Neon Red [Order The eBook] [Zayn]

4

(DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. It's important to remember this is all totally fabricated, embellished, and exaggerated for entertainment purposes.)

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I shut the faucet off with my toes, stewing in the tub. Damn near lulled to sleep by the jets, I inhaled the steam and closed my eyes. It was cold here. If it weren't for the water, I'd be trembling. The lights were out, apart from the black tea candle flickering on the vanity. It let off an eerie glow that barely penetrated the darkness, its bittersweet perfumes filling the room.

It was 3am and he was asleep, buried beneath the duvet like a wounded animal the last I saw him. I'd been up for a while, watching him frown in his sleep; fighting the urge to smooth his brow with my fingertips. I stopped myself, thinking they'd be too cold. It was hard not to kiss him just then; but I told myself it'd be evil to disturb his sleep considering how jetlagged he was. Overcoming my fixation to read his dreams, I took a walk around the house in nothing but my briefs to make sure it was secured. Once he'd gotten here, it slipped my mind to lock everything up, since I was buzzin' from the moment he stepped out of the car. Last thing I needed now was for some overzealous fan to hop the gate and find any trace of him here.

At the front door I looked down the walkway, recalling a hundred different times I'd watched him come and go——sometimes glad, too often mad, a time or two enraged. His storming away played before my mind's eye so vividly, only for him to turn back and shout at me again. White t-shirts with the sleeves rolled to the shoulder. Ripped skinny jeans. Bandanas and headbands. Distressed Chelsea boots. Now wild Gucci florals barely buttoned to his midriff, billowing open to expose the butterfly——just the way he liked it. Big hats covering long, gorgeous curls. Messy topknots. Always with the Chelsea boots. The cross around his neck swinging violently anytime he gesticulated in anger.

It was hard to talk over him when he got like this. It was incredibly rare that he shouted, but when he did, it was with good reason. Apparently, I had that effect on people. Always pushing him to that point; and I was probably the only one on the planet capable of upsetting him this much. It was a weird flex that gave me a front row seat to the worst sides of him, but I liked that I was exceptional——for better or for worse. He could use me for target practice for all I cared, and I wouldn't complain a lick——long as I stood out from among the rest.

Most days he'd say a heated word or two, then he'd clam up and leave before I saw the tears. When he cried, he got red in the face first, and a vein slowly swelled at the temple. Those were the telltale signs I looked for and I knew to ease up when I spotted them. Don't make him cry, don't make him cry—I forever scolded myself. I couldn't stand to see him tearing up over me. Nothing was ever worth it.