Filed to story: Brace Face Betty Drama Story
“No, Dad. Jeez. I’m not that limber, and you know it.”
He huffs, giving me a scowl. “This is some kind of karmic kick in the ass because of all the shit me and your mom got up to when we were in high school, isn’t it?”
“I bet you weren’t asking Nona and Gramps for their permission.”
He laughs. “No, I was not, and neither was your mom. We were ninjas, Betty.
Ninjas. They never suspected a thing.”
“At least you’ll know exactly where I am,” I say, shrugging weakly. He wants to say no. He really wants to be the strict, firm dad, who wraps his daughter in cotton wool and triple bolts his front door at night, trying to keep the Big Bad World out for as long as he possibly can. Poor guy; he looks like he’s aged ten years in the last ten minutes. I’m honestly surprised when he sighs and throws up his hands.
“All right. All right, you can go.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes! But…Jesus, Betty. You know as well as I do, the picture you just painted of the guy doesn’t look good. If he starts getting handsy, if he starts acting pushy, if he so much as looks at you the wrong way or scares you, you call me immediately and I’ll be down at that trailer park in a heartbeat with a goddamn sledgehammer in my hand.”
He’s so serious, he means every word. His eyes have grown distant-I can tell that he’s imagining how that would play out, the drive over to Salton Ash, the weight of the weapon in his hands, how it would feel to swing it up over his head and break the knees of the boy who made me cry.
Little does he know, he’s already nine months too late for any of that.
It was a boy with a clean record, a winning smile and a glorious halo who broke me. Ironically, it’s the boy with the rap sheet, a body full of ink and the dangerous glint in his eye who’s putting me back together.
BETTY POV
I’ve driven by Salton Ash plenty of times, but I’ve never actually taken the exit and entered the trailer park’s grounds before. In seventeen years, this is the first time I’ve ever known anyone to live here, and I’m surprised by how well kept and pretty the grounds are. My nerves feel like they’re going to get the better of me as I drive slowly down the wide, paved road, scanning the numbers on the trailers, searching for the trailer that belongs to Marcus. Eventually, I see his motorcycle and know I’ve found the right place.
Unlike some of the other trailers, there are no potted flowers, plastic windmills or little gnomes sitting on the front steps in front of his trailer. The small grass patch to the right of the front door looks like it’s actually been mown, though, and the exterior looks clean and well-maintained, even in the dark.
There are lights on inside. I get out of the Nova, slamming the door behind me before I can heed the anxious voice in the back of my head that’s telling me this is a dumb idea and I should go home. I can barely stand still as I wait at the top of the steps, trying to gather the confidence required to knock on the door. The music inside dips suddenly, though, and I hear movement on the other side of the door.
Marcus’s voice-a little muffled, though perfectly audible-is a little teasing when he speaks. “Come on,
Argento. You’ve made it this far.”
“You’re seriously going to make me knock?”
“Only polite.”
“Jerk,” I groan. “Open the door.”
The door swings inward, revealing Marcus in a pair of black jeans and a plain black t-shirt. His dark hair is swept straight back, highlighting the shaved sides of his head. God, the longer, usually wavy strands are wet. He looks so, so unbelievably sexy. A fresh, clean smell hits me, stronger than ever, and I realize that he must have just gotten out of the shower.
I’m woefully unprepared to deal with this kind of shit. Next level ‘
Marcus-Moretti-is the-finest-fucking-thing-to-walk-the-face-of-the-earth’
shit. I’ve never been one to succumb to hormones or lose my head over a handsome guy, but with him standing in front of me now, the side of his face bathed in the warm glow coming from inside the trailer, I discover what it means to be rendered speechless by the mere sight of someone.
He smirks, mouth open a little, the tip of his tongue pressing against his front teeth, and my traitorous knees nearly go out. “Get your ass in here before one of my neighbors steals you,” he says, placing a hand on my hip, pulling me up the last step into the trailer.
I formed a pretty clear picture of what his place was going to be like on the way over here, but, stepping into his home, I learn just how wrong I was. The place doesn’t reek of dirty socks, for starters. It smells clean, just like him. The living room I’ve stepped into isn’t a bomb site, cluttered with clothes, empty take out cartons, and dirty dishes. There are no posters of half-naked women draped over motorcycles on the walls, either. A large sectional couch fits along the wall and into the far corner of the room, and on my left, there’s a shelf, stacked with row upon row of tatty, worn, well-read books.
The music I heard playing from outside is coming from a record player on a side table underneath the window, underneath which is a staggering amount of vinyl. The television isn’t as big as I would have thought. A collection of photos, framed and mounted beside it, take up most of the real estate on the largest wall. I’d prepared myself for a ratty, sticky carpet, riddled with cigarette burns, but there are polished hardwood floorboards beneath my feet instead-and they look like they’ve been freshly swept and cleaned.
“No need to look so surprised,” Marcus whispers into my ear. I didn’t even notice that he’d crept up so quietly behind me.
“I’m not surprised. I just, well…okay. All right. I’m surprised. But can you blame me? A guy’s parents go away for the weekend and the place ends up destroyed. You live on your own permanently. I figured your place would be…”