Near To You (One Direction Fan Fiction)

Chapter Twelve

Near to You

12

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Please excuse me I’m not thinking clear. It might just be stress, but I likely shouldn’t be here.

The Listening - Lights

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            Zayn hadn’t been lying when he said he would be seeing me on Sunday, rain or shine. It wasn’t for the reason we had anticipated, however. Three people stared us down from our seats at the end of the table in the small, windowless conference room.

            We couldn’t be trusted anywhere someone could see us, apparently, because we had caused enough damage as it was.

            “So tell me again,” The man named Paul sighed, rubbing his temples. “Why didn’t you just say they got a picture when it first happened? We could have stopped this all from happening.”

            “I didn’t think it was important.” Zayn shrugged. “I get photographed with people all the time. It’s not like she’s famous. I didn’t know they’d find out her name or anything. No offence.”

            I shook my head. I was the furthest thing from offended at that moment. It was only a matter of time before Julia saw those pictures. They were everywhere—in front of the Daily Mail and The Sun, as well as every other gossip rag in London. She wouldn’t not see it. Then it would be my PR sitting in front of me with that stern expression.

            This had all just become an unsolvable mess.

            “That doesn’t matter.” Paul looked as if he was going to scold us further, but he calmed himself before continuing. “But it’s been done, so now we have to figure out what we’re going to do about it.”

            “What we need to do first is make sure that she wasn’t the one who made the call.” The dark skinned woman glared at me. She was the severest looking of the group. Her hair was tied back into a slick bun, not a strand out of place, and her makeup was pristine.

            “Of course she didn’t!” Zayn jumped to my defence before I could speak. “She wouldn’t willingly have people camping outside her apartment waiting to snap a photo of her. She was terrified when she called me this morning—”

            “Zayn.” I rested my hand on his arm and he hesitated. “It’s alright.”

            “It’s not alright! They’re accusing you of—”

            “I didn’t do it,” I told the woman evenly. Whether she believed me or not was her problem. I was telling the truth. When I had woken up that morning to get ready for my history class and saw all those photographers camped out on the street, I had thought perhaps there had been an accident and they were there for the news stations.

            When the flashes started going off when I emerged, however, I was forced to go back inside and call Zayn, unsure of what was going on. Needless to say that by the time they were all driven away by the police I had missed both my morning and afternoon classes, and then I was carted away to meet the scary people who made Zayn’s image what it was.

            “How can we solve this?”

            I sank back in my seat and I watched Zayn deflate as his anger simmered quietly. “We just tell them the truth.”

            “They don’t want the truth,” the woman pointed out before Paul could respond. “It would damage what we’ve been trying to build. He can’t be seen out with what they’ll take as just another tryst.”