Illicit [Harry Styles]

Chapter 49

"Shit, Jess..." he said when he saw what a mess I was in. Neither of us were the most confident or talkative of people, so I was feeling a little bit awkward all of a sudden.

"I'm so sorry to drag you out this late, this isn't your problem and—"

"It's alright, don't worry about it, yeah? Where we going?"

"I don't know," I confessed with frustration, running my hands over my face and up over my hair whilst trying to rack my brain. "I-I guess we should try Harry's? That'll probably be where Niall thought to look first."

He gave a small nod before diverting his eyes forward again and taking off up the road in the direction of town. Neither of us said anything to the other for the duration of the journey; I just sat still, occasionally having to sniffle to stop my nose from running and glancing sideways to sneak a peak at Zayn. I couldn't get my head around the fact I was actually in the car with him, loading my problems off on him on a Thursday night.

He drove silently with one elbow leaning against the window frame of his door, the fingers on that hand mindlessly running over the light stubble on his chin. A pattern was peeking out from under his sleeve, intricate black ink swirled around on the skin of his left hand. I found myself wondering what other tattoos he had, and felt a pang of hurt when my mind wandered to Harry's tattoos and how he'd designed and drawn them himself. I thought, since they were close, maybe Harry had drawn some of the designs for Zayn's as well.

I was already thinking about Harry subconsciously, and whenever I clocked what I was doing and remembered what'd happened only hours ago, a dull ache appeared in my — what felt like — hollow chest. Would it always be like this? Would I always get this wistful feeling when I thought about him?

The warm air blasting from the car, along with the nervousness I was trying to suppress, was making my cheeks heat up and my head throb, but soon enough we were turning into Harry's road. Zayn stopped the car in the middle of the quiet road and we both peered through the window at the deserted house.

"It doesn't look like anyone's home," he mused. I hated that he was right because that meant it'd be longer until we found them; no lights were on inside and all of the cars were gone from the driveway. "Do you want to get out and have a look? Just in case?"

I nodded slowly when he rolled his head round to gaze at me with a questioning look in his eyes. Climbing out of the warmth of the car, I walked up the drive and grimaced as the sound of stones under my shoes echoed throughout the silent street — being the only sound you could hear for miles. I glanced back to Zayn for reassurance, and when I saw he was watching and waiting for me I peeped through the living room window. Through the net curtains all I could see was black, I could vaguely make out the shapes of their furniture but there was no sign of any life. The huge house was eerily dark and still, confirming to me that there was definitely no one inside.

After a vague inspection, I ran back to the car and fell into the passenger seat again with a deep, worried sigh. "There's no one here, it's empty."

"Where else could he be?"

"I... I'm not sure. Haven't you got any ideas? You're his friend."

Zayn cluelessly shrugged his shoulders, "I don't know him like you do."

A sharp sting shot straight through me at those seven words, that one sentence which to Zayn was just a string of syllables, but to me meant something so much more. I tried not to let it show that what he'd said had effected me, pretending to look like I was thinking about the possible whereabouts of Harry and now my brother.

Where else would Harry go? I tried to think back to every place I'd ever been with him, or places I'd heard him talk about, but my brain just wasn't working. It was like the idea was buried in my head and I knew it was there but I just couldn't uncover it. Like when you have a dream, and when you try to explain it you can see the events in your head however you can't put it into words.