Page 17 of Riot Reunion
“Jesus wept. I didn’t sign up for drama club. I’ve never memorized lines. I've already forgotten how this monologue started.”
“Wren!”
“All right! Fuck! I solemnly do swear to abide by everything you just said, in full, even though I can't recall the exact wording. Though I do think you’re hobbling me a little. What if one of them kidnaps you? Am I supposed to just sit on my hands and wait for them to hopefully return you at some point?”
“If any of them kidnaps me, feel free to disregard all of this and come rescue me,” I concede.
“What if one of them puts you in the hospital?”
“No need to sound so hopeful! I'm not gonna end up in the hospital. Journalists don't go around assaulting the people they want to interview—”
A knock at the suite door stops me dead. As if he suspects a member of the press has already infiltrated the hotel, Wren stalks across the living room and wrenches the door open so hard the damn thing nearly flies off its hinges. He'd have forgotten his promise immediately if therehadbeen a reporter out in the hallway; the invasion of privacy would have been too much for him to handle. But luckily, or ratherunluckily for me, the person standing outside our suite is no journalist. At least not yet, anyway.
Pax Davis is the human personification of a category-five hurricane. He sucks up all of the oxygen out in the hallway. He had been growing out his hair before Wren and I left for Europe, but his skull is freshly shaved today, right down to the root. His dark brows pinch together in an intense frown that dominates his entire, brooding expression. He wears a thick black woolen military-style greatcoat, left open to reveal a black button-down shirt and black dress pants beneath. Black leather boots complete his outfit, making him look like something out of a fucking spy novel.
The boys glower at one another for seven long seconds before Wren crosses his arms over his chest, sighing dramatically. “It’s a ten-hour drive from Virginia to Massachusetts. Didn’t think to call on your way up?”
“I was shooting in New York with Callan. It’s only a three-and-a-half-hour drive from there, asshole. And no. I didn’t think to call. I’ve hadfarmore important things on my mind.”
“Aren't you supposed to be taking photos of fall foliage or some shit?”
Pax bares his teeth, issuing a gravelly sound that Ithinkis meant to be laughter. “You're a funny fucker, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Pax places his hands high on the doorframe, bracing his weight against it. “Aren’t you gonna let me in?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you came here uninvited, and I planned on fucking my girlfriend stupid for the next three hours.”
It's then that Pax notices the thin streak of blood that stains Wren's palm. Quickly, his eyes venture to me, where he sees the blood also marking my hand. An outrageous smile creeps across his face. “Kinky. I always thought you two had super vanilla sex.” He pushes past Wren into the suite. “Looks like I got you guys all wrong.” He throws himself down onto the three-seater sofa, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. “Need I remind you that the last time I checked myself into a hotel andIwanted some peace and quiet, you two showed up unannounced and ruined a perfectly good weekend—”
“Uh, excuse me?” I cut in. “We ruined nothing. We brought the girl you were in love with to see you, when the two of you were too stubborn to even admit to yourselves how you felt about one another. You still haven't thanked us for that, by the way.”
Pax’s gaze flits to me. He narrows his eyes. “Grateful,” he says. Wait, was that actuallysarcasm?This motherfucker right here. I swear to God…
“Your timing’s atrocious.” Wren remains by the door to the suite, holding it open, as if he actually expects his old roommate to leave of his own volition. “We’re moving into our new place tonight. Don’t you have anyone else to pester for the next couple of hours? I don’t have time—”
“So presumptuous. Who even said I came to see you?”
“You didn’t?”
“No, actually,” Pax says smugly. “I came to seeher.”
I am the ‘her’ in question, naturally. He jerks his head toward me, and Wren stalks away from the door, letting it fall closed, adopting a defensive stance in front of me.
Pax quirks a perplexed eyebrow at him. “Why do you look like you’re about to challenge me to an arm-wrestling match?”
“If you’ve come here to write some piece about Fitz, then you can fucking forget it.”
“Thefuck?” Pax rockets to his feet. Ohhhhh lord, his expression does not look good. “What the hell are you talking about, a piece about Fitz?”
“He’s stirring the pot from prison, trying to get them to overturn his sentence,” I say, joining the conversation. Perhaps if I’m involved, cooler heads will prevail. “A reporter approached us in the park earlier. He said there’d be others.”
“I have no interest in writing a single fucking thing about Wesley Fitzpatrick. I’ve had enough of that prick to last me three lifetimes.” He scowls at Wren. “I should knock you the fuck out for even suggesting I’d come here for that.”
