OLDER MEN | THE WEEKND

19

I'm BACK
AND YAY

019

THE CHOCOLATE PUFFS TASTE stale on her tongue, the milk — oversweetened, the low-lactose non-fat one her mother buys. She chugs it down nonetheless — the apple she'd had for lunch had left her starving, yet the car ride with Abel had caused her stomach to shrink.

   The memories of his breath are still fresh on her flushed skin, as well as the scent of Mr. Dayholt's shirt in her slightly disheveled ponytail. It begins to hurt her head. Pushing the unfinished bowl away from herself, Bella unravels the updo, letting it cascade down her slender shoulders like crescents of waterfalling brown. She presses a lock to her nose. It smells just like the Kevin Murphy shampoo she'd used the night before — no memory of the laundry detergent of Archival's shirt...

  And yet, as she presses her fingertips to her flushed cheeks, images sinking deep into her conscience, she realizes that the trail Abel had left behind cannot be erased, nor can it be forgotten, nor can it dissipate into her surroundings. What she has started with him is purely, devilishly hers. 

    She buries her face in her hands.

  BELLA LIES awake for a long time that night, rolling over her bedsheets in desperate search for sleep, a slumber deep and necessary, which never comes.  Her fingers curl underneath her cheek as she shuts her eyes, and yet, as she does so, all she can see is the silhouette of the man she's using to avenge her mother, as if it's burned into her retinas like the scalding tip of a cigarette.

  She desperately needs a smoke, and she'd never tried cigarettes.

  Only cigars, which her father—

Her father.

   With a silent huff, Bella flips her pillow over to the cold side.

    IT'S NO SURPRISE TO Bella when she sees a matte black Porsche parked behind the gates of her mansion that morning.
  It's so much more than that.

    The sinking feeling in her heart, as though someone had pierced it, is tugging its chamber upwards, towards her throat. She brings her fingers to the rapidly pulsating vein on her exposed neck.
She'd gone for white today. The silk wool v-neck sweater accentuates her tan, and the Chanel pearls dangle from her ears like planets stretched on a golden string. The white flared jeans ruffle along the floor as she makes her way down the stairs.
    Bella's heart makes a leap as, through the glass doors of her house, she notes the car door opening and a panther— no, him, clad into black leather— saunters out of the luxurious vehicle.
There are two Mercedes parked behind him, Bella notes. Out of the first one, swiftly, a suited man approaches Abel, an umbrella in his hand.

She pushes the glass doors open, and he's closer than he's ever been, even though he's barely two meters close to her. Even from there, Bella can see a flicker of darkness overshadow his irises before he smiles.
Smiles.

There's something inexplicably poisoning unraveling in her chest as she turns back around, her eyes searching for the heavy gaze of her father. He's right there, the spoonful of his buckwheat and strawberry jam buttered porridge never quite reaching his mouth.
It's not the heaviness she craves, but the disapproval. She wants to be so much worse than he thinks. She wants to be his ruination.
She forces her expression into the mix of a stone-face and a raised eyebrow before turning back around, one of The Weeknd's suited assistants rushing up to her with a black umbrella.
With late horror, she realizes that she'd just copied Abel's sardonic look.

His eyes slither over her jeans as Bella buckles her seatbelt.
The inside of the Porsche is warm and red and muted, and Bella feels herself relax. The apple she'd grabbed on her way to his car is still resting in her delicate fingers as the engine roars to life and Abel makes their way out of the driveway of the Hadid mansion.

"Satisfied?" He asks, eyes trained on the road, though she can sense it that his intentions are trained on her.

"A neon one would've been better."

He clicks his tongue. "I forget that my sacrifices are made for a petulant nine-year-old."

"Nobody made you do this, you know."

He looks at her, then, and all of a sudden, she's not relaxed anymore.

"That's not breakfast."

"I'm not hungry in the mornings." Bella shoves the apple away from her, into her new calf-skin white Kelly. Besides, she's so strained that she fears taking a bite. Her throat closed off the moment she saw him exit that car.
His eyes are still on her.

They don't speak another word until he pulls up in front of the modern white block of her school, though Bella senses the tension increase by the moment. She exhales as she climbs out, and, turning her delicate profile back to Abel, waves her fingers. "Are you picking me up?"

"I've invited your father to dinner with us. Your mother, too."

Bella pales. "What?" She blinks. "When?"

"Tonight."

"Abel, I didn't agree to this—"

"So, naturally, I am picking you up. Unless you'd like to walk."

"But—I'm not dressed properly!"

"You think that any of your little short dresses would be better?" The ends of his mouth curl upwards wickedly. "For me, yes. For the restaurant staff? I doubt it."

"Please—"

The bell rings. Bella curses.

Abel makes a tsk-tsk sound with his tongue. "Don't cuss. And,—" he leans over to close the passenger door— "next time you have a tantrum, come to me."