Dangerous: A Marcel Styles Fan Fiction

22: Second Chance and Silver Cuffs

22: Second Chance and Silver Cuffs

   I’d uncovered a mine of complaints from Georgia Rose after the drama which occurred Monday after school. Marcel and I didn’t have to work, so we’d hung out with my blonde friend. It started out good, but ended chaotically.

   Georgia Rose was one to abide by the typical white girl stereotypes, and, therefore was (likely voluntarily) addicted to Starbucks. After work, we all made our way to the Starbucks in downtown LA to fill her cravings.

   We sat in the café, Georgia Rose sipping her iced coffee and giving me a sickeningly sweet grin which I returned with a scowl and Marcel with his leather-clad arm around me. Somehow at some point in time, Georgia Rose had managed to strike up an entire interview with Marcel about any topic the blonde could imagine; from how it felt to having blood ties to a celebrity to how he’d become so smart in the painfully boring subjects like algebra. At any time the former nerd did anything admittedly completely adorable – such as leaning over to kiss my cheek on more than one occasion – Georgia Rose’s grin would grow wider, and my scowl more menacing.

   It took a while before the real drama arose. We’d been there nearly an hour when Marcel’s musical laughs stopped dead in the midst of my blonde friend’s annoying giggles. His emerald gaze stared ahead, piercing the unmoving air like daggers. I followed the direction of their crisp path and even Georgia Rose turned her head. Up at the counter, indiscreetly speaking about the three of us – making the topic of their conversation obvious by constantly flickering their gazes toward our table – were two of Marcel’s mortal enemies, Lionel Phillips and, the head idiot himself, Kevin Heartwood.

   “Ignore them,” Georgia Rose said in a tone like song, returning her body to a non-contorted position and sucking up another mouthful of iced coffee through her straw.

   “They’re the definition of scum,” I added through a mutter.

   Georgia Rose and I relaxed, pretty much ignoring the fact the most moronic jocks were quite fascinated by seeing the most peculiar couple of the year out in public, but, I could tell as another conversation struck up between my friend and I Marcel wasn’t letting their presence leave his radar. I could feel the muscles on his arm tensing.

   Between Georgia Rose and me, the conversation had continued to thrive for the next few minutes. However, during this time, my mind was on Marcel. The hand on my shoulder had clenched into a fist and, during all my subtle glances, I never saw his eyes move away from Lionel and Kevin. The only time I saw some flicker of movement from his emerald orbs was when Lionel and Kevin had grabbed their coffee when they were called and proceeded to leave. Well, I had thought they were making their ways to the door.

   “Hey, guys!” Lionel sang out tauntingly as the two approached our table.

   “Piss off!” I said bluntly, quoting the words I’d said the last time he’d tried to make me angry.

   “Chill out, V, we’re not here for you,” Kevin said, glowering at me, “We get it, you only want to fuck losers.”

   Marcel wasn’t the only one who took offense to this.

   “So Georgia,” Kevin had purred, bringing a sly smile onto his face, “I’m still waiting on your answer.”

   “He asked you out!?” I demanded. My eyes were firmly locked with the blonde’s; however I could tell from a glaze of confusion she was just as clueless as I had been.

   “No,” she said. Her stare broke away from mine and she looked over her shoulder up at the jock whose grin still held. “But he’s about to be knocked out!”

   “C’mon, Georgia,” Kevin begged, “You know you want me.”

   “You’re a pig!” I stated to that prick’s smug face.

   Kevin’s grin fell as his eyes locked again with mine. “There are no more better options,” he spat, “You just want to fuck this piece of shit!”

   At the same time Marcel and I rose to her feet, drawing the eyes of the bystanders if they hadn’t been staring this way before. At my side, Marcel stood his ground in the battle stance I’d seen him in previous whenever he’d beaten these twits up. With my right mind still working and not blinded by rage, I had stepped around the table towards the jocks. “Don’t talk about him like that!” I nearly screamed, after all, even I could admit Marcel was better than what they made him out to be.

   “Lay off, bitch,” Kevin spat in my face. Like the bully he was, he attempted to shove me to make his point more clear. Though I barely stumbled, this had still been enough to inflict full rage upon Marcel and next I knew he was standing in between us, hands balled into fists.

   “Don’t fucking touch her!” he screamed in a deep growl.

   “Marcel –”

   “Shut the fuck up, whore!” Kevin yelled at me. When Marcel didn’t respond to this (however I let my jaw hang open) Kevin challenged his word, and implied promise of a threat. He had reached around the boy standing his ground between us and his fingers had just barely grazed my elbow when a hard blow to his cheek send him to the table the three of us had been sitting at, ultimately breaking it and arising a shriek from Georgia Rose.

   How Kevin hadn’t learned his lesson after his first beat down was completely a mystery to me. This time, however, things had gone different.

   Kevin pulled himself up from the rubble off the table and anyone near the quarrel had backed off, including Georgia Rose, Lionel and I. Like last time, most of the bruises were inflicted on Kevin and not Marcel, though Kevin did get, at the most, about three hits on Marcel, nowhere too painful.

   This, of course, let Kevin fight longer than he had the last time they’d fought, and he was still on his feet when it ended…when the cops showed up.

   “That’s one Starbucks I can never go to again,” Georgia Rose complained a few hours later when we sat, just the two of us, in her living room. When I refused to respond, still playing the chaotic scene over and over again in my head, she added, “V, it’s not that bad.”

   “They were putting him in handcuffs.” I spoke, meeting her sympathetic, hazel gaze, “He got arrested!”

   “Veronica, he’ll be okay,” she said, “He knows Harry Styles! He won’t be in jail for long.”

   One could only hope she was right.