Heal All Wounds || Chapter 7. Wrennie and Too Many Relatives

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You’re running around his flat in a futile attempt to find your knickers. And then you remember their glorious flight through the kitchen, and you dash there.

“John!”

Your voice is way too shrieky. He peeks in, the mauve lacy knickers are on the top of a cupboard. He chuckles and pulls them down. You’re twisting out of his grabby hands.

“No bloody time for that!”

You really need to put something on, but he’s apparently overwhelmed by the memories of how the lacy item got there. Bollocks, he does that thing of his with the tongue on your collar bones! You swoon, but then push him away.

You find a pair of denim by the bed but not a single top.

“John, where are all my tees?!”

“They’re in the washing machine.” Fuck. “Take something of mine.”

You jerk the door into his build-in wardrobe and freeze in front of… There are no words to describe this. It is like several boutiques neatly organized on a territory of Poland, colour themed, multi layered shelves, sliding up and down and left and right, and you feel literally dizzy. What the actual fuck? No wonder you always want to jump him. That casual relaxed look of his that Thea has been admiring so much is a result of very hard work. You tentatively touch the nearest jumper.

No way in hell you are touching anything in here! You start backing up, and then you hear voices from the living room. Fucking fuck! You exhale and squeeze your eyes shot. You pull the first item that gets under your hand and put it on. You look in the mirror. You do not look that bad, looks like a dress though. And by the way, what the sodding hell?! Is he catwalking in front of it? The light fixtures are more intricate than some of the lab equipment you had to work with over the years. Tosser. Posh, spoiled, narcissistic tosser…

You walk out of the closet and taking a deep breath tread into the living room. Deadre is clad in Prada – you can recognise it, you watched the film – and is holding a bouquet of carnations. Bollocks, you so want to run right now. She gives you the sincerest of smiles.

“Wren, darling, evening! I am so happy to see that you are feeling better! Look at this healthy blush!” She gives you one of those airy hugs when lips sort of appear near your ear, her soft locks brush your nose, her posh perfume tickles your nose, and here she is moving away. She hands you the flowers. “How are you, my dear?”

“Much better, thank you.” Somehow shagging her older brother just doesn’t inspire you to call her Mrs Durinson.

The aforementioned brother looks peevish. You already forgot this look of his, the one that makes even the most self-assured adults want to scamper or fall through the ground and drill their way to Australia with a teaspoon.

“Dea, such a lovely surprise. To what do we owe the honour?”

The ‘we’ doesn’t escape your attention. And hers as well, since she throws a quick look at your upper body. You rolled up the sleeves and tried to look decent but you are so obviously just out of the sack. The cursed curls are an oreol of orange, and you have a lovebite on your neck. You gave up any attempts to hide them. It’s bleeding useless. And you are almost certain he purposefully chooses visible spots.

“To be honest…” Deadre positions herself on his sofa, you’re awkwardly standing with the flowers in your hands. “I had a concern to share with you, sweet.” She turns to you. “I apologise for the intrusion, I did not expect to find you here, Wren darling. I knew you were sick, I expected you to be recovering home.”

Oh mamma mia, end my pain!

John’s silent. It is one of his best ploys, the tense silence, when a person starts feeling so uncomfortable and nervous from this dark electricity coursing through the air that they mostly just whimper what they wanted to say and then flee. Deadre is quite obviously expecting a cuppa to be offered to her. You excuse yourself using the flowers as a reason to mince to the kitchen.

You are pouring water in some posh glass monstrosity and feel like sticking your head under the tap as well. Oh this is so awkward! Then you hear them actually raising their voices, Deadre sounds upset, John disdainful. Please, please, please, let them talk about the nuclear crisis in North Korea!

Should you go back? Staying in the kitchen would look suspicious, but you would really hate to walk on them. what if they’re talking about you? Maybe it is still about Kim Jong-il… You lift your chin and strut to them. Deadre is wringing her hands, John is frowning. Oh poop!

She straightens up and focuses on you with a pleasant smile on her face. Alright, that is bloody scary. She has her brother’s magnetism and intensity.

“Wren, dear, I apologise again for intruding on you two. Just a bit of a family trouble.”

Oh that is fucking cold. Can she be more obviously stating that you are not family? Oh, fuck, even more importantly, why are you even upset about it? It is not like you are! You are not his wife or something. Oh wait…

You smile back.

“Of course, you are not intruding, we were just finishing dinner.” Which you brother was trying to pretty much lick off my stomach, but whatever.

She gracefully claps her hands. Phil has exactly the same gesture. Oh fuck my life…

“Well, enough of the unpleasant conversation. How are you feeling, darling? Medical community is such a tiny village, everyone was talking about your… visit to the hospital.” Oh, does she mean that time when her half-dressed brother carried you through the emergency rooms, blood soaking your clothes below your waist? Probably.

“Much better, thank you.” What else can you say? That you just had three orgasms, but she should not worry, there was no penetration? Bloody tempting.

She gets up. Do they teach this fluidity of movement in their posh schools for very rich girls? She places her narrow palm on your shoulder, the gesture is very affectionate and not at all bloody intrusive. You feel like shrinking away.

“I think we are all adults here.” Is she hinting that some of the smaller size ones here aren’t? “So I can openly say that I am very happy for you two.” She gives John a warm glance, but the cold composed expression on his face doesn’t waver. Let’s be fucking honest, you do not believe her either.

You are an adult after all. You square your shoulders.

“Thank you, Deadre, it means a lot to me.”

Her brows fly up, and you catch a glimpse of John’s lips twitch. Point Wren. She smiles wider and then leans for a quick hug. You stroke her elegant shoulder blades and wonder if she is going to jab a dagger between yours.

She picks up her Birkin – at least you think that’s what it is – and is heading for the door. Alrighty, where is the dagger?

“And you should know, Wren, I am certain Phil didn’t mean any offense by his behaviour the last time he saw you. He came to me after it, he was rather bedraggled.”

Bloody fuck, she is good!

She turns to John. “You do understand that the boy just misunderstood the whole situation, don’t you, darling?”

The ball is on John’s half, and you wonder whether he is on your team and is going to play nonchalance, or you will have to deal with a jealous barbarian in three, two, one…

He smirks and opens a door for her.

“I brought him up, Dea, of course I know how his mind works. He shouldn’t worry, all is well. Just what I said to Wren, when she told me about it.”

The door behind her closes. A. Wow, she was good, but he is better. B. You are in deep shite.

Katya Kolmakov
Katya Kolmakov. Mother. Writer. Artist. Fanfiction and Wattpad. First novel on Amazon http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00XJ16W7W.

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