Wax

Fifty Two

A.N: A long chapter to start off the new year with you Beans. Thank you for waiting; for being here; for staying. This was an enjoyable chapter to write and perhaps... because I took my time with it. What can I say? It is true. Distance does make the heart grow fonder. 

A very happy new year to everyone reading this. To many more years of searching, many more years of beautiful journeys, long and tough. Wishing you Beans a very happy new year.

Enjoy.

__________________

[Leroy]

Being on the receiving end of some harmless hate should be the norm; sometimes you just gotta accept that you're not everyone's cup of tea and you can't please the entire world. Unless those haters start throwing hands or going out of their way to spit verbal abuse. Stuff like that, I'd learned over the years we spent apart.

"Cox... why'd you do that?" "Fucking hell..."

Think about it. Every mind runs on fuel and that thing isn't going to last you a thousand years. Would you rather spend that fuel on some random dude with issues or people you actually care about?

"We had that in the bag." "You could've given that seabass to us first, man. Nothing wrong with helping out the other team while they're a man down but do that after fulfilling your own duties."

The choice is obvious.

Truth was, I hadn't the time or the energy to give a fuck about what they thought of me. There was no interrupting them to present my side of the story because their heads were balls-deep in anger and frustration. Verbally taking it out on someone was instant relief, tough to resist.

"Nah, Cox did himself a favor and it backfired." I heard someone say over my shoulder. They'd followed me out onto the deck as soon as Stan called for cut. "It's the over-confidence mate, you gotta do something about that." I'd checked out by this point and was looking around for my dog, ready to head upstairs and spend the rest of the day in a lounge chair.

"Wait." Pierson. "I don't think Leroy did that on purpose, there's really no reason for him to," he turned my way with one hand extended, blocking my way. "You owe us an explanation... at least. Please."

Something didn't sit right with me the way he put it and I could see my past self pushing back but the little genius on my shoulder advised otherwise and reminded me of the many ways I'd learned to fight my fires.

I turned, eyeing the rest of the team that was standing around, spread out on the deck with their arms folded. Staring.

"It was scripted." I laid out in simple terms. "Ask Stan."

Some of them exchanged a look and others remained quiet. Doubtful. I left the decision to believe what I just said up to them, unwilling to elaborate. The last thing I wanted was to have dug a hole of words with no way back up.

A production assistant came through to break up the silence by calling out a couple of names scheduled for confessional shoots. We dispersed soon after, heading off to separate rooms with nothing settled and questions still up in the air.

I wasn't a fan of being left alone with Pierson so I thought I'd head off to the upper deck to hang with my dog when a figure in a red apron waved from the doorway. Siegfried's sous chef.