𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐲: "𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞; 𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐨𝐫."
NEW YORK, 1967
It's 1967 and Margot Murdock's life is falling apart. I...
Well, Rhonda you caught my eye And I can give you lotsa reasons why You gotta help me Rhonda Help me get her out of my heart The Beach Boys, "Help Me, Rhonda"
NELSON & MURDOCK
HELL'S KITCHEN
June 2, 1967
"How hard is the job, Matt? Be honest," I ask as we walk toward the office. "Is Barnes insane? I heard he was insane."
"From who?" Foggy laughs. "You're making up stories again, Margie."
"Call me Margie again and I'll shove this bagel up your piss hole, Nelson," I snarl.
He's been calling me that since we were kids and I beat the shit out of him every time.
"Jesus, Margot!" Matt coughs and spits out his coffee while Foggy flips me the bird. I aggressively chew up my bagel and stick my tongue out. He hates this.
"Where did you learn to talk like that?!" Foggy asks, disgusted.
"California. It's like you guys don't know anything about me.
I shiver, even though it's fucking June. It's still cold as hell, and today, it's raining.
I hate New York. It's loud, gray, and mean. I miss the sunshine, and the cute boys who would wander around Muscle Beach without shirts on.
I saw Jim Morrison once, in '65, he was tailing after some redhead. I could have been that redhead.
Instead I got stuck with Steve Rogers.
Although, I guess I should be thankful that I didn't wind up with a poet with a drinking problem and a drug habit that could bankrupt us both.
I'm bitter, missing the sun. Summers in New York are supposed to be hot, but I'm not seeing it. I had to pull out my wool trench coat today. Steve got it for me as a birthday gift. It's Chanel, and it might be the best thing I own.
I decided to put extra effort into my appearance this morning, wanting to look good for my new boss. My hair is bouncy, trailing behind me in big, loose waves, and it's fucking immaculate. I spent more time on it than anything else. For clothes, I opted for a bright red blouse and a tight black skirt that hits my knees, paired with patent leather kitten heels. James is going to lose his mind when he sees me.
"Anyway, Barnes expects 100% accuracy with typing," Foggy informs me. "Especially when it comes to his opening and closing arguments, and any notes you'll need to take when you fact check."
