Page 24 of Composed at Randy's
He can keep them forever as long as he's okay.
I’m so goddamned stupid. Why did I let Harvey convince me to leave Wren alone here? What if Brent and James broke him?
“Please be okay. It'll never happen again, I promise.”
Wren opens his eyes, and his voice is soft and shaky when he says, “Allie wanted me to sign something. She wouldn't let me leave unless I did. I didn't want to sign it, so I ran.”
I rest my forehead on the bed and kick myself internally. Stupid fucking Harvey and his stupid fucking NDAs.
“You don't have to sign anything, I promise. No one is gonna grab you like that again. Not ever.”
I reach out and stroke his hair, smoothing it down from where it was ruffled during the struggle. “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to stop touching you. I’ll stop.” I know I won’t be able to stop for long, but I’m really, really going to try because he was just roughly manhandled by two big guys, and I can’t imagine him being comfortable being casually touched by another.
When I pull my hand away, Wren grabs my wrist and pulls it back to rest on his head and says, “No, I like it. Don’t stop.”
“Thank god,” I say and immediately go back to petting him. “Your hair is just so soft and fluffy. I can’t help myself.”
Wren’s eyes drift shut slowly as I stroke his hair, and he’s doing that thing baby animals do when they don’t realize they’re falling asleep. His eyes close and then they pop back open again, then they drift shut again, and it’s longer between sleepy blinks, and his eyes don’t open as wide after each blink. I know he’ll be asleep any second now, so I keep playing with his hair.
“You’re safe, Wren. I won’t let anything happen to you. It’s safe to fall asleep, I promise.”
He gives a soft sigh, and his eyes stay closed after his last sleepy blink.
Wren is a gift. The universe dropped a fucking gift into my lap, and I’ll be damned if I squander it.
Once I’m sure Wren is fully asleep, I move away from him as slowly as possible. I ease my weight off the bed ounce-by-ounce because I’m afraid that if he wakes up, he might pull a goldfish on me and die. Or at least become incredibly ill.
It takes me at least five minutes to get myself completely free of the bed and then another five minutes to tiptoe over to my door, step out into the hallway, and close it behind me.
Harvey is standing there just like I expected him to be. His discomfort is seeping through his generally impassive expression.
Good. Heshouldbe uncomfortable right now.
I glare at him and ask, “Is Gwen here yet?”
“She’s on her way and should be here in less than ten minutes.”
“Good. When Gwen gets here, everyone in the penthouse and I are going to have atalk. It’s going to be the scary kind, and you should all be feeling anxious while you wait.”
“Bael—”
“No. You sit in the common room with everyone else and feel anxious too. Everyone had better be there when I’m done here. Now go.”
Harvey visibly ages in front of me, and he no longer appears to be the strict, unflappable guy who’s been pushing me and the guys through the ranks of stardom to superstardom whether we want to go or not.
After today, I have a feeling I’ll never see him the same way again.
I watch Harvey walk away until I’m certain he won’t turn around to argue with me, and then I sneak back into my room. I don't go back to my bed because I don't want to make Gwen wait the ten minutes it would take for me to let her in once she gets here. Instead, I lean against my door and google how to help homeless people get back on their feet again.
I quickly realize that most of it won't apply to my situation because none of it says anything about putting the person in your bed, being unable to stop petting their hair, or what to do if your bodyguards accidentally assault them when you're not around.
Being responsible is a lot harder than I thought it would be.
I'm tempted to go on Instagram and ask my fans for advice, but I remember at the last second that discussing my personal life on social media is at the top of Harvey's list ofThings not to do if we don't want Harvey to die before he turns fifty.
Hey, I may be pissed off at Harvey, but I don't want him to die.
So I put my phone back into my pocket and vibe out to the ever present song living in my head. I've always got at least one in there begging for my attention, and this one is well on its way to being born. No lyrics yet—that’s more Mel’s thing than mine, but the music is already loud and proud. As I watch Wren sleep, it only gets louder and prouder.
