Chapter 9 Robin #2
Rubbing at my tired eyes, I know I won’t be able to drift with my mind swimming like this.
Where one thought ends, another dives in to take its place, like a never ending loop of synchronised swimmers.
Sighing, I sit up and twist so that my feet hover above the dark wooden floor.
I didn’t pack any slippers, but I know I brought fluffy socks, so I hunt for them in my suitcase, hopping as I slide them onto my feet and head for the door.
I picture the first floor room layouts and scan the doors to find the one I think will be Wrens.
Maybe if I thank him and explain myself, I’ll be able to finally get some sleep.
Fear fills me, my throat tightening, as my fluffy feet slow to a halt when I see his hotel door is open, but it instantly dissipates when his curly head of hair comes into view.
He’s sitting on the floor reading. Completely engrossed, Wren is propping against the thick wood, keeping it open with his body.
He wears grey sweats and a loose baggy t-shirt, the complete opposite vibe of his underworld lord look.
He’s ditched all of his rings except a dainty silver band on his pinky finger, worn on the bruised hand that he has loosely wrapped in a wet cloth.
They say a mother can always hear the cry of their child, well, the same could be said about an author spotting their own novel out in the wild.
Even without peering at the front cover, I just know that the book in his hands is my first instalment of Detective Featherton.
He’s over half way through, so either he’s been sitting here all night consuming the words, or he found it earlier today from the rows of publications in the library.
“What do you think?”
His head snaps up to where I lean against his door frame, placing both hands behind my back to prevent nervously picking my fingernails.
Like he’s been caught doing something naughty, the cutest pink tint spreads on his cheeks and he attempts to slowly move the book behind his back. “I don’t know what you mean, Love.”
“Oh, so Thistle hasn’t completely stolen your heart with her crude slogans stitched on pillows, or how she’s holding her neighbours cat hostage until she does her homework?”
He throws his hands up, “She embroidered ‘Your flower beds look shit’ and then gave it to Sandra at the summer gala, in front of the entire judging committee,” he shakes his head “She’s brutal. I love her so much.”
A laugh bubbles out of me and I sit down, crossing my legs but making sure we’re not touching.
Resting my head against the door, I can’t help but beam with joy at someone’s happiness that I delivered through my writing.
“I really wanted to create characters that didn’t need to rely on Detective Featherton to thrive.
Thistle is a storm he can’t keep up with. ”
“That she is.”
We just sit there side by side, smiling at each other. Pulling the book from behind his back, he taps the page number like he's memorising it, before revealing he picked one of the limited edition covers that I’d had commissioned by a local illustrator in York.
“What inspired you to write it?” He asks.
“I do believe I asked you a question first.”
He playfully nudges my arm. “You tyrant, Wife. I think it’s great.
Honestly, I nearly missed coming down for the party in time because I couldn’t stop reading earlier.
Captivated from the moment Thistle side checked the detective in the post office.
The woman did not want to miss out on her morning crossword. You should be so proud of yourself.”
His praise does something to my insides. “Thank you, Wren. I am proud, this is all I’ve ever wanted to do,” I splay my fingers in front of us. “It’s the dream.”
He lets out a low chuckle and stills. “I like that you know.”
“What?”
“You, saying my name.”
“You’re shameless.”
He winks. “Only for you, Love.”
Rolling my eyes I can’t help but smile, because I can imagine if that was true.
I’ve been fighting the instant pull I have towards him all day, scared of how fast that sounds and not ready at all to lower any of my walls for him.
Not for the music world's playboy. Tomorrow I’ll go back to questioning his flirting, reminding myself who he is and hopefully Lily can knock some sense into me like I know she’s dying to do.
Right now though, I’m just so damn tired.
Taking the book from his hands, I run my fingers over the illustrated cover.
Opening it, I flick through the first couple of pages till I reach what I’m looking for.
This book was the second copy I ever had printed, before agreeing to the design and having more of the limited edition design published.
I gave it to Phoenix as a gift, signing on the title page: You’re the Samwise to my Frodo.
I smile down at my scribbly handwriting, pride swelling inside me.
“I always wanted to write a detective novel. Phin and I watched Poirot all the time at his Grandma’s house.
She got me all the books too. I just loved all the intricacies of the characters and how you’d wind down one path, only to find another clue that would take you down another.
Planning the murder and creating suspects is my favourite part of it.
” I wrinkle my nose. “Is that lame? That my biggest hobby is making up stories in my head?”
Wren laughs, “It’s exactly the same as how I come up with lyrics.
Words swim in my head all day. Bran mentioned writing a song about a blueberry muffin this morning and I’ve already written a chorus and a hook about it!
” I lightly push him because surely he’s teasing me and he laughs harder.
“No, seriously! I’ve not been able to stop thinking about fucking blueberry muffins. ”
My own laughter trickles into his and the sound is glorious. It’s the most comfortable conversation I’ve had all day and I think he feels the same, because there’s a spark in his eyes that turns them into a dazzling emerald.
How am I ever going to find the strength to stay away from him this weekend? I should be so mad at the lies, but I'm losing the war inside me.
Shifting before my butt cheeks go dead, I place my novel back onto his knee and peer into his room.
It’s a weird coincidence, but this is actually my favourite that I helped Merle furnish.
It’s the Pan room, with a spring equinox theme that features in the woodland wallpaper, vines and leaves entwined steel bed frame, framed illustrations of dancing animals such as foxes, squirrels, birds and hares.
The bed set is a cool shade of green, with scatters of burnt orange pillows and beiges.
Those tones also follow around the room, where opposite the bed is a wooden bookshelf filled with novels and a desk, which all rooms come with.
This desk is a deep, warm wood with leaves scribed along the legs and an intricate flute along the lid.
I can’t help but notice his belongings dotted around; an open sketchbook and papers laid on the desk itself.
If written down, most of the facts I know about him are from the media.
Phin often spoke about him growing up, but I always lost interest when he went into detail about their crazy antics at parties.
After his second stint in rehab when we were only eighteen, I kind of blamed Wren for introducing him to that scene of people.
I didn't know how he dealt with being famous, but my best friend sure did like the alcohol and drugs that accompanied it.
Everything else was pieced together with online gossip about The Larks.
By the window are two sets of upholstered armchairs, it suddenly dawned on me that we’re sitting on the floor of his open room. “Wren, why are you sitting on the floor? You’ve got like, four places to sit in this room, including a really comfortable bed.”
He gives me a sheepish look and doesn’t reply straight away.
I actually think he’s not going to at all, when he sighs and meets my eyes.
“I’m sitting here so I can make sure Corbin doesn’t come out of his room.
I didn’t see him go in, but I’m assuming that after—yeah,” he looks down to his swollen knuckles, pressing a damp cloth to it.
“I’m making sure he stays the fuck away from you.
” He looks back up at me with such an earnest expression.
No, it’s determination. He isn’t going to let him touch me again and I can see that drive.
I still want to demand answers about Phin, morbidly wanting to know the finer details, but I'm already exhausted considering that conversation.
“I don’t know if I said it earlier, but thank you. No one’s done anything like that for me, before.”