Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

68. The Last Thing I Expected To See Were Pink Handcuffs

CHAPTER 68

THE LAST THING I EXPECTED TO SEE WERE PINK HANDCUFFS

MARGAUX

I walk to the store, counting on the limited funds I just realized I can access through Apple Pay. Hopefully, it’s enough to buy a portable phone charger and a Gatorade because my throat feels like sandpaper.

The humidity clings to me, relentless even in December. Sunset Cay may as well be in a perpetual summer.

As I make my way down the uneven sidewalk, a few cars honk. One driver pulls over, rolling his window down with an oily smirk as he looks me up and down. “Need a ride?” he asks.

“No, thank you,” I say, forcing a polite tone and picking up my pace.

Inside the CVS, the air conditioning hits like a blessing. I let myself wander aimlessly through the aisles, taking my time. It’s not just a store—today it feels like a refuge. Shelves of neatly arranged products seem to promise normalcy, a stark contrast to the chaos outside.

I’m just about to purchase a portable charger when my phone buzzes in my hand.

Relief washes over me when I see it’s the security guard.

“He just got back,” she whispers, her voice conspiratorial, as if we’re in the middle of a covert operation. “I didn’t let him know you were here.”

“Thank you,” I say, already heading for the door.

“And,” she adds with a hint of amusement, “I wouldn’t let him park the truck in the garage. Told him, ‘I know you don’t have a license,’ so he had to have someone else do it for him.”

I can’t help but chuckle. It’s a small thing—and I know she’s technically following procedure—but her act feels like solidarity in a sea of indifference. Right now, I’ll take any bit of support I can get. A minor inconvenience like this is the absolute least that Timmy deserves.

On my way back, I call the non-emergency police line and request another escort. Waiting in the parking garage feels endless, but eventually, a police car cruises in.

The officer driving rolls down her window. She’s stunning, with blonde hair, impeccable makeup, and bright pink lipstick. “You here for the escort?” she asks.

“Yes,” I nod, trying not to gawk.

She parks and steps out, revealing her tall frame and arms covered in intricate tattoos. As she leads me to the apartment, I notice the pair of pale pink handcuffs that hang off her utility belt. I blink, half-convinced I’ve stepped into some surreal fever dream.

This can’t be real. None of this is real.

She catches my expression and raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment. “Why are we here?” she asks, her tone professional but not unkind.

I take a deep breath. “My fiancé made up a story, accused me of domestic abuse, and got me locked up. There’s a stay-away order now, and I need to pick up some essentials.”

“Got it,” she says, nodding.

We wait by the front door to the apartment, and soon enough, Timmy appears from the direction of the parking structure. He looks startled when he sees us.

The officer takes the lead. “Margaux is here to pick up her things. Don’t talk to each other.”

“Oh, okay,” Timmy mumbles, suddenly meek. Then his tone shifts. “Ooh, I know you,” he says, his voice gaining that pervy tone that makes my skin crawl.

It seems to have the same effect on the officer, because she frowns at him, quirking a brow. “What do you mean?”

“When I was locked up last time, you were in the station. I remember you,” he says, grinning.

She looks unimpressed, and doesn’t respond.

Timmy seems to realize he’s not impressing her, and for once he shuts up.

I rush past him and into the apartment, my heart pounding. The first thing I do is find Sabre. He’s lounging on the bed, looking unbothered. Relief floods through me as I scoop him up, burying my face in his soft fur.

I grab a couple of changes of clothes, my fanny pack, medication, and my computer. I pause, trying to think through what else I’ll need. The adrenaline coursing through me makes it hard to focus.

One of the panes from the jalousie windows is smashed, shards of glass scattered on the ground. Typical. Timmy must have locked himself out when he was drunk and forgotten the code to the door. But everything else seems untouched.

I glance around, feeling flustered.

“It’s okay,” the officer says gently, noticing my panic. “Take your time.”

I nod, exhaling shakily. “I need my chargers,” I mutter, grabbing them from the desk.

Finally, I’m ready.

“What are you going to do?” she asks.

“Oh,” I reply. “Well, I guess I’ll get a hotel downtown until I’m allowed to come back.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “I mean, what are you going to do about… that?” She tilts her head toward Timmy, just out of earshot, her words a subtle nudge.

“I’m not sure yet,” I reply honestly. “But I’m going to figure it out.”

She gives a small nod, her expression neutral.

I have a feeling she’s seen this all before.

I drive Sabre and myself to a hotel downtown, our temporary haven for a few days. In a small act of—I don’t know, self-care, defiance, all of the above—I pick the hotel that houses Dock Bar. One of the only places I still consider a refuge, that Timmy hasn’t managed to take from me.

When we arrive in the hotel room, Sabre perks up immediately, conducting a thorough inspection of the room. Once satisfied, he leaps onto the bed and sprawls across the comforter, purring like he owns the place.

At least one of us is having a good time.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m alone with my thoughts.

Glancing at my phone, I notice that, for once, Timmy hasn’t turned off his location. I find myself compulsively tracking his movements.

On Monday, he spends hours at the meth tents before returning home for the evening.

Tuesday, he’s at the tents again by 9AM, then back at the apartment complex, ostensibly working for a couple of hours. After lunch, he’s back at the tents, then the beach, then the 7-Eleven where the local unhoused population congregates.

This particular 7-Eleven isn’t just a convenience store—it’s a dead end, a magnet for panhandlers and addicts. Timmy, with a roof over his head, chooses to linger here like he belongs.

By 430PM, he’s home again—for all of three hours—before heading back to the beach and the 7-Eleven.

His routine is baffling, a chaotic dance of aimlessness.

Integrity is what you do when no one’s watching, and Timmy’s true colors are blindingly clear.

Without Timmy’s constant presence, I’m actually productive. I write, uninterrupted, and it feels incredible to be spared from his constant inane chatter.

The hotel room and the bar downstairs—ironically the place we first met in person, although I still consider it to be my space—become my sanctuaries, places where I can focus and breathe.

It’s funny how much more I can get done when I’m not constantly being berated, nitpicked, insulted and abused.

Still, my mind circles back to him.

Every time I start to see the truth—that I need to leave, that things will never change—he does something to reel me back in, to give me just enough hope to want to give him one more chance.

I message my Emotional Support Alice:

Me:

I’m so confused right now. The high highs and low lows are too much to deal with.

I haven’t felt the way I have about Timmy about anything else

It makes me wonder if anything I felt previously was love.

But do people who love you give you skull fractures? No, probably not.

Would it kill me to see him with someone else? It would hurt like fuck, but I’d live.

Will I live with his current behavior? No. He’ll most likely kill me or put me in a situation where someone else does.

He has started therapy and medication and is going to start AA group meetings and started a part-time job last week.

But last night he got me locked up and is planning a mass slander case against me.

My brain is all over the place.

Alice:

There will never be a high high enough to justify a low that resulted in a skull fracture.

What if he’d used just 3lbs more pressure that day? Or even 1?

Me:

My brain is going ‘Oh, maybe you got the skull fracture from XYZ thing instead of Timmy,’ even though I know that’s not the case.

Alice:

You didn’t.

He’s a violent person with good moments.

And you loved him. Love has incredible blinders.

She’s right.

Me:

It’s actually helping me that I can see his location on my phone.

Because I can see how he’s behaving while I’m not there.

Last evening, he was with the drug people and then he went home. He’s already back with them.

I guess he must have quit or lost his job after 1 week.

And seeing that he normally doesn’t get out of bed before 11AM when he’s not working makes me see there’s some massive problem with him.

He’s supposed to work 8AM-12PM M-F, and that’s the only time I’ve seen him up before 9AM.

And here he is with the drug people before 9AM when I’m not there.

Wow.

Alice:

Yeah, he’s not a smart dude who’s on a path to anywhere except self-destruction.

By the end of the hotel stay, I’m at a crossroads.

I see him for who he is—a ‘man’ spiraling out of control.

A ‘man’ determined to drag me down with him.

It’s time to make a choice.