Chapter 12 Maverick
maverick
. . .
Maggie
Check your social media, you’re trending, yet again. This time it’s about “your wife.” I’ll call you in a couple of hours.
Ican never catch a fucking break. I’ve been here for one day, ONE, and there’s already news circulating.
Lame.
Pocketing my phone, I turn my attention back to the concrete city, taking it all in before I head back to Tennessee and see what shit storm I’m met with next.
Los Angeles is an interesting place, to say the least. Sorry to the people who live here, but I physically can not.
It’s loud, scary, and definitely not Tennessee.
We walk side by side, along the sidewalk, off of Hill Street. Different shops pass my periphery.
Coffee shops line the street, their chalkboard signs and mismatched tables creating a cozy atmosphere, with the aroma of espresso and burnt caramel lingering in the air.
We walk past a crystal store with shelves full of shiny rocks and sage bundles I don’t understand, but Amelia stops, glancing at the different crystals in the windows before she continues walking.
We pass by this huge marketplace, bustling with Angelenos enjoying the savory food they have to offer. Every few feet, there’s something different.
The smell alone almost makes me stop in my tracks.
It’s a wall of scents—grilled carne asada leads with its smoky, rich aroma, followed by the sharp, pungent tang of vinegar from pickled items. Hot oil infuses the air as batter fries into golden, crunchy pieces, while somewhere deeper within the maze of stalls, warm, yeasty bread emits a sweet aroma, reminiscent of fresh from the oven.
Egg slut? Okayyyy, that’s different.
I shake my head, not listening to my stomach, and look down at the beautiful woman beside me.
Amelia’s in her element.
Black and white checkered crop top that slouches off her shoulder, black leggings, and combat boots that thud against the concrete with every step she takes. Her long, black hair is up in a skull claw clip today, with small pieces framing her petite face.
She’s quiet as she walks beside me, scrolling aimlessly through her appointment schedule on her phone. Rex, the gremlin, is nestled in a sling across her chest. Every so often, she glances up, sharp green eyes sweeping the sidewalk, watching traffic, and people.
“ZOMBIES ARE COMING!”
A man hurriedly runs past on the sidewalk, flailing his arms like a lunatic.
I jump like a little bitch.
Amelia doesn’t even blink as she scoffs and keeps walking.
I clear my throat. “That was, uh, aggressive.”
“Welcome to LA.”
I don’t know what makes me do it, maybe it’s the way this city makes me feel like a fucking fish out of water, but I reach for her hand, gently.
I thread my fingers between hers and hold, catching sight of the engagement ring Maggie picked out, sparkling in the sunlight.
She looks down at our hands like I just lit myself on fire.
She didn’t mind holding my hand the other day…
“For image, dollface,” I say with a smirk. “You held my hand last time.”
She looks up at me with a scowl that only makes my blood run hotter.
Her black claws press into the back of my hand with full malice, a perfect manicured threat.
Pain blooms, and I slightly flinch.
She doesn’t let go as she stomps beside me, looking cute as fuck, angry with Rex slung across her chest.
I laugh.
“I like pain, baby.”
She rolls her eyes and keeps walking, her hand still in mine, like she’s doing it to prove she can hurt me with elegance.
And maybe she can.
She hasn’t looked at me once since we got here.
I’m sitting on a worn black couch by the front, scrolling through my phone and half-watching her. Rex is curled up at the furthest end of the sofa in one of his silly hoodies with tiny green dinosaur spikes stitched down the back. He flicks his tail as he glares at me with his beady little eyes.
Scrolling aimlessly on my phone, I glance up to see a quirky woman with pink hair staring at me. As soon as we lock eyes, she starts talking quickly.
“I’m Mia,” she says, rocking back and forth on her heels. Her pink hair’s twisted into two loose buns, and a phone in her hand that she’s definitely not pretending to scroll through. “You’re actually Maverick Hayes, or is this a joke?”
I nod once. “That’s what my license says.”
“Oh my GOD. Can I have your autograph?”
I let out a short laugh. “Yeah, sure.”
Mia gasps suddenly, then quickly runs over to the front desk, opening the drawer. “Hold on, wait right there, don’t move!”
She pops back up with a crumpled receipt and a sparkly pink gel pen. “Will you sign this? Please?”
I blink, but take the pen, smirking at her. “Anything for my fans.”
She hands me the paper with both hands, eyes wide as she bounces up and down, squealing. I scrawl my name across the blank side, and before I can even hand it back, she’s already pulling out her phone.
“Selfie. Please. I swear I’ll die.”
I give her half a smile and lean in just enough. She snaps the picture, squeals, and rushes to the back with her phone in the air, yelling.
My eyes trail back toward the back again, and Amelia hasn’t flinched. Her tattoo gun keeps buzzing like nothing outside her station exists.
There’s something about how her tattoos move as she does. They’re fluid, confident, and sexy without trying.
Her lips are slightly parted, and the crease between her brows deepens as she works.
I’ve never seen anything more dangerously beautiful in my life.
I’m stuck on this couch, trying not to think about how soft her waist felt when I held her against me or how her eyes never truly lingered on me, not even once.
And how badly I want her to really look at me.
My phone buzzes violently against my thigh.
I blink and look down at the screen.
Maggie.
Great.
“Gonna take this outside,” I mutter.
Amelia doesn’t look up. “Okay.”
I slip out the front door into the heat, let it swing shut behind me, and press the phone to my ear.
“Mags.”
“You’re not trending for once, surprising.”
“Thanks, Mags, can I have a cookie?”
“Not so fast, she says, “your lovely wife is trending.”
I stare out, watching the bumper-to-bumper traffic. “Yeah. I figured.”
“The photos from Little Tokyo spread across all outlets instantly. They’re now calling her a tattooed nightmare.”
I don’t say anything.
“Some are calling her unstable. One article said you’re clearly acting out. They think she’s trouble wrapped in ink.”
I clench my jaw. “They don’t know her.”
“You think they care?” Maggie says, “They’re interested in how she looks. The tattoos, the attitude, and the fact that she didn’t smile.”
“She shouldn’t have to perform for them.”
“I agree,” she says, “but that’s not how this works. We need a neutral response. Something that makes this look intentional, not like you lost your mind and married a problem.”
“She’s not a problem,” I say, voice low.
Maggie exhales. “Maverick—”
“I knew they’d do this,” I cut in, “I knew the second those photos got out, they’d tear her apart. She went from mystery woman a couple of weeks ago to now a tattooed menace.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. Unfortunately, this is how the media goes. You, out of all people, should understand.”
I grimace at her jab, clutching my phone tighter. “I can handle the heat, Maggie. But they don’t get to make her a headline.”
Maggie pauses. “Maver—”
I hang up.
Walking back inside, I flop onto the red velvet couch I was sitting on earlier. Amelia is still working and didn’t even glance at me when I came back in.
Look at me, just once.
I wanna say centuries pass by, but since my phone call with Maggie, six hours have gone by, and I feel like I’m dying.
I’m sprawled on the studio couch for hours, suffering. My arm covers my forehead, as my legs dangle off the side.
Rex crouches at the far end of the cushion, tail flicking and eyes narrowed into little slits of judgment.
“This is abuse,” I groan, voice cutting through the hum of Amelia’s tattoo machine. “I’ve been starved. Forgotten. Left to rot while my wife plays Picasso with a needle. No food. No water. No love. Nothing.”
Amelia stays still, continuing her work and ignoring me.
I kick the couch arm hard enough to make Rex hiss. “Hours, Amelia! HOURS! Do you know what happens to a man after being without attention for so long? He crumbles. I’m basically a skeleton under this jersey.”
Her client snorts, shoulders shaking.
I spring upright, stabbing a finger in his direction, eyes wild. “You think this is funny? This is a man on his deathbed. Prisoners get yard time. Dogs get walked. I’ve been abandoned in broad daylight. A forgotten quarterback. A relic.”
Rex lets out a hiss.
I throw both my arms wide, addressing him directly. “Silence, demon cat. You thrive on my misery. I, however, need affection and snacks to survive.”
Amelia finally leans back from her client, snapping off her gloves with a sharp flick. Her glare pierces right through me. “Oh my God. I’m done. Fuck.”
The theatrics vanish in an instant. I sit up straight, a grin spreading across my face in feral triumph.
“You ready to go, dollface?” I ask, waggling my brows.
She glares at me, tugging the strap of her crossbody bag on her shoulder, her black gloves balled in one hand. “Yes, you fuck, let me say bye.”
Amelia turns back, tossing a casual “Later, losers,” to her coworkers.
I bite back a smirk.
We walk the few blocks in silence, the sun dipping low between buildings, staining the sky in sherbet streaks of pink and orange. Her apartment’s tucked above a little vintage bookshop with a dead neon sign.
The old wooden stairs creak when we climb them, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
I do, I notice everything.
“You hungry?” I ask once we’re inside.
Amelia kicks off her boots near the door and gives me a look like I’ve asked the dumbest question on the planet. “Starving.”
Without waiting, I pull out my phone from my pocket and open Instacart.
She watches me with narrowed eyes. “What are you doing?”