Chapter 8
Robert
This is bad. This is very, very bad.
Rhiannon’s energy has shifted in the last couple of minutes.
She’s gone from furtive, flirty glances with adorably pink cheeks, to a bright red face, hard eyes, and that “What the fuck?” she just ground out between clenched teeth tells me she might have seen the news article that just appeared on my screen too.
Call it narcissism, but I’ve got alerts set up on my phone.
As soon as someone posts my name, I get a notification.
So, when my own publication, the Larne Chronicle, posted that picture of us snogging and outed me as being the sports journalist connected with the recent rugby doping scandal, my phone lit up like Main Street at Christmas time.
Fucking Pete. I didn’t see him lurking in the shadows of the pub, which means he got his picture from another source, but his name was right there in the byline.
If I wasn’t on thinner-than-thin ice with my boss, and probation for my job, I’d call Pete out for doing this to me. As it stands, I feel like my hands are tied, and I need to keep my mouth fucking closed before I hammer the final nail into the coffin of my career.
If Rhiannon knows who I am, my time here on earth is set to come to an end any second now. That’s probably a good thing since my leg is throbbing, my headache is getting worse, and after fucking an athlete in the bathroom, I could use a nap.
I admit, when I first came back from the Middle East, I was a little overzealous, and as soon as I got the rugby scandal between my teeth, I chewed it like a Rottweiler.
I was determined to cast every ounce of disgrace out into the sunlight, to make sure no stone was left unturned, no dishonor was left to regrow in the dark.
To make a name for myself and prove—to myself and everyone else—I still had journalistic chops, I wanted to pull the rot out by the roots, and for a time, I believed there was no way the Morrigan family, rugby royalty itself, wasn’t involved.
I dug deep, I alluded to them in a few stories, and in my haste and hunger for the truth, I wasn’t particularly nice to them.
Their old man especially. I rub at the knot in my chest, the constant reminder that I had started down a path I didn’t want to be down.
A reaffirmation of my desire to write real stories, not just gossip, hearsay, and how much I fucking hate how sports journalism has descended into clickbait.
Case in point, the story on the screen in front of me.
Of course, someone saw me tonguing her by the bar.
Of course, some keen fucker decided to throw it to Pete to post online without a second thought that she’s already been through enough today.
Because everyone and their granny will be searching for Rhiannon’s name today after the two videos blew up the internet when she fled the castle.
I let my dick take over for my rational mind for a moment, but the truth is, she’s radioactive today. And probably tomorrow, too. I knew this. What was I thinking? I brush the back of my neck with my palm, trying to remain calm while I survey the room. Who the fuck turned us in?
Every amateur with a phone will be snapping pictures of her, trying to get their thirty seconds of fame on her coattails. Or rather, wedding dress tails. Is it called a tail? It kind of looked like one, but I’m not exactly up on my fashion terms.
The pub is uncomfortably full, and pinching the bridge of my nose does little to abate the prickling pain now tapping at my skull. If I stay, I’ll likely try to smooth things over, make it better, and like always, I’ll fuck it up and someone will get hurt.
The wave of grief that crashes into me makes me grab the bar for stability. I’d love to blame it on my disability, but at the end of the day, when people die because of you, it leaves its mark.
The easiest thing for me to do right now is flee. Head home, water my plants, and stay the fuck out of the public eye for a couple of days while I regroup. I don’t need my name attached to any more scandals right now.
Maybe if we let things lie, it’ll calm down, and Pete can go back to whatever rock he climbed out from under.
Okay, that won’t happen, but he’ll find someone new to pick on.
I can distract him with the research I’ve done about women’s football, to try to get him onside to publish a story about anyone who isn’t Rhiannon fucking Morrigan.
My gut tells me that’s bull, and no amount of me wanting this to blow over quickly will make it happen.
Now there’s a scent of rugby princess Rhiannon’s blood in the water, they’ll go for the jugular.
People love nothing more than bringing down a woman who has previously been beyond reproach.
Especially Pete. I might not have known him long, but I’ve known of him since I was in uni.
The public, the media… they won’t give a crap about me, at least not in the same way, but she’ll get raked over the coals for this.
The double standard makes my head hurt. And maybe with a little distance from the situation, I can come up with a way to help Rhiannon from becoming front-page news on repeat for the next few weeks.
I slink off my chair, leaving my second—half-drunk—pint and without giving a look back over my shoulder, even though part of me really, really wants to.
I make my way out into the car park of the Anchor, but my da’s boxy old beast, a well-loved Defender and one of the few things I got after he died, is nowhere to be seen.
I kick an imaginary pebble as I make my way through the small, rectangular car park. Stupid. Stupid fucking idiot. So much for keeping your head down, Robert. Dumbass.
I walked to the Anchor because I planned to have a couple of pints, and I’d never get behind the wheel while compromised.
What I hadn’t planned, was the physical exertion of banging someone in the bathroom, and my leg is already aching.
I’m not sure I could make it home around the corner to Bay Road if I tried.
Leaning against the cobbled side of the pub provides momentary relief, but footsteps to my right tell me I’m not alone. “Robert?” Matt Murphy is walking toward me, a cautious smile on his face.
“Alright, Matt?” I try to inject a friendly tone into my words, but we don’t know each other, only our names. And we both know the situation is anything but light. From the protective glint in his eyes, it’s anything but friendly, too.
“Rhiannon wanted me to get your number for her so you could talk in private about…” He reaches up and palms the back of his neck, shifting his weight like he’s uncomfortable.
Makes two of us, buddy. “Sure thing.” I put my number in Matty’s phone, and he gives me Rhiannon’s.
She’s not wrong to want to get ahead of this, to get our story straight in case one of us is cornered by a reporter, or a nosy social media blogger.
We don’t want to get caught in conflicting lies or throw any additional kindling onto this fire.
He gives me a firm nod, takes his phone back, and heads back inside without another word.
In the minute or so it takes for him to walk indoors, a familiar black Honda Civic pulls up to the curb on Fleet Street and a shrill honk pierces the air.
My sister, Emma, opens the passenger window.
“Get in, knobhead. Before you end up on the six o’clock news. ”