2 Robin Meets His Hero

July 15th

Armand Demetrio smelled like someone who'd just come off a nine-hour flight. He seemed a bit crumpled too, as if he'd been used to mop up a spill and then tossed in a corner.

Despite all this, it was clear to anyone with eyes that this right here? This was one smoking-hot section of buttocks. He was very, very pretty. There was a lot of hair trying to hide it, but underneath the scruff and lack-of-sleep was a man almost too handsome to be British—all due respect to Messrs. Darcy and Bond.

It was a good thing I knew the way back by heart.

He was younger than I'd expected. From the amount of tech-splaining I'd been prepped for and his absence from social media, I'd assumed I would be dealing with a cute little grandpa. This guy was probably just kissing thirty.

The job, which was part of my Norsemen University work-study—count my blessings, I could be in a hairnet right now—was as follows: basically, be the personal assistant, gofer, and overall brain of the venerable Armand Demetrio, the oh-so-famous and oh-so-absent-minded artist who was teaching a comic workshop offered by Norse-U this summer. The workshop had been hyped up like a new hard seltzer flavor, and there was a deal with the DQ Comic Convention later in August, where Mr. Demetrio was an invited speaker. Which was amazing because a year ago no one had even heard of Surrogate Goose—his wonderfully weird comic.

My job, as savvy college sophomore-elect, was to assume that he knew nothing about the United States. He was, after all, British, and therefore incapable of comprehending our sophisticated, tea-dumping, colonial ways.

That was why the housing official had explained everything about the rent-by-the-month Briars complex to me rather than to him, even though he was the one who was going to be living there. I was meant to pass the information on to him in a more digestible form, possibly involving puppet shows and a sing-along. Again, still better than working in the cafeteria.

I'd been nervously babbling at him for a while, going full stream-of-consciousness, so I was relieved when soft snores started emanating from his corner of the car. I could finally stop talking.

Once we reached the apartment complex, I parked in front of the office, ran in to tell them Mr. Demetrio had arrived, then re-parked Camille nearer to the apartment building. I turned toward the snoozing Englishman and tapped him gently on the shoulder.

No dice.

"Mr. Demetrio?"

Nothing but a growly little sigh.

I poked his side, then tried to look innocent as he jerked awake, bumping his head on the roof. After a few milliseconds of panic, he glanced over at me and coughed. "I'm in California."

It wasn't a question and yet somehow demanded an answer.

I nodded helpfully. "Yes, and we've just arrived at your new apartment. Do you need help getting out of the car, Big Guy?"

He shook his head, blinked hard in an apparent attempt to wake up, and tried to extricate his enormous body from Camille. Once he was vertical, Armand shook slightly, then hugged himself, squinting up at the apartment building. I yanked his suitcase out of the trunk and set it down next to him.

"So, anyway, the office finally got back to me," I said airily. "You're paid up until the end of next month. Your roommate's moving in later today, and there's no smoking in the apartment," I added as he fished a crumpled packet out of his back pocket and stuck a bent and crinkly cigarette into his mouth. He glanced at me sideways before lighting it and taking a deep pull. I coughed politely and started lugging the suitcase toward the stairwell.

"Hand that over, Titch." Armand took the suitcase from me and started up the stairs, trailing a cloud of noxious smoke. I hurried ahead of him so I wouldn't be caught downwind.

"You're in 221B," I said, "and the apartment complex is called Bakers."

He froze on the second-to-last step and stared at me, cigarette dangling from his lips.

I grinned. "Heh, just my little joke."

"Hilarious."

"It's number 203 and the complex is called Briars," I told him, "and your roommate's named Lucas Barclay." The roommate I had mentioned several times, but who he had not yet reacted to.

Now, however—

"A roommate," he said incredulously, scowling.

I gave him an apologetic shrug. Personally, I would have expected the school to shill out for a one bedroom, but those decisions were made about a mile above my pay grade.

He nodded in resignation and resumed climbing the steps. I fished the keys out of my pocket and unlocked the door, then stood in the doorway until he had stamped out his cigarette, after which I let him in and gave him his keys. The apartment was lovely, with a big bay window to the east, a high ceiling, and a spacious kitchen.

My dorm-residing-self seethed delicately.

There was a welcome basket on the table; Armand brushed past me without looking around, grabbed it, then made for one of the bedrooms.

"So I'll be back tomorrow to check on you? There's a luncheon you're supposed to be at. I'll just—"

The door to the bedroom slammed.

"—let myself out."

Well. It wasn't like I didn't have more important things to do. The life of a leading man ingénue was full of adventure and challenge. Today, adventure was likely to be found at the gymnastics studio, where I had several routines to practice, and the challenge would be the emotional work—I really had to internalize the fact that I was no longer just a sad, bullied, theater kid. Or a disposable extra.

Oh no, I was a lead. A protagonist. The hero, who does not stand around waiting for temperamental artists to acknowledge his existence, but who sallies forth.

I sallied forth in the direction of a boba tea.