It All Started With Hate

langley

That Maggie Norris was dead, though, and she wasn't coming back.

"Mags."

I was pulled from my head at my name. I blinked at her. "Crap...I'm sorry. What did you say?" My grandmother was waiting, a knowing smile curving her lips. One that I'd seen a million times over.

Dixie Reeves was a simple woman at first glance, but only those close to her knew of her younger life, one that I would've believe if it weren't the documentations. It was one full of forbidden romances, late night ventures, stolen motorcycles, and broken rules.

Whenever Jax or I were feeling down, she had always given us a story, one that was rarely the same as the last. Even though I'd never admit it, I secretly longed for another night full of her tales and photo books. Of her warm hugs and fresh snickerdoodle cookies.

But, that wasn't reality.

Reality was that she was dying, and she might take a piece of me with her to the grave when the day comes.

I sighed, my mind tightening at the thought. My grandmother noted it immediately, her eyes falling before she raised a hand to my cheek. I shut my eyes, leaning into her touch with a faint smile.

"My little sunshine. You shine so, so bright," she said, one thumb swiping at my jaw, softly. "Tell me you'll always remember that. That you're my magnificent, mouth of a sailor, sunshine." A small patch of laughter fell from my lips as I nodded. Even under the circumstances, her nickname for me still hit the same. It was quite the opposite of me, but she gave it, anyway.

We hadn't been introduced until the cops dropped Jax and I off at her doorstep, ten years ago. I wasn't even sure if she knew we existed until then, either. But, she could have fooled me. Granny took us in when she didn't have to, and in doing so, she tried to give us everything in return for the nothing we were given under our parents care.

I swept a black strand from her face, my hand falling on top of hers. I offered a smile. "Tell me a story," I suggested. "Go all the way to Europe this time. Those are always my favorite."

Her face perked up, causing my heart to stroke and hum at the sight. Everyone said that we looked alike more than her and her own daughter did. When I saw the photo books, I could see why.

My grandmother claimed that she had only cut her hair a total of three times within her sixty-five years. I wasn't sure of the time gap, but now, it was long and black, and peppered with grey strands all the way to the end of her back. Her face had gotten crinkled with age, and her cheeks had gone hollow from the cancer, but it didn't diminish her beauty. I had only seen her kohl-green eyes dim a few times, but other than that, they were always big and alert with whatever positivity she could find. If she couldn't find it, then she'd make it.

I, on the other hand, had the same jet black hair, but I cut it with a pair of rusty scissors during a mental break when I was twelve. I had given Jax and my grandmother a near heart attack, but as shocked as my grandmother was, she understood the reason behind it. She took me to the salon the next day then had it cut to my liking, and ever since then, I kept it that way.

Now, it grazed the very tips of my shoulder in waves. It fit well with my green eyes, my button nose that Jax loved to fucking boop, and my round face. My pale skin was clear besides the one tattoo along my arm, and on my thighs. Past all of the problems my mother had given me, she at least included a pretty nice ass, and tits.

I wasn't necessarily a model, but with a couple Jell-O shots, I felt drop-dead gorgeous. I'd never been comfortable in my own skin for personal reasons, but I'd learned that as long as other people didn't see it, then it didn't matter. That, and I truly didn't give a fuck what a stranger who probably had to kiss their own ass thought about me. They were an exclusion to the skin I was in, and there was nothing I could do if they didn't like it. Fuck em'.