OLDER MEN | THE WEEKND

07

07

     Her heart is in her chest— no, in her throat. Bella hides in the library like a little girl, waiting for the guests to leave.

  Except for she isn't waiting for them to leave. She wants the guests — the guest — to stay. She wants him to talk to his father forever, she wants the chefs to be making dinner and breakfast because he's staying the night,— right?
  Why's she so obsessed all of a sudden?— she thinks to herself, deep in thought, her eyebrows furrowed. From afar, she really does resemble a little girl — all cashmere stockings and pale dresses and locks of innocence.

   Except for Bella falls asleep in the couch with the thoughts little girls go to hell for.

   The cackling of the fireplace puts her to sleep monotonously, right there, in the plush emerald green couch of the library, her legs hanging off of the arms of her makeshift bed gallantly. She doesn't want to fall asleep, she thinks, because she'll miss him. What if they never meet again?...
  She shakes her head, half-asleep. Half-empty. Half-full.

  "How old are you?"

She's jolted awake by a silhouette. The silhouette blocks the fireplace, which now huffs its final breaths, leaving the library in a cold, dying glow.
   She doesn't know the silhouette. But the voice—
   It's him, she thinks. And then blushes furiously — thankfully, the last of the light is slowly dying. Behind him are thousands of books with golden letters written over their covers, and all she stares at is the darkness of his figure looming over her like a god.

   "Eighteen—" She whispers, her voice hoarse with sleep, and then adds, with reluctance, "—in October."

  The shadow says nothing, but she can feel his gaze running over her like gloved hands, all over her pale pink dress and cashmere stockings.

  "You woke me up." She finally says, regaining the last of reality after being torn out of the realms of dreams.

  "I asked you a question." The Weeknd cocks his head to the side, his teeth gleaming in the darkness, all fluorescent white. She doesn't know why he's smiling— or why that smile looks to her more like a threat.

  "Well, what time is it?" She also doesn't know why she's whispering. His scent is seeping through the air of the library. "Damn it, I can't believe I fell asleep—"

  "It's around midnight."

Bella's breath hitches in her throat. "Why're you still here?"

    "Your father decided to show us his pool table."

Bella raises her eyes at him. "And why aren't you at his pool table?"

   "I decided to take a walk." His voice is deep — it rolls off of the walls and back to her, enveloping her, awakening her.
  She feels amusement in it — something she hadn't noticed before, alongside a note of melancholy.
   Or boredom.
She doesn't know which.

   "You know," Bella says, her eyes not torn away from where she thinks his silhouette should have eyes —"I thought you came here to apologize."

  The shadow scoffs. "For what, kitten?"

   Kitten. The nickname on his lips is sweeter than honey.

   "Well, for locking us up in the bathroom of some random club after being too intoxicated to perform—"

  "You were free to leave."

   "No, you'd locked up the door—"

   "Aren't you quite— mannerless, little girl, to be talking to elders like that?" There's certainly amusement in his tone now, as though he'd never before been disrespected.

   "Did you wake me up to interrogate me?" Bella asks fretfully— although she admittedly doesn't mind it one bit.

  "I'm leaving now, kitten." The Weeknd warns. "And you're misbehaving."

  "I take etiquette classes every Wednesday, for your information—"

  The shadow reaches out and, like jolts of electricity, Bella feels his fingers caress her jaw. Her body responds almost unwillingly— for she's just been called a little girl, she's supposed to be frustrated— but she arches herself at his touch, like a grenade that's finally found a hitting point.

   Her breaths quicken— she's sure her can hear them like his own. She wants to obey every single one of his commands and jolt away from his hand at the same time.

  She can almost hear him smirk.

That man, Bella thinks. She doesn't want to continue her thought.

  He's tracing the line of her neck now, steady and slow— all the way down to her exposed collarbone. Her breaths are erratic, electric — just like her heart. She watches him, her back arched.

  "Hadid," he says lowly. "You could've lied and said that you aren't one."

  "Then I'd have to— kiss you," Bella rushes out, breathless. "Back in the club."

  He moves his hand away — and reality, to Bella, is like an ice-cold shower. The fireplace'd died a few minutes before — they're now in complete and utter darkness.

   She feels it, now. Electricity.

  "I'm not a Hadid," she whispers. "You're wrong, Tesfaye, I'm not a Hadid."

  The shadow chuckles. "Tesfaye."

     "That's your surname, right?" Bella blushes furiously— again. She shouldn't have said that. He probably knows that she'd stalked him. Fuck. He says nothing about the fact that—

   "My stage name is The Weeknd, kitten."

"Well, my stage name isn't kitten — it's Isabella for you."

   "Isabella," he teases leisurely. "Good night, Isabella. I'd say go to your bedroom— but you're too comfortable here, aren't you, little Isabella?"

   "Stop saying it like that!" Bella hisses. She's beginning to feel helpless, truly like a petulant little child that isn't getting the chocolate bonbon that she oh-so-wants.

"Did you like it when I touched your neck, Isabella?" His voice is low and threatening now. She stops breathing. "Do you know what I can do to you?"

He's serious now. Dark, like the night itself. He'd morphed himself into it. Become one with it.

"Answer me."

"Yes," she breathes.

He leans away from her— she doesn't realize how close he'd gotten. Her senses are screaming at her to run.

He takes a step back. "Sweet dreams, kitten."

And then, several calculated strides later, he's at the door, and he's closing it behind him on his way out, and Bella— Isabella— can't find enough air to breathe.