Feyre had taken the initiative to swipe Tamin's credit card and book herself a hotel for the next few days after the fight they had. It was a petty argument, but he pursued it even when she laughed at his anger. He was so damned adamant that it had made her erupt in a burst of laughter—before he had thrown his hands up and stormed into their bedroom, slamming the door behind him
She'd taken just the card, which he kept in his wallet right by the front door. She didn't think to leave a note, to call out to him before driving to the other side of the city.
There had been a small duffle bag always tucked away in the back of her car—just in case, she'd said when she first packed it. But it was never, "Just in case Tamin and I argue too much." More, "Just in case of an emergency that includes fire or a flood."
She sat on the couch with her head in her hands, still in a satin pajama shirt, and sweat pants. Midnight blue, with stars dotting the hem—she wore it to annoy him. He hated the colour. He was more happy at sunrise than sunset.
That was the one of the many things they never had in common.
Feyre glanced at the clock, which read ten thirty p.m. She was exhausted, and she felt emotionally drained from the petty argument. But just as she turned off the T.V. and laid her head down, a loud, thumping noise sounded nearby.
It sounded like someone was banging on the walls and doors—as if there was a child in the building smashing on pots and pans. She grabbed the nearest throw pillow and shoved it on top of her face, screaming into it with utter frustration.
She had no patience, no tolerance for any disturbance. One thing was in her mind at this moment: she was tired and wanted to sleep peacefully. No one, not even her boyfriend or nuisances such as these neighbours, would stop her from having a good sleep tonight.
She stood up, briefly stopping in front of the mirror to check her appearance—though there wasn't much to bother about. She'd come here in her sleepwear. Her golden brown locks hung over her breasts—thank the gods, they covered most of the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra.
Feyre nodded to herself, and strutted out of her small room directly to the next door over. She knocked three times—changed her mind, and banged with her fist. But it wasn't their door which opened. Rather, it was the door directly behind her.
Someone cleared their throat, and Feyre turned. "I wouldn't bother trying to get them to stop," he had said. But something in Feyre clicked, like a switch was turned off—she was left speechless.
The man who had addressed her was inhumanely gorgeous—if not for the fact he wore no shirt, maybe it was the way he leaned against the door frame so lazily. Or all of his dark features—the eyes and hair. No, it was the sharp, broad jaw. She let loose a long, shaky breath and tried to keep her eyes focused on his rather than his bare chest
"What do you mean by that?" she managed to say.
He shrugged, "They are part of a band. You'll find that practising is kind of necessary before a weekend gig."
Feyre frowned. "Sleeping is also kind of necessary."
"I agree," he nodded. "Which is why I don't practice with them. I get the sleep and then do what I need in the morning."
"Wait." She paused. "So you're with them?"
He offered his hand, "Rhysand. The band is called The Night Court." She took it, hesitantly. His hand was warm—his touch gentle, but the skin rough. She found herself clinging to it for a little too long, longer than a handshake was meant to last for.
"Feyre," she said. "My name is Feyre."
His brow arched a little, as if he registered the name as familiar. He looked her up and down, assessing her. Especially her face. "Feyre?" he asked. "As in… Tamlin's Feyre?"
"You say that as if he owns me," she replied a little hastily. "But yes, Tamlin's Feyre." Her last few words were laced with venom. She didn't try to hide it, either, as Rhysand had heard it loud and clear.
The band seemed to have finished playing one of the songs, as a pause between the music came about. Rhysand took the opportunity to say, "Well, Feyre darling, they won't be stopping for a while." He pointed behind her and stood up straight. "Do you want to come in?"
Darling? She narrowed her eyes. "And do what?" she snorted, turning back to her own door—only to realise she had forgotten to bring the key out with her. "Never mind. Okay—sure, I'll come in."
Feyre made her way straight into the room, finding it slightly more luxurious than she'd expected. Hers was… cheap. She felt bad using Tamlin's money, even if he did treat her horribly. "Tamlin, huh?" Rhysand said from behind her. He came around in front of her and flopped down on the couch. He had put on a shirt—she mentally pleaded for him to take it off.
It was more interesting than whatever station he had the T.V. on anyway.
"How do you know him?" Feyre asked, slowly sitting down on the couch besides him. She made sure to leave a large gap between the two.
"Ah, we go way back. Saw some update of him getting involved with someone," he smiled at her. "The others despise him for it—only because they're all in love with each other and won't just date already."
"And you?" she asked. "Are you involved with anyone?"
"Gods no—no," he laughed. "Mor is basically my sister. Amren would kill anyone who touches her. The guys are practically my brothers, too."
"You know you can date someone who isn't in this band of yours, right?"
He pursed his lips, silent for a moment. "I know," he nodded. "Guess I haven't bothered with anyone—at least, not since my last."
Feyre saw that it was probably not a good conversation to continue. He was hurt more than he let on, and she understood that. So she thought fast on her feet to change it. "I don't hear any vocals, is that what you do?"
"Do I look like I can sing?" he said, chuckling to himself.
The smile was contagious, Feyre found herself chuckling as well. "Well my sister, Elain, looks like the prettiest singer in the world. But between you and me, she sounds like a dying bird."
"Ouch," he said. "Well, I'm the drummer. The bass sound you hear is the computer generated version of what I play." He leaned towards the coffee table, grabbing two unopened bottles of beer and offering her one.
"I don't drink," she refused. But, with a raise of his brows, she relented and took it. "Tamlin doesn't like me drinking."
"Why not?"
She pressed her lips together, not liking her answer. It was one of the many petty arguments they had—this one was much earlier in their relationship. It was one of his ground rules that he placed out for her. "He doesn't like me being sloppy."
"You'll have to come to one of our gigs, Amren drinks like crazy afterwards before meeting the crowd. If you think you're sloppy, just watch her." He smirked to himself as he took the first drink.
"Amren is the one who could kill you if you touched her, right?" Feyre asked.
He nodded. "She has no emotions—until she drinks, of course."
Feyre looked down at her own bottle, with a smile caressing her face. She still felt tired at this point, but—but not so emotionally drained. She found the smile stuck there. Stuck along with the thought that Tamlin hadn't made her laugh like this, hadn't let her be loose. He'd been so structured, and that's what made her leave tonight.
She wasn't much of a spontaneous person, but what she said next might have changed the course of her week. "I like the sound of her."
Rhysand relaxed back and propped his legs up on the table. "Well, at about one in the morning, you'll be able to meet her and the others."
"I'd love to." And Feyre followed his movements, taking a drink—her first in a long time—and relaxing back.
This was going to be a long night.