Ti

Part Two

She managed to get him to bed, removing his sneakers and his clothes down to his underwear before tucking him in. He was here and he needed her help.

He really had been sweet at dinner, rescuing her from that horrible coach but then it didn't surprise her that he'd be sensitive to someone else's situations. It was what he did, wasn't it?

Turning out the light and closing the bedroom door, she sat on the couch, the large, wall mounted TV on low, her own shoes off and her feet tucked up on the cushions. She hadn't planned this, she really hadn't but when he'd left the table to use the bathroom she was acting without really thinking. Taking the bottle from her purse, she quickly put four of her sleeping tablets in his coke, stirring and making sure they'd dissolved before he'd returned. In fact, she'd almost stopped him when he started to drink but then she, well, she just couldn't. He'd think she was terrible and be furious—and he'd be right. She simply couldn't bear the thought, she just couldn't.

Christ, what the hell was she going to do?

"I could just leave, let him wake up on his own. He's smart, he'd be able to deal with that, especially since he's not hurt or anything."

But, "Idiot. He's Robin, for the love of god. He'd figure out what happened inside of about half a minute and then I'm screwed."

"I could wait until he comes to the explain that I don't know what happened. We were just sitting thee having a nice meal, he got up, the waiter brought him afresh coke and then he passed out."

Yeah, right. Like that would work.

"He'd question the waiter, the manager, the owner and I'd be busted and screwed." Another thought; "Oh, fuck, my job, I'll lose my job!"

Maybe, just maybe if she let him wake up—Jesus, another problem. Four pills. He'd be out for hours and he must have someone waiting for him, wondering where he is, waiting for him to call or check in or something.

Quietly, she went into the bedroom and searched the pockets of his jeans, finding his cell phone and his wallet. Checking the battery, she was relieved to see that it was almost dead, needing a recharge. Good, She could just say that no calls came in and then spent a while playing with the thing to make sure the battery completely died.

The wallet sat on the coffee table and she stared at it. The things inside could tell her everything. If it was a normal teenager's wallet it would have his driver's license in it and that would have his real name and address. There would probably be some money and credit cards, maybe pictures of family and friends.

It could be a gold mine. No, no, no. She didn't mean money, though there was probably some in there but information; that kind of gold mine. And no, no, no again. She would never sell it or even give it away. Never. Absolutely not.

But to know...to be the only one aside from his family and a few close friends to really know, Wasn't Superman supposed to have a special interest in the boy, look out for him, make sure that he was all right? Maybe his phone number was there, it could be. And Batman. Of course there would be something about Batman, there had to be. Who was listed as an emergency contact? Where did he go to school? Were the pictures of the Teen Titans?

Gold mine.

Her hand itched to take the thing and open it. She could feel the pull of her arm wanting to stretch out, pick it up, go through it.

She'd have all the answers; his real name, where he lived, his family, maybe his girlfriend and god knew what else might be inside.

"I'd never tell anyone, not even him. I wouldn't. I'd never tell anyone and who knows, maybe I could help him somehow, I could be like a secret weapon. People do that for the heroes, don't they? I could be his."

Getting up, she went back into the bedroom. With just the light spilling in from the living room, she studied the boy's face. The black hair mussed in sleep, his mask still in place, a naked arm outside of the covers and a bare foot sticking out. He slept quietly, no snoring, no excess movements, just peacefully lying there.

The reality was more than she'd hoped.

His beauty, his confidence, his build, his kindness and generosity—it was all more than she'd imagined would be the reality. No on lives up to their hype, it's not possible. The reality was always less than the perception. Brad Pitt once talked about farting in bed. George Clooney seemed all right but had a touch of arrogance.

But Robin in the flesh was better than his PR. "Amazing."

Someone was probably waiting for his call, was waiting to hear how the show went, wanted to know when he'd be home. This couldn't go on very long. Robin was too important not to be missed from wherever and whomever he was supposed to touch base with.

She knew this was crazy but now that he was here she wasn't sure what to do. "If I just leave and let him wake up on his own he'll find out who the suite was rented to and will be able to track me down in minutes."

She stared at him while she thought, or tried to think, anyway. "If I wake him up—if I can—explain that it was a mistake or accident then he'll...yeah, right. Like anyone would believe that slipping him a mickey finn was an accident."

He shifted a little against the sheets and she caught herself wondering if he was a virgin. "That's not important. He's a child compared to you and you know it. That isn't what this is about. Not even close."

Besides, with his looks, high profile, abilities and fan base the odds of a seventeen or so year old young man, in this day and age being inexperienced was somewhere between nil and none. "He works vice, f'God'ssake. Of course he knows his way around."

Batman or his parents would be worried about him. He was probably supposed to call in so they knew he was okay, probably had to catch a flight back east sometime tonight or in the morning.

"Maybe if I told the authorities that he'd had too much wine and wasn't feeling well so I offered to let him come here to sleep it off." That could work, that was a maybe. Of course he'd have to either agree to play along or be convinced that was what happened.

He turned over onto his right side, the movement allowing the bedding to fall away, leaving his chest exposed. "God, he makes Michelangelo's David look like a troll."

"All right, that's enough. Think. You deal with problems every day and you do it damn well. Now figure this out!"

Ideas flashed through her mind, rejected before they could fully form.

Robin was lost and she helped him. No.

Robin was mugged and she...No.

Robin lost his plane ticket home. No. Stupid.

Robin was surrounded by a mob of groupies and couldn't get away. No. Even more stupid.

Robin mistook her for his mother/sister/aunt and...No. Even more stupid.

Every problem has a solution. It may not be the one you want but there's always something. This is what she did everyday. She solved problems no one else could, it was why she had the job she did, why she made the big bucks.

Okay.

Now Robin would wake up in a few hours, sometime in the morning and he probably wouldn't know or remember what happened or why he was in the hotel. All she had to do was come up with a plausible explanation. She'd tell him that she'd found him slumped somewhere.

He'd been in a car by the arena...no.

He'd been in a chair in the last row of seats and since she'd been one of the last ones out of the place she'd found him and...no.

She'd gone out for a nice dinner; wait, she'd been craving Chinese food and went to that little place down from the arena and there he was, eating by himself. She'd gone over—reluctantly because she didn't want to bother him—and spoken to him, congratulated him on his performance then noticed that he didn't seem to feel well. She'd been afraid that he was really sick and so had suggested that she help him to a doctor or ER or something but he'd insisted he was fine but when he'd gotten up to leave he'd had trouble walking. She'd followed because she was concerned, gotten him a cab but by then he was too out of it so she just brought him back to her hotel.

She knew it was a mistake and hoped he'd forgive her but he'd been so insistent that no one be informed because, because, well, because he didn't want any adverse publicity or to worry his family and said that he'd be fine if he could just get some sleep in peace and private.

Of course, she knew that she should have ignored his wishes and, at the very least have the hotel doctor check him but he's been so adamant and well, she should have called the doctor and she would have if she thought he was going into any kind of problem with his breathing or something.

Just thank god that he was all right and woke up without any complications.

Please, dear god, let him wake up without any complications.

He could take a shower, get back into his clothes and be on his way.

This was it, it could work and if he was as fuzzy from the pills as she was sometimes then he might even buy the whole thing. Now, all she had to do was let him sleep it off and then make sure he knew how worried and concerned she was about him in the morning. All she had to do was let it play out and be convincing.

Down in the lobby, hanging out by the front door, the bellhop was trying not to laugh out loud thinking about clean-cut, all-American, teeny-bopper and tween pin-up, heart-throb Robin upstairs right this minute with that semi-hot cougar. "You can't make this shit up."

In the bedroom Robin was dreaming about being locked inside a place he didn't recognize by a person or people he didn't know who wouldn't tell him how he'd gotten there or why.

TBC