Neon Red [Order The eBook] [Zayn]

9

(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 waited for a callback, a text, a DM; anything to let me know he was okay. An unnatural silence followed, during which I rehashed the last twenty minutes at warp speed, inhaling the steam filling the stall. Remembering the desperation in his voice. The urgency in his moans. The stridency of his rasps against the speaker; half-choked. I pictured him sobbing, shoulders shaking, cold and unguarded. Lost in a wilderness of post-nut regret. I decided to break first and call. As I went to dial, my fingers slipped, mucking up the wet screen. A jigsaw of reflective spatters. Logic prevailed, urging me to towel it off before doing anything further.

"Z?!" G called from the other side of the door, her tone betraying an uncertainty of whether or not I was alone. I nearly dropped the phone when she shook the handle like a maniac. "Open up!"

"Yeah, babe, one sec!" I called, heart in my throat. Why the fuck was she awake? What was so pressing she couldn't wait for me to leave the shower? Why was I trembling like a henpecked bitch? I locked the phone, swishing the water from the screen to pretend I hadn't brought it in the shower.

"Open up!" She demanded, pounding on the door with the side of her fist.

"Are youh daft?!" I snapped. This wasn't our place. If she damaged the paint we'd be charged for the entire door. Probably a paint job for the whole room. I slipped stepping out onto the matless floor, looking for a towel but finding none. She was so fucking selfish when we traveled, always using two towels after the shower; one for her hair and one for her body. Damn anyone else.

"Zayn..." she ground out. "I swear to God, you have five fucking seconds to open this door or I'm tearing it down! Hurry up!"

"G, babe, chill! What the fuck?!" Using a washcloth to dab my face and hands dry, I ran it once or twice across the phone before flinging it onto her dirty clothes in the corner. Fuck it. It was now or never. No sense prolonging the inevitable, as my dad would say. I had stepped in it, and it was time to face the music. She definitely knew.

I took a steadying breath and set my hand to the handle. Why was I so unnerved? This wasn't me. I didn't react like this. But for some reason I was scared shitless. Her silence on the other side of the door was bloodchilling. The sort of fear you could taste. Gathering like phlegm at the back of your throat. Not fear of her, but the situation. Of the guilt or disgust she would project towards me. I'm almost certain I couldn't face it. I slung the door open anyway, prepared to charge into a hostile encampment.

"Babe, I—"

"What the fuck were you doing?!"

"G, what the fuck are youh talkin' about? I'm just showerin', maan. Ever heard of that before?"

"Not in the middle of the night, idiot." She was livid. She had put my t-shirt back on and her hair was a mess, slinging in straw-colored frays around her face and neck. Like she'd crawled out of a drying machine fraught with static cling. Her eyes were puffy with sleep, and she looked like she'd been crying. I could almost feel the gritty inflammation that singed the lids. She registered the phone in my hand and drew her own conclusions.

"You fucking disgust me...you truly fucking disgust me—"

"What is even happenin' right now?!" I played possum, buying time and grasping at straws for a suitable lie. "What the fuck are youh on about?! Youh have a fucked up dream or sumethin'?!"