Closing Arguments

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Iggy's POV

My sheets scratched at my skin and the sweat leaked in angst, making the bed feel caging at best. I'd only managed to sleep thanks to my tipsy antics and sleep was a kind term for the tossed salad of night's rest. Drawing a palm against my face I groaned again once the conversation flowed back into my memory; that atrocious sleep didn't feel too bad in comparison.

Fighting with Harper was the very last thing on my list of to-dos last night. Surprisingly below smacking that motherfucker of a mayhem-maker Hunter. Minus the 8pm elation, last night had been an absolute disaster. And now as I took in my familiar surroundings with glassy eyes that tinged my view grey, I felt less at home than ever before.

Although my long-term encounters before Harper had been fleeting at best, I couldn't fathom how she could take in my acts of adoration as a claim. The word soiled my memories. So primitive as if a caveman bore ownership to anything he saw on his idle strolls and I hated the word associated to my name. Not even my name of comfort, Ig. No, my last name as if we knew nothing of each other. When had it been my way, she's all I'd ever know. I'd studied Harper as best I could without frightening her away, actually shit. I'd done just that. And managed to spill blood in the process no less.

I felt like utter shit about it all. The scuffle with that menace. Harper's injured hand. The kiss, if it was in fact unwanted. Which in spite of her weaponised discontent, felt posthumous. A post-mortem assessment after things escalated beyond our control. A mix of regret and confusion filled my head as I attempted to sit up, greeted instead with a wave of dizziness that rocked my body sideways. The gravity impacting my toe against the corner of my desk in the process. A screeching pain pinged from my big toe to the top of my alcohol-addled brain.

"Ah fuck!" I groaned for my own relief, though I could hear smoothies being made downstairs and low voices. Otherwise, I was distinctly alone.

Traipsing downstairs half dressed and no less irritated I was greeted by a clusterfuck of protein shakes and otherwise low lift breakfasts. Preston and James passing their supplies between Nutribullets with a joy I couldn't match today. When they spotted me a the foot of the stairs their playful energy ceased.

"No, none of that silent treatment bullshit. I feel awful as it is. Roast away, it's the only thing that can help at this point." I huffed heading to the sink for a much needed refill of hydration.

The boys look knowingly at each other before not saying a thing. I raised an eyebrow in additional approval, without this I knew we were really in trouble. Or rather, I'd fucked things up with Harper beyond repair.

"Come on, we don't have any good material to work with. Your girl almost got glassed and then somehow you end up here solo. That's two strikes." James chewed matter-of-factly, insultingly by accident.

"That's my guy." I retorted before turning to the fridge for fuel I could stomach. A white good I encountered far too often to have it be this sentimental. I pictured Harper and I's first exchange for a brief moment and recoiled at my handling of it. Couldn't really blame her for being reluctant to enjoy my company, a foundation of distrust from an ex and my jerk-ery were unlikely to inspire her out of her self-imposed benching.

"Are you daydreaming about Harper right now? You have it so bad - woooow." Preston snapped his fingers in front of my eyes as I stood guiltily staring into the open fridge as if it were the abyss. Reaching for a banana and gulping it down with a nod earned me a double feature of wide eyes.