The next morning, I was finally released from my holding cell.
Boy, that's a statement I never thought I'd have to make.
I'd gotten off with a $500 fine— which I had to admit, felt like a bullet wound to my first pay check. I saw that bedframe I'd been dreaming of slowly slip out of mind, and I knew I wasn't going to be able to get one for a while now.
I'd been lucky though. I could have gotten my license suspended, or been given community service, but they let me off due to the fact that everyone there had been doing it, and my criminal record had been squeaky clean up until now.
Wesley had the curtesy to pick me up, even though it was dead early in the morning. I probably looked like death. I certainly felt like it— my eyes were heavy and sullen, my head was throbbing, and I just wanted to sleep for the next hundred years.
"Hey," I said bluntly, as I climbed into Wesley's car. He offered me a concerned look.
"We're so sorry that you got arrested," he said. "Thank you for taking the fall for us— and Asher said you got the evidence! Seriously, we owe you big time."
"Yeah, I think you do," I said, and for once, I wasn't going to be polite about it. I was putting my neck right out there for these guys, risking everything I had to my name these days. Their extended kindness could only balance it out so much.
"From now on, we'll be better about it," Wesley promised. "I already spoke to Jade. If she hadn't retaliated last night, none of this would have happened."
We drove in silence for a few moments, and I stifled a yawn. I felt my eyes drooping closed, and I couldn't wait to get home and into my bed. Sitting stiffly in a cold holding cell, on the verge of passing out, for four hours straight had not been my idea of a good time. Plus I hated that Lana got away. I hated it so much. And yet I still had to go crawling back to her on Monday and kiss her heels all week long.
Somewhere between the time it took to get from the police station to the mini mansion, I passed out, and to my surprise I didn't stir at all, like I usually would have. I must have been exhausted.
I woke up, late afternoon, in my own bed. I was still in my dress, but the covers had been pulled over me, and a glass of water had been left on the floor beside the mattress. Along with a note:
You plan on getting a bedframe? – Wesley
Annoyance surged through me, and I don't know what it was— the events of last night catching up to me, or $500 debt hanging over my shoulders that had destroyed my precious plans to get a bedframe, but I snapped. Launching upright, I marched down the hall to Wesley's room, and threw the door open.
"That's not funny!" I cried, and he startled from his chair, headphones clattering to the desk.
"Jeez, Wren, you scared the shit out of me!"
My hands curled around the doorhandle— so tight sweat began to pool beneath my fingers. He noticed my expression, and his anger diminished.
"What's... wrong?" he asked slowly, and pushed himself to his feet.
I realised he really had no clue.
Inhaling deeply, the red anger faded from my vision, as pure disappointment settled in. I shouldn't take it out on him. It's not like he knew that I'd been dreaming of getting a stupid bedframe all week.
My grip on the doorhandle slackened, and I turned away slightly.
"Forget it," I muttered, as heated embarrassment graced my cheeks. I headed back to my room, but before I could get there, footsteps echoed behind me and a hand curled around my wrist. I spun around, and met his concerned gaze.
YOU ARE READING
Life of WrenTeen Fiction
It started with a Starbucks drink, and it ended in a viral meme. Nineteen-year-old Wren Robinson had it all- the perfect boyfriend, an architecture degree, and a life of comfort and luxury- until she threw it all away to chase a dream of living in L...