Page 37 of Fighting for You
It shouldn’t bother me. Knowing she doesn’t think I’m capable of being serious or permanent should have cut the cord between us.Idon’t even think I’m capable of being serious or permanent, so why do I care if she agrees?
She clears her throat, snapping me out of my thoughts. “You can just… you can stay out here.”
My brows crease as I let my eyes linger on hers. “Ouch, not even gonna invite me in, Freckles?” I tease, hoping it’ll change her mind. Going inside means getting another glimpse into her life, it means feeding the obsession. Regardless of what she thinks, and regardless of what I can offer her, I’m too fucking addicted to be a bystander when it comes to her.
“Oh, no, you can,” she says, sounding guilty for even suggesting I stay outside.
I place my helmet on one handlebar and hers on the other. The only sound filling the air as we walk toward the dilapidated house is the crunching of the gravel beneath our feet. The closer we get, the worse it looks. There are shutters hanging off the windows. The porch steps look like they’re ready to crumble the moment any weight is placed on them. Shingles are missing all over the roof. The list goes on.
As we get to the steps, she turns to look at me, and shame is written all over her face even before her desperate words leave her lips. “The place is a wreck. I know. Please… well, please don’t judge me for the way it looks. I do as much as I can. And I know—”
I cut her off by placing my hands on her shoulders. “Baby, hey, I’m not judging you, okay? I don’t have any right to judge anyone—but especially not you.” I pull her toward me, placing a kiss on the top of her head. Everything in me screams to shield her from all the bad things in her life. Including myself.
I hate seeing her so scattered like this. I don’t know the deal with her dad, but it’s clear she isn’t comfortable with people seeing this part of her life. If I were a better man, I’d get on my bike and drive away, let her handle this on her own and respect her wishes to do so. But I’m selfish and yearning for any morsels I can get from her.
I pull back, but my hand skates down her arm, linking our fingers together. She has a dazed look on her face like she isn’t sure what’s happening. That makes two of us.
“Come on,” I say as I lead her toward the stairs. “Watch your step, this doesn’t look very sturdy.” I test one of the boards with my foot, quickly deciding it’s not trustworthy at all. Before she can say no, I pull her to the side, grab her by the hips, and lift her up to the porch, bypassing the death trap entirely. The shock onher face is adorable, making me huff out a laugh. “What?” I ask as I step up and over the rotted boards.
She looks up at me, her five-foot-one stature laughable next to my six-foot-one. “You, umm, you just didn’t have to do that.”
I shake my head as I say, “I know,” leaving it at that. “Should we knock?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Oh, uhh, no. I have a key.” She opens her purse, digging out a keychain with an array of keys on it. She fiddles with it before finding the correct one then inserting it into the lock. As the door opens, she peeks into the house like she’s not sure what she may find. “Dad?” she asks as she pushes the door all the way open and walks inside.
I follow behind her, immediately noting the smell of stale beer wafting through the home. As the room comes into view, I notice the beer cans on the end tables, even a couple on the couch. A pizza box sits half open on the coffee table, and Jeopardy silently plays on the muted TV. Margot looks over her shoulder to face me, her cheeks are a rosy pink. I could blame it on the cold, but I know it’s from embarrassment.
I meant what I said, I’m not going to judge her. Did she grow up this way? Seeing the house makes me question a lot of things about Margot Mason. Things I never thought to ask about. Where’s her mom? Does she have a good relationship with her father? He clearly drinks, is that why she never did? How many times does she come over here to “check on him?” And why does he need to be checked on? Why is Hayes not helping with any of this?
I don’t ask any of the questions out loud, I just watch as she hastily picks up the trash from the living room. Once she’s got a good handful of it thrown in the garbage bin in the corner of the room, she walks down the hallway saying, “Dad?” a few times before a grunting noise filters through the house. She rushes toward the sound, and I follow closely behind her.
As we round the entry to the bedroom, we see him on the floor covered in his own vomit. My hand covers my mouth to block the stench; I guess the smell was more than stale beer.
“Oh, my goodness, Dad!” she cries as she drops to the floor to assess him. I’m right beside her, trying not to breathe through my nose. She touches his forehead, checks his pulse, and peels his eyes open. The action jolts him. He shoots up so quickly, Margot barely has time to move out of his way. I pull her back to my chest and notice the tears running down her cheeks.
“Margot?” he croaks, his voice raspy and dull.
“I’m here, Daddy.” She pushes away from me, wrapping her arm around him to pull him up. I don’t waste any time going to help her. Unlike Hayes, I won’t just stand by and let her handle it all on her own.
We’re able to get him standing, though most of his weight is on me.
“We need to—” she makes a grunting noise as she shifts his arm around her neck just a bit, “get him to the bathroom.” She points her chin toward the door on the other side of the room.
It takes a few minutes, but we finally get him through the door of the bathroom. Thankfully, there’s a standing shower. Fighting with the ledge of the bathtub would have been a nightmare. I reach out my hand to pull the shower door open, hefting him up just a bit.
We lower him to the shower floor, the hope of him standing non-existent. As I straighten up, I turn to find Margot with her arms wrapped around herself, tears still streaming down her cheeks.
“I’ll clean him up so you don’t have to see this. Why don’t you take care of the mess in his room?” I ask knowing no one should see their father in this condition but especially not a daughter. He’ll need to be undressed, showered, clothed. I don’t know how she’s handled this alone in the past.
She nods her head, more tears welling in her eyes as she stutters, “Th-thank you.”
The door clicks shut behind her, and I turn to look back at the man who made her cry. I realize I have zero sympathy for this guy, whose name I don’t even know. He’s putting her through hell. Hayes is yelling at her. I’m starting to look like the fucking good guy in her life, and that’s not only backwards but not the life she deserves.
I walk toward the shower, reaching for the lever to turn on the water as I say, “You’re not going to enjoy this, Mr. Mason. But I am.” Maybe it makes me an asshole, but dousing the man in cold-ass water sounds appealing after seeing the heartache he’s caused Margot.
After a few solid minutes of rinsing Mr. Mason down, I finally peel off his clothes so I can clean him off the rest of the way. The cold water does the trick in sobering him up enough to almost bathe himself. I do what I can but leave him to handle his junk on his own.
I reach into the shower to turn off the water at the same moment it seems to register to him a stranger washed his vomit off of him. The towel I’m holding out hangs between us for a beat longer than necessary. Embarrassment heats his cheeks as he takes the towel from my grasp and asks, “Who are you? And why are you with my daughter?” His words are slurred, and he sways where he stands, but he seems coherent.
