Chiller (harry styles)

11: The Cold Ones

When the bike completely stops, Harry places his boot on the pavement and leans over. He looks ahead, and I see the hand of the smoker wave him forward. From this distance his expression appears friendly, as if he and Harry have known one another well for a long time. There's a building directly behind him, one of those brick houses that host small rock band shows and sell alcohol, like an underrated bar, but I can't make out the sign above it. The lights in the letters have dimmed out from time, and one large crack in what looks like a big 'C', which I suspect was an angry drunk's fault. But either way I can't make out much about the place. It's too dark here, and we're still too far away.

I climb off around the exact time Harry does, and we nearly clash our legs together.

I rub my knees reflexively.

"You might want to wait until I get off next time!" I shout at him.

He smiles that stupid half smile smirk of his that's so gosh damn pretty.

"Yes, ma'am." He says, pressing his lips together to keep from laughing. "Whatever you say."

I decide not to comment. I just roll my eyes at him, and watch him as he reaches into his shirt and pulls out a necklace. It's a silver paper plane.

"That's nice." I compliment.

He eyes me speculatively for a moment, like a hungry lion analyzes the behavior of his surroundings before he eats his pray.

"You have loads of gold and silver and pearls, and you think this piece of shit is 'nice'? Wow, babe, I must say, you're far worse in the head than I had previously considered."

Previously considered? There is nothing wrong with my head! I want to shout it at him, but I have no true power in anything right now.

I really just want to know why we're here this very minute, but I'll patiently wait for him to say something about why we're here and not rescuing my Jag from the unknown.

The smoker waves his hand again, smiling ear to ear, this time more urgently than before.

"Who's he?" I ask Harry, who ignores me and walks toward the man as if he is going over to rough him up, not greet him as a friend.

I stand frozen as if in a snow storm for a moment. I don't know if I want to follow, it looks like trouble, but I sure know I don't want to be stuck here. I doubt Harry would let me anyway. And besides, what about Harry hasn't been similar to trouble?

I make my way over to the two with no further contemplation, clutching my elbows to keep from shivering so badly in the brisk weather, and watch as the smoker boy's eyes look me up and down. I feel uncomfortable for a moment because of where we are, and the fact that he is probably another one of Harry's buddies, like Luke Hemmings. I decide not to worry too much, because this is what people do when they meet. I study him, too. He has a rather pretty set of large dark eyes, and choppy black hair. He has that same sexy-stay-away-from-me-I'm-nothing-but-trouble-baby look about him that Harry does. He doesn't look as rugged or reckless as Harry, though. I think it's his choppy hairstyle. It softens the no shave, smoker bad boy look a little and makes him look cuddly, like a teddy bear that's been tossed in the dumpster, given to an orphanage, and maybe even run over a couple of times. Not that I would ever cuddle with someone like that. The only thing I cuddle with is my pillow.

My thoughts are interrupted when the smoker boy reaches out his hand to me. He nods his head once in greeting as I carefully take it. I know my face might look disgusted right now, because when I glance at Harry out of the corner of my eyes he looks amused, as if he is trying to hold in laughter. But I can't help it. I don't have a clue where this boy's hands have been.