May [H.S]

14

Magnolia
•••

Au coin de la rue.

Rage burns the back of my throat, firing the rest of my body up with dangerous energy. I'm running off pure adrenaline, unable to catch my breath– my chest falls quickly. The denim jacket sitting over my shoulder's reeks of tobacco from the amount I've chain-smoked, embedded in the material, in my hair.

The soles of my converse thunder up the steel steps, and I don't think twice before I'm pushing the sturdy door open with all of my strength, anyone in my way knows to move– shooting me frazzled looks. I slick my hair up, walking past the array of desks to the secluded bit of the office. A shy greeting doesn't deter my pace, flicking my eyes past the person that speaks to me before I try for the knob. Pounding my fist against the hollow wooden door instantly as I see it's locked.

Grabbing the rest of the station's attention, this makes a scene. "Prescott!" I shout, continuing to bang on the surface. My irritation grows immense as the moments pass and I get no response, gritting my teeth together, I try at the knob again, "Open the fucking door!"

I don't flinch as it flies open and arms come out to pull me into the room, as the door slams behind me, I shove him off. His weary expression tells me all I need to know about what his motives are– he knows he'd get this reaction from me. He probably didn't think I'd show up at the station in the middle of the day to harass him about it.

"So, you just get into my pants and then decide to lock my mom up!" I throw my hands up, unable to contain how fucking upset I am. I don't even care to try and calm down, knowing I have every damn right to be acting this way. His eyes go wide, and he rushes to lock the door, urging me to shush.

"Lower your voice." He says between his teeth, running his hands frantically through his gelled hair.

"Fuck you," I growl in frustration, unknowingly pacing around the front of his desk. Prescott makes it a point to shy away from the dirty looks I'm giving him, trailing to behind his desk. He reaches for the cupboard bringing out some lavish bottle. Knowing Prescott, it's an expensive rum.

"How did you even get in here? There are barricades outside– the crowd." Speaking hauntingly calm, he pours one for me as well as himself, glancing down at the glass and pushing it my way. I physically contort my face in disgust, rolling my eyes at the fact he thought that would in any way help his case. Why don't we just go for another round of largely lacking sex for shits and giggles then see how I feel afterward? Fucking dick.

"The whole of Oregon knows my face– I have my ways, honey." I fold my arms tighter against my chest, hoping it somewhat relives my fiery desire to backhand him in the damn mouth. His obvious advances to quiet me down like some barking dog enrages me further. I will admit, it wasn't easy getting past the tons of protesters outside the station– reckon it wasn't just me that was outraged by the news. Just not for the same reason.

"Why the fuck did you keep this from me?" I raise my voice coldly, surely it wasn't enough before if he didn't take the hint. I'm not in the mood to have a drink with him, to hash this out– it all would've been different if he told me beforehand. Instead, I found out about it in the middle of a diner way too early this morning.

"What reaction would I have gotten if I told you sooner?" He throws out, bringing the rim of the glass up to his lips. I narrow my eyes, registering his sweaty complexion, "So you knew?"

Prescott loosens the edge of his collar, parting from my eyes, he answers my question alone with the glint in them. Tossing aside the mangled tie that once was around his neck, he ignores my words. Not even pretending he's lost in his own world.