Chapter 6 Margeaux
MARGEAUX
My phone vibrates off the nightstand and onto the floor. The buzzing thunders through my room and causes my hangover to kick in painfully. Angry drinking a bottle of wine when I got back to the rental last night was not my smartest decision.
Uggghhhh.
I shove my head under my pillow, willing whoever is calling me to give up.
I’m not that lucky. My phone continues buzzing and thumping against the floor for another five minutes before I muster up the energy to pick up my phone.
The time shows that it’s barely six in the morning.
Who the fuck is the asshole calling me this early? And on a Sunday?!
“Yea!?” I groan into my phone.
“Wake the fuck up, Marg! What the fuck did you do last night?” Ashleigh’s panicked voice blares through the phone and my head pounds even more.
“Ugh. Calm down. Quiet please. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t do anything last night,” I say, trying to stay half-asleep so I can pass out as soon as I get her off the phone.
“Don’t bullshit me! You’re tagged in a bunch of stories on social media, and I’ve already been contacted by a news channel from Paramount. Did you really attack the son of one of the most affluent lawyers in that city?!” she barks.
I snap awake, sitting up, not caring that I’m butt naked, with drool dripping down my chin. “What?! I did not!”
“Well, there’s a picture of you on social media with him in a headlock and your other arm is aimed at his face. Margeaux! What. The. Fuck?!”
Shit. Shit. Shit. No. No. No.
I put Ashleigh on speaker and open my social media apps. Sure enough, my face is all over the place. A picture is worth a thousand words, and right now there are several showing me beating up this preppy asshole.
“Ashleigh, I swear. I was just pulling him off a woman who he was getting too handsy with. I wouldn’t just pick a fight like that. Come on,” I whine into the speaker.
“Yea. Well, it’s going to take me a few days to smooth this over.
Margeaux, this guy’s dad is a serious lawyer.
They’re probably going to press charges.
Shit. Your match director is calling me.
Just lay low the next couple of days. Don’t reach out to this guy.
Don’t do anything stupid! I’ll get back to you soon. ”
She hangs up before I can say anything else. Fuck, my match director is calling her now. Is this going to ruin my season with PEW? Will they take me off the roster? What the fuck is going to happen? Why couldn’t I just control my anger for once?!
My life is effectively over.
Ashleigh called me to let me know the damage my actions caused last night.
I’m off the roster for the next two weeks.
No scheduled matches. Nothing. My attorney also called me to let me know that Brice Strickland– or as I’m now calling him Brice Doucheland—is pressing charges against me for assault.
I barely touched him! And how many people do I have to explain to that he was trying to assault one of Zoey’s friends.
Oh yea. And I’ve been asked to leave the bachelorette rental.
No complaints there. So, now I’m shacked up in the cheapest hotel I can find in this city, which is still costing me a small fortune.
I may be a minor celebrity, but new athletes in the PEW don’t make nearly as much money as the established long-term contract holders. This is such bullshit.
To add salt to my wounds, Jacky called me, absolutely puzzled about what happened this weekend. I’m not going to shit-talk his future wife, but it seems like she had no problem doing that about me.
Apparently, Zoey said that I was rude to her and her friends all weekend. That I ruined her bachelorette weekend, and that she doesn’t feel comfortable with me at their wedding. She told my brother that I’m a safety risk at their fucking wedding.
“Jacky?! You can’t seriously believe her!” My eyes are stinging with tears as I talk to him, pacing my hotel room.
“What am I supposed to think, Mags?! There’re pictures of you all over the internet putting this Brice guy in a headlock, and he has other pictures showing he has two black eyes, and a busted lip. You fucked him up!”
“What. The. Fuck?! Yea, I put him in a headlock, but I didn’t punch him. I was just yanking him away from Zoey and her friends because he’s a fucking creep. If he’s bruised up and banged up, that’s not my doing!” I yell into my phone.
“Well, I dunno what to tell you, Mags. Mom is distraught over this, too. You know I love you. You’re my twin sister and my best friend. But Zoey’s about to be my wife. I love her, Mags. I thought this weekend would bring you two closer together. Did you even try?” he asks, frustrated and annoyed.
“So this is all my fault? Your girlfriend doesn’t like me and it’s all my fault?”
“My fiancé,” he corrects me. “And no, Mags. I don’t think this is all your fault. I-I’m just freaking out. I had hoped that you and Zoey would walk away from this weekend being closer friends.”
My heart breaks a little for my twin. He’s such an idealist. He inherited our mom’s dreams of having the perfect family and life. I can handle Zoey disliking me. I’m used to our mom being disappointed in me. But I’ll be crushed if mine and Jacky’s relationship is strained from this.
“Whatever. Believe whatever you want to believe, Jacky. Maybe it’s best if I don’t come to your stupid wedding.”
He gets quiet and he sniffles. Fuck. He’s always been comfortable expressing his emotions with me.
“That’s not what I want, Mags. You know if anyone has your back, it’s me. I’ll talk to Zoey. The wedding has her on edge. I think it would be great if you two could just talk one-on-one. Ya know? No distractions. She’s really a great person.”
He keeps saying these wonderful things about Zoey. I’ve yet to see it.
“I can hear you rolling your eyes,” he says.
“I can hear your know-it-all smile,” I snap back at him.
I feel marginally better after our call.
I didn’t agree to meet with Zoey. Everything is still too raw.
And frankly, I’m all out of olive branches right now.
The reality of my situation hits me, along with a fresh wave of hatred– for myself, for Zoey and her fucking Gally Gals, for Brice Doucheland, and especially for Paramount.
I ignore all my calls for the rest of the day, even from Jazz.
I just want to lock myself away and say ‘fuck you’ to the world.
After spending an entire day locked in my hotel room, and ordering room service, I wake up the next morning feeling like it’s safe for me to leave the hotel for a couple of hours.
I decided to go to a local gym to blow off some steam. Correction, I found the Mecca of gyms. This gym is a celebrity all its own. All the top athletes and movie stars train here when they vacation in Paramount.
Nothing is better for releasing some pent-up aggression like a good workout.
I walk through the Main Street area, avoiding the glares and scowls from the residents.
I guess the news has spread quickly, and nobody is happy to have me here.
I’m surprised people aren’t chasing me with torches and pitchforks.
I get to Frankie’s Gym at five thirty in the morning.
It’s quiet, like I’m entering a cathedral.
The images online don’t do this place justice.
It has three floors, and a lower level. The third floor is your standard cardio equipment- treadmills, ellipticals, stair climbers, rowing machines, different types of stationary bicycles, and ski ergs galore.
The second floor is an indoor track. The first floor is all free weights.
The walls are lined with mirrors so one can admire themselves.
The lower level has a fucking pool, and I guess an older, dusty weight room that nobody really uses.
The locker rooms are like a spa. The showers come equipped with body wash, shampoo and conditioner.
There are also saunas in each locker room, as well as a steam room, and a cold room.
Okay, maybe Paramount has one redeeming aspect.
I’d come back here just to workout. Jazz would cream herself if she could see this place.
I decide to do a simple cardio session to warm-up. I may just spend the whole day here. It’s not like I can go anywhere around town. I’m a social pariah, and I promised Ashleigh I’d behave.
“I’m glad to see you’re okay after the other night,” a voice says from beside me.
I pull my earbuds out and sit up on the bike to see who the fuck is talking to me. I stare down at this shrimpy guy with wavy brown hair and a two-day old beard. He looks like a lost puppy.
“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. Just, uh.
Didn’t get a chance to ask how you were doing outside of the bar, and now I’m seeing you here.
Figured I should say hello.” This guy is a dork-and-a-half.
I vaguely remember him from the bar. He’s kinda cute, though, and seems like he means no harm.
I mean, I could throw him across the room if I wanted to.
I stay quiet. I’m not quite sure what to say and I can tell he’s about to nervous-ramble some more.
“I never hit anyone before. Well, I don’t know if tackling a guy counts as hitting someone. But something about seeing that guy say those awful things to you. I don’t know. I just…it wasn’t right what he did, or what he was saying about you.”
He’s not the type of guy I go for, normally.
He’s short. Like, I’m not even standing, and I’m pretty sure I have half a foot on him.
That’s nothing new. I’m taller than a lot of guys.
But he’s in decent shape. He’s wearing loose-fitting clothes, but he’s got broad shoulders, and trim arms. His nervous chatter is fucking adorable.
And he’s the first person to say anything kind to me in two days. I’ll take it.