Chiller (harry styles)

6: Black Wall Forest

The starlight guides us through the city streets. Several tiny lamp lights above glow orange and fade maroon. Among the rubble and lines on the road are small scratch marks, being luminous credit to Harry's motorcycle light. I am holding onto him with everything I have. He's made some pretty sharp turns, and he rides faster than I do in the Jag, which makes me fearful that I could fall to my death.

I lean up barely, just close enough to his ear so that he can hear me over the sound of the engine.

"Could you slow down, please?" I ask politely.

He chuckles, and revves the bike handles with his massive hands.

"No, I'm too busy enjoying having your body pressed up against me like it's ready to make babies with mine."

He answers, his voice sarcastic, and somehow I know he's smirking.

I release a loud breath.

I would never in a million years make babies with him.

"Please, I'm afraid I'll fall off." I beg him.

He shakes his head, and turns another sharp corner.

I make a slight squealing noise, as I've been doing every time he does that, and clutch his leather jacket into tight balls around my fists.

Harry laughs and mumbles something about spoiled girls that I find unintelligible.

"I wouldn't let that happen." Harry

tells me, and his voice is so sure that I don't argue.

We've been riding for at least a half hour when I decide to not focus on dying and check out the new surroundings. It's different here, on this new corner of town. There is forest all around us. On both sides of the street I can see beady yellow eyes among the leaves, and delicate rustles against the bark of trees.

I hug him tighter to my body.

"God, I love this ride." Harry says quietly, almost to himself.

He takes a hand off the wheel , and the bike slows down a bit. That makes me feel no safer. Why does he seem to take a step forward, and then two steps backward? I can't figure him out.

"Put your hand back on the wheel, crazy!" I hiss at him.

Harry reaches it back and touches my thigh with it. I can't breathe.

"One or the other. Either we go fast, or we go left." He tells me.

I want to scream, I really do. But I have always been taught to be a lady, and ladies do not act that way.

Not most of the time, at least. Sometimes I scream inside my pillow about how much I hate my life. No mother. A rich, couldn't care at all father. An expectation of always being the best. Stereotypes. Special treatment. Piper. No boyfriend. One friend (because apparently I'm a smart, rich brat.) And nothing at all to help me breathe. I'm smothering in gold, when I'd be just as happy with a penny.

It seems I don't care though, about whether or not I scream now or not. He takes all my morals and ethics and rips them to shreds with his no care attitude, making my saucy side come out of hiding. I like my saucy side. I wonder if he wants mild or spicy.

"Really? I can't stand you!" I shout over the engine.

He doesn't say anything, and doesn't put his hand back on the wheel.

I kick my leg up, the one his hand is on, to attempt to tell him to lay off.

He takes this as a green light apparently, and moves it up further.