I shall show my location, Mere. :) It should be in my profile. xD And try this in the user page after you login: Publish - Doc Manager - Upload your chapter - New story (be sure to read the guidelines!)
Noo I mean your description is verry niiiice. And nooo, Pancake3298. She could have fainted when Miguel started stripping right there, just feet in front of her, or at the smash point. Imagine that. And don't feel bad for Rip! She's got something up her sleeves.
Chapter Seven
(Margo's POV)
When I wake, it's morning. A glance out the window proves I've just reached the dawn. I rise to my feet, only to sway and fall back down on my butt. That's when I see that I've been changed into a new pair of black jeans and a deep green button-up.
I look around. The bags that hold my clothes are on the bed, but the ones that hold my personal things are nowhere to be seen. Rip is on a chair, straddling its backrest, head on his arms, arms on the backrest. I comb my fingers through my hair, and I find my ponytail gone again, only to find it on the side table. I collect it, as well as the rest of the stuff that lies on the wooden table: my keys and my silver watch.
I move to the man sleeping on the chair, and run my fingers through his hair. He wakes, and I'm on my knees. I don't like how I'm lower than I expected I would be, but my muscles can only stand so much. I smile as I see his pale green eyes, and he only stares at me, searching my gaze. I sigh sadly, almost exasperated, and I just stand to head for the bathroom to do my morning routine. As I leave, he's still there, just looking at me quietly. I head for my bags to find a brown sweater and a handkerchief, but before I leave I do one last thing.
I kneel over to where Rip is, and my hand cups his cheek. As I speak I stare into his green eyes. "I love you," I murmur. "But I need to talk to other people, too." When he doesn't respond I stand, but his hand catches my wrist, and I stop in my tracks.
He stands, and slowly makes his way over to my front. I barely notice his outfit; he hasn't changed in, what, three days? His hands take mine, and we stand there, heads bowed, hands in each other's.
"I don't want you to be with Miguel today," he mumbles.
I don't have enough energy yet to be frustrated. I'm just aching right now, and that's just about all my mind can focus on: to stay standing. But I speak. "What's wrong with being with Miguel?" My voice is tired, and it fits: I'm tired of him telling me to back away from Miguel.
"I just don't want you to."
"That's not an excuse," I say bluntly.
"Either way," he shoots back as flatly.
This is pointless. I release his hands and, along with my sweater, I stalk out of the room, out of the Cozy Cone, and across the road. The door makes a gentle brushing sound and a few clicks as I open it, and there's no jingling of the little warning bell. There's no crowd, but there are a few people sitting alone in tables, reading the morning paper. No music rings in my hears. Good. I'm in no mood to listen to anything today.
As one of the waitresses settles me in a booth in the opposite corner, in a place where I won't be easily seen, she fetches a mug of coffee for me and comes back to find me slouched. She asks if she can get me anything else, but I shake my head tiredly. She leaves a paper on the table, and curiously I read it.
Choose.
I crumple it up in my hand. Stupid advice for me right now.
I mindlessly drink my coffee, not really willing to think about anything. I'm like a zombie: I'm exhausted of things haunting my soul, and in this case, Rip trying to hide me from the only entertainment there is aside from my computer. And, as if on cue, someone slips beside me gently. Out of the corner of my eye I see a gold against the deep red of the retro couch, and my mind registers a person whose voice hits my ears as he orders for coffee.
I lean on his shoulder quietly, and his presence seems to comfort me more than Rip's does. I relish it. His arm is around me, and I turn my head to smell his jacket. It smells like it's fresh from the washing machine, only it's weak, and I think of how many days it's been lying in that bag.
I close my eyes until I can focus. "I didn't mean to hurt him," I murmur.
"Neither did I," he agrees.
I nod, slow and lazy, as I bring the mug's rim to my lips. The coffee is so warm and good I breathe into the cup, because I don't want to set it down so soon.
"Shouldn't you be resting?" he asks. His tone is curious, but the question shows concern.
I shake my head. "I don't want to," I mumble as I set down the ceramic item. I scoot closer to him. He's just so warm, and the coffee can only heat so much.
I'm still so exhausted all I had been thinking about is the pain in my muscles and joints, and it causes my senses to generally blur, so someone has to catch my attention before I really focus. And what begs for my attention is the earlier situation in my room. But I don't care if Miguel is holding me in what I know are his strong arms, ones where I feel safe and secure, ones I know that can protect me.
A small voice asks, How come you don't feel this way around Rip?
I rack my brain for the answer, but I can't.
My mind then forms another question, Are you more attracted to Rip or Miguel?
The answer is simple: they're both tied. I love Rip and all that he is: sweet, sensitive, loving and a great kisser. I know he'll go through lengths for me, but how far would he got?
Miguel on the other hand, is downright outgoing and fun to be with, unlike Rip, who I have to be a little more careful with. I've got enough problems than to worry about myself around my boyfriend. And besides, I prefer someone to lead me, too, when I'm busy leading my own life.
But also, I want someone who can love me like crazy. Someone sweet and sensitive, just like Rip. Someone who can understand what I want. And I'm not sure Miguel is who I want.
I don't know how long I've dozed off on Miguel's shoulder, but when I come to, my right hand is claimed by his. I give a moan as I move my stiff limbs, and his arm is off. I stretch, bones cricking, and yawn. I glance at my watch. It's nine in the morning, and my mind comes to.
"Have they…?"
"No." he replies softly, green eyes soft.
I sigh in relief. "Can I wash my face?" I say as I feel sand in my eyes. He then helps me up as he leaves the couch.
As the cool water hits my face, I wake fully, and rub my face with my hands to get my blood flowing and my nerves going. I sigh. I now have to explain to Rip why I've disappeared for three whole hours.
I leave the restroom, quickly checking my belt, and head for the table I've been in since six in the morning. Miguel's there, waiting for me, and I sit down beside him.
"How do you feel?" he asks.
"Exhausted," I reply. "My body still sort of hurts. But I'm good to go, I guess…so long as I'm today's scorer." I grin.
He returns it at my attempt at humor. "The games aren't until three in the afternoon, though," he says. "What will you do until then?"
My grin fades as I rack my brain for things to do today, but my smile comes back as I have an idea. "I disappear."
We bring along two thermoses of coffee and two mugs to match, and head away to the forests of Tailfin Pass, somewhere near the edge of the cliff as a detour, but still in the leaf-bare trees for a little shade. We park somewhere, and lean on the hood of his Maserati GranTurismo cabriolet—otherwise known as the Maserati GranCabrio—splitting the first thermos of coffee between us.
"So, what's this feeling of being locked up got to do with you?" I ask bluntly as I remember what he said earlier.
"I don't know why Rip would keep you away from me; I'm is best friend," he told me.
"I don't know, and I don't care," I say. "I mean, I can't always be locked up."
"I know the feeling," he murmured.
But he knows what I'm talking about. "One of my old best friends was a girl. We were close, then she became overprotective." He shrugged. "I know, even if it seems like a smaller scale."
I not. A question is suddenly off my tongue. "ever have siblings?"
He doesn't look at me. "Older brother. Killed by a bull."
I press my head to his shoulder. "I'm sorry," I murmur.
His arm slides around my back, his hand resting on my waist. "You had no idea," he mumbled into my hair.
We sit there for a moment, both my hands on my mug as I examine it, and he sips his coffee, staring towards the distance. I took delight in the way his arm held me: it was stronger than Rip's grasp, yet as gentle and secure, and I hardly felt this way when Rip holds me. As I breathed, aside from my hair and the coffee and the soap I can smell the faint scent of…hold up, is that vanilla?
"Yeah," he murmurs, and I look up to see him smiling down at me. I hadn't realized I spoke out loud in my disbelief. "Like it?"
"Yeah," I say.
"Me too."
He's quiet for a while—well, we are—and I remember my mother telling me that vanilla is good only in the cold autumn, winter and early spring months.
"Do you really love Rip?" he asks suddenly.
I jerk my head in surprise. There's concern in his voice, and a hint of jealousy. But I speak from the heart. I trust him.
"I'm not sure," I say, and I can feel his eyes on me. "I'm an outgoing and somewhat carefree person at my best; you've seen that." As he nods, I continue. "You've also seen how mad Rip could get." I sigh softly. "I don't want someone who holds me back from the party or from socializing with other people, especially men.
"I want someone who knows I'm loyal to him, even when I'm at a party or when I'm having fun."
"Well, you are loyal to Rip; that much I've seen," he puts in.
"I am!" I exclaim in anger. "But he doesn't trust me to be with you, and it's demeaning." I sniff un consciously, and that's when I know I'm crying. I apologize immediately. "I'm sorry, I just—"
But he holds me close, rubbing my upper arm as I cry. He murmurs soothing words in my ear as my body shakes.
Rip is being so unfair. He goes off, attention diverted, and leaves me. What does he trust me to do? Nothing; just stay put until he comes back. And my love of playing with males is NOT helping.
My cries turn to pitiful sniffling, and he holds my mug while I blow my nose in my handkerchief. As I warm my cold hands around the cup he again holds me close, but the damage has been done, and my heart hurts with a pang.
"I'm sorry I took it up," he murmurs at last.
I heave a sad sigh. "We couldn't've known." I smile up at him, forest colors meeting, then I look away.
"What other things do you like?" he asks finally.
"Well," I start, racking my brain, "I love music. I play the guitar and the piano in my spare time. I love to write when inspiration hits. I prefer quality of sound in my headsets. I read a lot." I blink. I think that's it. "I don't know if I have any more, but I'll tell you when I remember," I say sheepishly, and he chuckles slightly. "Your turn."
"I love music, too, and play classical guitar," he starts. "I love having fun—then again, who doesn't?—and prefer outgoing people. I love my flag's colors, but you have a point on moods matching colors," he says, and I chuckle shyly. "I don't like snobs or any bitching around; it's a pure waste of my time." he glances at the sky in thought. "That's it, I guess."
I laugh gently, amused, as I snuggle against his warm side.
We share jokes, tell long-ago stories of adventure in the ring and with my cousin, remember things we like or don't like. We relate to modern-world issues like politics and celebrity situations. He tells me of things that has happened in the past, like his old best friend telling the other girls who like playing with him to back off, or how heartbroken he was when his first girlfriend broke up with him. I tell him some of mine, like when my mom and dad fought like cat and dog, or times when my longest crush would amuse me but later show he doesn't want me, or when I started with Rip. We don't have lunch; we haven't wasted much energy, and I didn't really feel like moving from that spot beside him. The sun wasn't as hot as it was in the Philippines, at least; it was a good twenty-plus degrees in the noontime sun, really, and he agrees.
It's two in the afternoon when we return. I'm laughing like crazy when we get back, because the wind is in my hair and the caffeine has gotten into my bloodstream. No one seems to be waiting for us when we arrive. Wrong answer.
I find Rip leaning against my 458 gently. And I know he's seen it all.
I get out of the car, looking to Miguel if I should get the thermoses, but he just nods his head in Rip's direction, and I go. I weave through the line of cars, and head for the man with pale green eyes, head down, expecting him to tell me off. I stand there like an errant girl in front of a parent.
"I thought you wren't going to hang with him," he growls.
"I didn't have any choice," I say softly. I want to scream at him, but what good would that do? My chest already hurts from laughing. "I had nothing to do."
"Your car?" he suggests bluntly.
"I'm still recovering, Rip." It's my turn to snarl. "I'm still hurting in places too much to do repairs.
"But of all people to talk to, you pick him," he puts in gently, but the fury in his voice is unmistakable.
"He's the only one free enough to talk to!" I exclaim, hushed.
"What about Marlene or Sally, or the twins?"
"You know as well as I do I'd never get a word in edgewise," I say.
"But they're better than Miguel."
The pain in my joints and his unreason ability are two things that fuel anger and resentment. "Why are you so against Miguel, anyway?" I shoot again, my own arms crossed over my chest.
He's taken aback. I can see it, and as I look into his eyes, I see jealousy. I soften, and my arms fall. I move forward, hands on his arms.
"Are you jealous?" I ask softly.
Surprise clouds his eyes, and he turns away. "No!" he says indignantly.
I grin. I've hit the mark. "Rip, it's alright to be jealous; you just have to tell me," I tell him gently.
His back is to me, and he shakes his head. I grin wider. He is jealous. I move forward, my arms around his waist, my face on his shoulder.
"You can tell me," I croon softly.
His head turns to me, and I flash my pretty brown puppy-dog eyes.
"No, not that again," he moans, looking away.
"Please?" I beg him mildly, and he looks at me.
He turns in my arms. "Alright," he says, finally, smiling slightly. "Maybe I am jealous."
I press my face to his chest. "You don't have to be," I murmur. He hoods me close, kissing my hair. "I love you," I say, looking up at him.
He's smiling down at me, returning my grin, and bends his head to kiss me.
A blast of emotions sends my nerves to hyperdrive, and I instantly press closer as I realize my hunger for…this. But he stops, much to my dismay, and reels me in for a hug. As my chin rests on his shoulder, I see Miguel.
He may be smiling, but there's no mistaking the sadness in his green eyes. He waves good-bye and turns to leave.
My head strains to catch his eye as he turns, but he doesn't see. I want to reach out to him, to tell him to stay, but how can I? Why should I?
I have Rip. But is it really necessary for me to think and act like he's the last man on earth, like he's my final decision?
I'm not sure about my answer yet, but I've the gut feeling I'll have to decide soon. Very soon.