Flicker 》Harry Styles x Kennedy Walsh {COMPLETED}

31: The Skies, The Sun, and All The Good Things

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The pain in my side hadn't decreased even a little bit. Baby and his sister were now assisting me out of the airport, both of my arms slung over their shoulders while I try to hold in my grunts. I feel nauseous, like the kick pushed all the food I'd eaten up to my throat. Fucking gross.

"Just a bit more," he mutters.

We walk towards the parking lot and I direct them to where I parked my Corolla. Once there, I lean against the car door, my hand experimentally pressing against the spot. As soon as my fingers poke the skin, excruciating pain shoots up from that area, making me bend forward then stand straight again when that angle hurt more. Jesus, she went hard.

"You alone?" Baby asks.

It's fucking weird to call him that.

"Yeah," thanks for rubbing it in, I want to add but keep my mouth shut instead. I wince again when I attempt to step forward. I give them a small smile that I hope didn't look like a grimace. "Thanks for helping me out there."

"No problem," he says, running his eyes over my body, successfully making me uncomfortable. Then he snorts as if reading my thoughts before pointing at my stomach. "That's quite a shoeprint."

I look down, only now noticing that my black hoodie had a remnant of the girl's shoe. My hand raises to brush it off, but I let it down when I remember just how painful it was to even have the slightest contact in that area. Did she kick my intestine flat with that blow?

His sister slaps his bicep. "The lady gets mauled and that's all you have to say? Moron."

He laughs, rubbing the spot his sister hit. "I wouldn't have commented on it if it hadn't been so darn obvious."

She rolls her blue eyes, and only then do I take in her features. She's basically her brother's twin, with the same high cheekbones, straight nose, and full lips. The only very noticeable difference between them was their hair—while his was a mix of gold and brown, hers was a shocking forest green, momentarily bringing me back to my wild hair era not so long ago.

"I'm Alexi. What even was that back there? Why'd those girls attack you?"

I shift my weight to the other foot, looking for a way out of the conversation without lying or telling them about Harry or me being a Youtuber.

God knows how grateful I was for their intervention, but they were still strangers. And if there's something I've learned in watching endless Disney movies, it's that strangers get you into trouble in the long run—unless they're fireflies, dwarves, or fairy godmothers—which they are anything but.

"She mistook me for someone she knew," I say simply.

I mentally pat myself. That wasn't the exact truth, but it wasn't a lie either, and judging by the look on their faces, they seem to accept that explanation.

"Bitches. Well, are you okay now?" She asks, "We can bring you to the hospital if you want. Or we can have them detained for assault—"

'No!" I blurt, panicked at the idea of this incident being out to the public. Oh, the horror of speculation. I could almost hear the tweets in my head: What had Kennedy been doing in the airport? Obviously, she didn't fly out, so who was she sending off? Why was she so adamant on denying her identity? I shudder. "Definitely not. I'm fine."

Despite the crippling pain in my stomach, I was fine. Well, at least until the shock kicks in. Then I'll probably be freaking out, crying, or having an anxiety attack and will not be able to leave my house for a while.