style lighting illuminates the dark wooden reception desk, currently being manned by a stunning woman in her late twenties with purple streaked hair, a silver hoop through her eyebrow, and countless earrings adorning the shells of both ears. She’s reading one of those celebrity gossip magazines I often see by the check-out counter at the grocery store, the front headline speculating if some A-list actress is pregnant or not.
The desk separates the front of the shop from the work stations in the back. One is occupied by a tattoo artist I’ve seenhere before, currently in the middle of placing a stencil on a woman’s ankle. At another, Hayes is focused and in the zone working on someone. He texted me earlier this morning and canceled our lunch, saying he had to take on a last minute client. I knew if I didn’t bring him something to eat, he’d probably skip the meal altogether, so I’m here with a sandwich and a very large iced coffee.
I don’t have the opportunity to visit the shop often, so I’m not familiar with all of the people Hayes has working for him. The woman—who I assume is the receptionist—finally looks up and locks bored amethyst eyes on me.
“How can I help you?” she says in between chews of her gum.
“Hi,” I say and smile at her lukewarm welcome. “I’m here to bring Hayes some lunch.” I hold up the coffee and Grayce’s Cafe bag. Her eyebrows shoot up, and I’m suddenly realizing she must assume I’m a girl Hayes is seeing. “I’m Margot, his sister.”
She looks me up and down, and her demeanor immediately changes as a smile breaks across her face. “Oh my God. You’re actually real. Hayes has talked about his ‘Booger,’ but I was half-convinced he was lying to us about how wholesome you are. But aren’t you just a button?”
I shift from foot to foot, confused about what he could have said to these people to make them talk to me like I’m a child. I know my cheeks are flaming, but I’m not sure if it’s because I’m embarrassed or slightly annoyed with Hayes.
Thankfully, it seems the woman catches on to my discomfort because she continues, “I’m just kidding. The man barely speaks, just keeps telling us all to keep our hands off you. I’m Kori, by the way. Go on back, he’s just working on Archer.”
At least that’s a name I recognize. Archer has worked with Hayes for about a year now, though I haven’t had the opportunity to meet him yet.
