Chapter Fifteen
Fifteen
Margot
We stay in the truck, not cuddling, but not not cuddling, until a producer texts Caine to say he’s needed inside.
As soon as we cross the threshold to the club, Caine morphs back into a serious, brooding creature.
I don’t know what it says about me that I like this version as much as the iteration that does morning affirmations with Gremlin.
While Caine goes off with the production team, I join Riley at the bar.
We decide to try the drink of the night.
I don’t catch its name, but it’s a fluorescent blue slushy that tastes like one of those frozen ice pops in the long plastic tubes.
Parking ourselves at a tall table along the wall, we sip and costume watch, trying to guess who will win.
In addition to the costume challenge for Love I don’t say anything to correct that assumption.
I also don’t say For one parking-lot orgasm when she asks how long we’ve been together, though I consider it.
Riley points out which costumes belong to the contestants.
She hasn’t decided who she’s voting for yet.
I shamelessly try to sway her toward a woman in a glitter-covered dragonfly costume, complete with sheer, sparkling wings that bop people as she moves through the club.
Before too long, we’re joined by a handful of Riley’s friends.
After a few stories of antics from their season, I excuse myself to use the restroom.
Threading through the crowd is a chore, but eventually I squirm my way to the hallway.
I think I may be tipsy. Lovely. I am not a fun drunk.
I am a badger-ish, fall-asleep-in-a-corner, wake-up-with-dry-mouth-and-realize-I-only-removed-one-eye’s-worth-of-eye-makeup drunk.
At least the path to the restroom looks much more promising from here.
Thank goodness. I’m ready for a moment of relative peace and quiet.
I don’t get my moment. A red Teletubby and a yellow Teletubby are arguing in front of the sinks when I walk in. The experience doesn’t improve from there. My shoes stick to the floor with each step, and once I’m in the only stall with toilet paper, I discover the lock is broken.
After peeing while holding the door closed with one foot, I open the stall to find the Teletubbies apologizing to each other.
It’s a touching moment, a ray of optimism piercing the grouchiness cloud that has fully descended upon me.
I head for the sink farthest away so I don’t intrude.
Water geysers out of the faucet, ricocheting off the sink.
Before I can react, my stomach and upper thighs are soaked.
Seriously?
Red Teletubby turns to me. “That sink’s fucked. Hand dryers are broken too.”
“Yeah. I learned the hard way.” I gesture at my soggy midsection.
Yellow Teletubby winces. “It got you good. We might have tissues.”
She motions for her friend, who is wearing a small floral backpack, to spin. Red is now on her phone and misses the cue.
“Really?” Yellow snaps.
Red looks up, antenna bobbing. “What’s your problem?”
The prospect of the Tubbies fighting on my account is unacceptable.
“I’m good—thanks, though!” Running before I cause another argument, I wipe my hands on my jeans on my way back down the hall.
Plunging back into the fray is unappealing, but maybe I can find a private-ish corner to sit in until Caine’s done.
I’ll grab a water and hunker down somewhere I won’t kill the mood.
Caine
This place is packed, and the costumes severely limit visibility.
I texted Margot that I’m done and waiting near the stairs, but she hasn’t responded.
I survey the crowd, but don’t see her. Unfortunately, I do see Colson, the winner of season five.
He’s into body building, and one would think that picking things up all day would wear a guy out, or at least give him enough endorphins to not be a prick, but that is not the case for Colson.
Wearing only jeans, boots, and fake blood splatter, I’m sure he’d name some villain if I asked who he’s supposed to be.
Patrick Bateman, probably. Colson has a frat-boy-turned-finance-bro look naturally, so it would work.
Truthfully, I’m annoyed at myself for not thinking of the shirtless route.
Margot checks out my forearms when she thinks I’m not looking, so ditching my shirt entirely could have been an excellent seduction strategy.
Lifting his chin in an arrogant greeting, Colson makes his way toward me.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
I like him about as much as restaurant owners like mice.
He’s one of those guys who always has to have the last word and is convinced he’s smarter, more talented, and more creative than everybody else, regardless of his company.
But despite all those wonderful qualities, it’s the chip on his shoulder and readiness to turn everything into a fight that aggravate me most. Every time I’m around him, there’s a bitter taste in the back of my throat and a little voice in my ear whispering, This was you.
Deep down inside, maybe this is still you.
I tense simply being in close proximity to him, waiting for a fight.
Some eternally toxic part of me wants him to do something dick-ish that justifies letting my demons out to play.
Nope.
Mature. Be mature.
Schooling my face, I mentally prepare for him to say something passive-aggressive or maybe even blatantly aggressive, to tempt me to lose my temper. Colson reaches me and after we’ve exchanged the usual greetings, says, “Did you hear they’re doing a championship season? Winners only.”
I nod. A producer called a month ago, but I turned it down.
Participating in events here and there is one thing, filming another season is a hard no.
I have a few clients with large pieces in progress who I’ll continue to tattoo while running the Abattoir year-round, but beyond that, I’m looking forward to focusing all my creative energy on the haunt.
“Yeah, I heard. Sitting this one out.”
“Figured,” he sneers. “You couldn’t hang anyway. Everybody knows you wouldn’t have won any season other than the first.”
“Okay.” It’s easier than I expected to stay neutral; I’m preoccupied looking for Margot. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I check to see if she’s responded. Nothing.
Colson steps closer, and irritation flares.
It’s always proximity that gets me. I can listen to someone run their mouth for hours, but having them invade my space sets me off.
Takes me from this guy is moderately annoying to I’m about to make this guy swallow his teeth.
That crawling sensation creeps beneath my skin, like fire ants marching through my veins.
Stay relaxed.
My body can’t. I know I could walk away.
I know I could probably defuse the situation.
But when someone gets in my face like this, I don’t want to.
I want to be my father’s son, use the only useful thing Joel ever taught me: how to lay someone’s ass out.
Relaxing my shoulders takes effort, but I force it.
“You’re a lot of things, Underwood, but I didn’t think you were a coward. Worried your fans will finally realize you’re a hack?”
I barely register his words. They don’t matter. I’m focused on how badly I want to shove him. I can’t bring myself to step away.
“Back. Up.” Leaning in, I make it clear I’m not conceding an inch. The devil on my shoulder prods me and I can’t resist adding, “Unless you want a selfie, in which case I’m always happy to oblige a fan.”
While I have practice letting trash-talking go, Colson must not. “Fuck you,” he spits, stepping even closer.
Back up, just back up like a normal person.
I’m physically incapable. As much work as I do on my brain, my body’s governed by old laws.
Don’t give an inch. Showing weakness makes him meaner.
That I’m dealing with Colson and not Joel is an afterthought.
I have a vague awareness that I’m gripping my phone too tightly, but it’s that or Colson’s throat.
Logic vanishes, something darker and angrier breaching the surface.
Colson sees it. Tension ripples through the people around us, a few stepping back.
I’m aware of it in a vague, underwater sort of way, but I don’t care.
We’ve gone from on edge to out for blood; it’s just a matter of who makes—
“First the Teletubbies, now this?” Margot’s voice wraps around me the same time her perfume does. Both are oddly soothing, though her tone is aggravated and I have no idea why we’re talking about Teletubbies. Colson is thrown off too, the tension between us transforming into confusion.
She’s holding a drink but loops her free arm around my neck in a hug, wedging herself between Colson and me like he isn’t even there.
That makes me move back, angling my body to the side to keep her as far from him as possible.
All thoughts of violence have dissipated because Margot is hugging me.
Not just hugging me, snuggling against me in a cozy, couple-y embrace that has me ready to drag her back out to the truck.
As much as I’m enjoying it, this is out of character to the point where I’m concerned.
Did she fall? I inspect her as best I can, but don’t see any visible signs of head trauma.
She is wet, though, the bottom half of her tank top practically dripping.
Continuing to ignore Colson, she shifts on her toes to murmur in my ear, “You’re being filmed. Sexy haunted doll at your four o’clock.”
Slowly, I turn my head to the left.
“Other way,” Margot whispers.
Oh.
I change directions and see who she’s talking about, though sexy seems like overselling it.
A woman in a fluffy burgundy dress is filming us on her cell phone.
She’s painted a jagged crack down her face, neck, and chest as if she were dropped.
It’s well done, but my focus is on the phone in her hands.
It’s aimed straight at us, and I’d bet my life it’s recording.
“It is,” Margot whispers before I can ask. “I peeked. She’s with him.”
I’m not surprised Colson’s up to something, but I am surprised I didn’t catch it. That said, I haven’t been able to think about anything but Margot.
The woman realizes I’m looking at her and jerks the phone down.
The blush that spreads across her cheeks ironically makes her look even more like a porcelain doll.
Turning fast, she scurries away, the crowd swallowing her up.
Margot untangles from me, and I reluctantly release her.
Taking a slow sip, she stares down Colson.
“You’re a fucking walnut.” She delivers the insult with a shocking amount of venom. “Scram.”
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t fucking walnut or scram. Coughing a laugh, I wrap an arm around her. Colson’s totally off-kilter, looking stunned. Can’t blame him; being called a fucking walnut by someone’s girlfriend would probably throw me off too.
Girlfriend may be getting a little ahead of myself, but Margot did keep me from ending up in a grainy video all over social media, which definitely feels like girlfriend behavior.
“I think we’re done here,” I say cheerfully.
Muttering something under his breath that sounds like motherfucker, he spins and heads in the same direction as the woman.
Margot sips her water, attention already pulled to where contestants are beginning to gather for judging.
One last hurdle and then we’re out of here.
As we head that way, I try to put my arm around her shoulders again, but she shakes it off.
“I’m not a cuddly drunk,” she informs me.
“Got it.” I eyeball her wet shirt. “So, what happened? Looking a little damp there.”
Margot sighs. “The Teletubbies didn’t warn me. The sink—look at the dragonfly.” She cuts herself off, pointing at an objectively impressive dragonfly costume. “Tell me that isn’t the best thing you’ve ever seen.”
“Easily the best thing I’ve ever seen,” I agree, my gaze locked on her.