Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

110. Derby Distraction

CHAPTER 110

DERBY DISTRACTION

MARGAUX

I ’ve started roller derby boot camp. It’s exhilarating, terrifying, and humbling all at once. My confidence on skates is shaky at best, and being surrounded by fierce, fearless women with names like Slaydie Gaga, Smashley Madison and Blitzkrieg Barbie doesn’t make it any easier. Still, something about it calls to me—a sense of belonging outside of Timmy that I desperately crave.

Timmy surprises me by being incredibly supportive. He insists on coming to practice, making a show of being my biggest cheerleader. There’s something about his insistence on accompanying me that seems off, but it’s not that unusual for team members to bring their kids or significant others, so I let it slide.

While I waver through drills, he roams the periphery, crouching in the bushes and enthusiastically hunting Jackson chameleons. His childlike excitement is endearing, even if it garners a few raised eyebrows.

One day, Timmy announces he wants to skate with me. “I can’t just sit on the sidelines forever,” he says, flashing his signature grin. But, of course, this means he needs skates—real skates. And not just any skates will do.

“They have to be roller derby quality,” he insists, dismissing my suggestion of a budget pair. He’s meticulous about the details, choosing a sleek helmet in bold colors and top-tier pads. By the end of the shopping spree, I’m wincing at the bill, but trying to stay optimistic. At least it’s something we can do as a workout together, and it sounds like it could be fun.

When he finds us a skate park near a schoolyard, it feels like a tiny slice of magic. The concrete rink stretches wide under the blue sky, and the smooth ramps glint invitingly in the sun.

Timmy skates beside me, encouraging me with an enthusiasm I haven’t seen in a while. He takes time-lapse videos of me circling the track, and claps for me when I manage a trick without falling.

“You’re getting so much better,” he says, his eyes shining. “Look how fast you are now. And your balance has improved, too.”

At first, his praise keeps me going. But boot camp is a different story. The relentless drills under a blistering sun, combined with my clumsy attempts to keep up, drain my spirit. I’m so worn down by Timmy’s constant belittling of everything I do, that every practice feels like a public display of my inadequacies, and an extension of what’s going on at home behind closed doors.

Worse, the structured schedule triggers a deeper unease within me. Timmy thrives in chaos, but I’ve come to dread anything predictable—anything that gives him an opportunity to implode. Each practice becomes another source of anxiety, a ticking time bomb waiting for his antics.

One day, I just can’t bring myself to go back.

“I’ll still skate with Timmy,” I tell myself, clinging to the idea of skating as an escape, a reprieve. But as soon as I quit boot camp, Timmy’s interest in skating vanishes. The skates, the gear—everything I’d bought for him gathers dust. He shrugs off my invitations with vague excuses: ‘Not today,’ or, ‘Maybe another time.’

It stings more than I’d like to admit. He’s already the surfer who doesn’t surf, and now he’s the skater who doesn’t skate.

I cling to the hope that it’s just a phase.

Until then, I have the apartment complex’s pool.

Swimming becomes my solace—one thing he hasn’t yet managed to ruin.

The harsh glow of my laptop illuminates my face as I click on a new review notification for my latest book. Excitement churns in my stomach. A video review—what could be better?

The first words hit like a slap as an ARC reader grins at the screen. “I reeeeeally wanted to like it… believe me, I did. I dropped everything else on my Tbr to read it. But I really wish I hadn’t…”

I listen for a while longer, and my heart sinks. Except for one mention so brief you could blink and miss it, the reviewer isn’t critiquing the plot, characters, or writing. Instead, they fixate on a minor publishing guideline, twisting it into a reason to dismiss my work entirely.

I look at the comments on the post, which has gone fairly viral, and my heart sinks further. Readers and, disappointingly, a bunch of pick-me authors, have jumped on board, making ill-informed comments and slandering me and my business ethics.

Timmy notices my mood shift instantly. “What’s up?” he asks, setting aside his phone.

I sigh, gesturing at the screen. “Someone’s decided to make a whole video trashing my book. Not even the story—just some random technicality they’ve blown out of proportion. Something that I learned from more seasoned writers who pitched is as industry standard, and this person is attacking me and acting like I made it up myself.”

His face hardens. “Fuck them. They’re just jealous. You’re an incredible writer, and they can’t stand it. You’re beautiful and successful, and they’re a sad bitch.”

His confidence in me is almost disorienting. His pride feels genuine, a rare moment of us being on the same team. “I believe in you and your writing,” he adds, wrapping me in a hug. “You’re so talented. They wish they were you, but they’re not.”

I smile, feeling like we’re part of a team. Glad to have Timmy by my side in this moment of disappointment and uncertainty.

“I’m in love with a pornographer,” he sings, breaking the tension with a laugh. It’s one of his quirks—an odd but endearing way of lightening the mood.

I can’t help but laugh along.

For now, his unwavering support feels like a balm, a brief reprieve from the storm.

July arrives with the rush of another book release, and I throw myself into preparing PR boxes. The contents are meticulously curated—themed trinkets, true-to-story graphics on cardstock, some of which Timmy helped me to design, and signed copies of the book.

Timmy surprises me by setting up phones around the living room.

“What are you doing?” I ask, watching him dart from phone to phone.

“Making a time-lapse video of you assembling the boxes,” he says with a proud smile. “I figure you can use it for marketing.”

It’s such a small gesture, yet it floors me. His creativity, his attention to detail—it feels like love distilled into action.

My eyes sting as I watch him wrap the completed boxes in black plastic, sealing each with precision.

For a moment, life feels almost perfect. Despite the chaos, despite the missteps, there are these fleeting moments of clarity where everything aligns.

And I wonder: How did things turn around so fast? And how did they get this good?

A FEW DAYS LATER

Timmy leans against the kitchen counter, his face lit with an unusual energy. “Please, please, can you order me some hats? I’ll work on them full-time and make us some money.”

Timmy is hellbent on starting his hat business, and of course that means he needs actual hats.

It’s a plea I’ve heard before, but this time, he has numbers. He shows me calculations, spreadsheets he’s cobbled together, projections of profits. On paper, it looks promising. I can almost see the vision he’s painting—Timmy, focused and productive, creating custom hats, filling orders, and bringing in income.

Against my better judgment, I place the order. Not because I don’t believe in the idea, but because I don’t entirely believe in him .

The investment feels nauseating—several thousand dollars drained from my savings for hat presses, materials, and custom patches. Each click of ‘add to cart’ feels like a gamble, a bet on someone who’s let me down too many times.

The hats arrive, and—at first—there’s movement. He tinkers with designs, experiments with vinyl and leather patches. But soon, the momentum fades.

Days go by, then weeks, and the hats sit, untouched, stacked in boxes like relics of a dream deferred.

“I need the custom patches to get here,” he explains, when I ask why he isn’t trying to sell them.

When the patches arrive, the excuse changes. “I need to wait for the right time to launch.”

I try reasoning with him. “You have simpler designs ready to go. You could start selling those while you wait.”

But there’s always something—a sore stomach, bad weather, a fight he claims stifled his creativity.

One day, I bring up the concept of executive function, desperate to break through.

“Timmy, adults all over the world get out of bed and go to work every day, even when they hate it. You have the tools, the time, and the opportunity to pursue your dream job, and yet you sleep in and make excuses day after day. Does that seem fair?”

He scowls. “Everything’s about money to you, isn’t it?” His face shifts from guilt to indignation. “Well, remember, you made me lose my last job. I was providing money before this.”

I’m stunned. “Timmy, this isn’t just about money. And your part-time job wasn’t exactly full-time support. This is about effort, about following through. Do you understand how that makes me feel—when I’ve spent my life savings providing you with your dream—and your behavior is taking me away from my own dreams that I’ve worked so hard for?”

“I’m sorry,” he frowns and sighs. “I’ll do better.” Then his eyes narrow as he identifies another opportunity to retaliate against me. “Well, now you’ve upset me. So I’m not working today.”

He slams his laptop shut, his punishment for my audacity to set expectations.