Chapter 52
A/N and TW:
This chapter contains mentions of sexual assault. I know that this can be a very triggering topic for some, and though I didn't go into any graphic detail, I just want to forewarn that it comes up in the discussion between two characters. If you don't feel comfortable reading this, I have written a chapter summary at the end that you can skip to!
If you are a survivor of assault or any type of abuse – just know that you are loved, you are supported and I am so, so proud of you. Your trauma, whether it may seem big or small to someone else, is always valid and never makes you any less who you are.
I am here if anyone ever needs to talk and I love you so very much. Xo <3
--
By the time I made my way down to the kitchen at around 8 a.m., Morgan had already arrived. I wasn't sure what time she'd shown up, wasn't sure I even entirely cared given that my mind was much too preoccupied with other things. Preoccupied with a certain man who had fled this morning, leaving me tossing and turning in his absence, only to wake up a mere few hours later already sick to my stomach with anxiety.
I knew that these jobs were normal for Harry – I understood that it was his lifestyle and he'd done probably hundreds before meeting me, but that didn't mean I wasn't any less nervous. Especially because he'd said it was only him and Zayn going. Yes, he had the security team, but I doubted that the security team was even going to be anywhere close to them when they were completing the actual job they'd gone there to go do.
"Hi, g'morning," she chirped from behind the kitchen counter, turning to greet me upon my entrance. She looked like she'd been up for hours already with both her hair and makeup done, dressed in a faded band tee and light wash jeans. "Made you breakfast," she slid a plate in my direction, wincing a bit. "Burned it though. Harry's hi-tech fucking stove is so bloody hard to figure out."
I gave a short laugh, sliding onto the stool across from her and pulling the overdone eggs and bacon toward me, not having the heart to tell her that both of those happened to make me sick. And that I doubted I could eat with the nerves swirling in my stomach anyway.
"Thank you," I said quietly, picking off a piece of the toast – which she'd also managed to burn. "Did you just get here?"
Morgan walked around the counter, seating herself on the stool beside me. She slid over a mug of coffee, cradling another between her palms. She shook her head. "Got here when the guys left. Zayn dropped me off."
"You've been here since then?" My eyes widened and I gratefully sipped from my drink, revelling in the taste of caffeine sliding down my throat. "Have you been awake this whole time? You could've gotten me up or something, so you didn't have to sit down here alone."
She grinned, waving an arm in dismissal. "Harry told me under no circumstances was I allowed to wake you. In fact, he said I wasn't even allowed to go upstairs until you'd come down yourself because, apparently, I'm–" she made air quotes with her fingers, "–'too loud'."
I rolled my eyes, taking another bite of the toast. "He's an idiot. I would have gladly come down to keep you company."
"Don't worry about it," she reached forward, giving my hand a squeeze. "Had a pretty good few hours anyway trying to get Harry's TV to work. I swear this man lives in a confusing fucking technological fortress. I can't get anything to work."
"No, literally," I took a sip of the coffee. "And I swear he doesn't even use half the shit he's got here. At least it's safe though, right?"
Morgan scrunched up her nose, swivelling on her chair toward the living room. "I guess you're right. But I mean, if I were going to try and break in here, all I'd really to do was–" she suddenly reached behind her, pulling from the waistband of her pants a gun and imitated shooting it directly at the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, "–pew, pew. Shoot right through the glass and I'm in."
I spun in the direction of the windows as well, furrowing my brows before glancing over at her. "I'd say they're probably bulletproof though, wouldn't you?"
She turned to look at me, biting her lip to contain a grin. "Wanna find out?"
"No!" I sputtered, choking back a laugh. "God, it's taken this damn long to get Harry to trust me, the last thing I need is for him to come home to shattered windows because we were fucking around."
"Party pooper," Morgan rolled her eyes with a grin, reaching to grab a piece of bacon from my plate. "Speaking of that. What're you up to today? I can't really leave or come back unless you're here."
I frowned, shoving around the remaining bits of toast on my plate. "What? Why? I think I'm going to work but that's about it."
"You're the one with security access to this place," Morgan clarified, mouth full of food. "Despite how many times I've begged Harry to at least give me a thumb print or something. But no, every time it's always 'I'm not having you break in here in the middle of the night to drive my cars, Morgan' or 'Morgs, you can call me when you get into a fight with Zayn and need somewhere to stay, don't just show up.'"
I found myself laughing at her words. Mainly because I could vividly picture the frown on Harry's face thinking about him reiterating to her over and over that he wasn't going to give her access to his place and also because it was almost comical to think about Morgan and Zayn having relationship troubles. Whenever I'd seen them, they always seemed so happy and in love, it was easy to forget that even in the strongest relationship, there could be disagreements sometimes. No two people are ever going to agree on everything because no two people are exactly the same.
"Yeah, all I've got is work today..." I repeated, fiddling with the hem of my sweater. "Um, have you got any plans? I'm sorry that I'm basically your key to this place. I don't mind waiting or coming back early if you need–"
"I haven't got anything on the agenda," Morgan interrupted, tapping a blue-painted nail on the counter. "Will probably just hang around here. Distract myself. Try not to think about Zayn too much."
Her voice faltered a bit at the end. It was brief, but I caught the flash of emotion that passed over her face before it was quickly replaced by a tight-lipped grin that she forced into action. She was worried. Really worried about him. And suddenly, I knew why she hated being alone so much when he went away. It was the same reason I currently couldn't fathom sitting by myself just thinking and overthinking Harry's wellbeing. Despite how brave she was, that bravery could do nothing when she was thousands of miles away from the person that I was sure she'd go to great lengths to protect.
"Did you want to come to the studio with me?" I asked softly, running the pad of my finger around the rim of my coffee mug. Morgan's face softened and all at once, I suddenly felt a smidge embarrassed. "You don't have to. I just figured it could help keep you distracted. I could teach you how to paint and..." I swallowed hard, glancing toward the floor, before quietly admitting, "and I don't really wanna be alone either."
The next thing I knew, Morgan had jumped from her stool and thrown her arms around my neck. "Yes," she cried, pulling back enough to look me in the eye – an ear-splitting grin having overtaken her face. "I'd love to. Thank you for inviting me."
My arms wrapped around her lower waist and I pressed into the hug, grateful for the intimacy. I had to shove down the part of me that longed to hug Harry like this one day, not wanting to overstep his boundaries but knowing it would do us both a world of good.
"We'll get through these next few days," I whispered into Morgan's ear. "Together."
--
Morgan was a surprisingly fast learner. When I wasn't with clients, I'd spent the day teaching her how to paint. We'd gone over silhouettes, landscapes, some realism and abstract art. All of which she picked up quite quickly and even tried her hand at painting me, which hadn't turned out half bad. By the time the end of the day rolled around, we had about a dozen canvases filled up and were lugging out a handful more that she'd actually bought from the studio.
"You didn't have to do that," I told her on the ride home. We were in Harry's Maserati and I had made sure this time to change out of my paint-splattered overalls before getting in. "If you only bought them to be nice, we can return them."
"You're crazy if you think I only bought them to be nice," Morgan was fixing her lipstick in the passenger seat, her face pressed close to the sun visor. She popped it shut before continuing, "I loved all the art in there. You guys have a lot of great pieces. I'd have bought the whole shop if Zayn and I had the room."
She talked for most of the ride back home about how much fun she had, how she couldn't wait for her pieces to dry so that she could bring them home to show Zayn and that she swore she was going to enroll in my paint class, to which I told her it was a bunch of old women who love to gossip but that seemed to only entice her further. And despite my anxiety from earlier, I found myself laughing. Actually laughing. Enjoying myself alongside Morgan, grateful to be in the presence of someone that knew exactly what was going on in my life – about Harry, about the drop, Damien – and finding that I actually genuinely enjoyed hanging out with her. Listening to her shitty jokes, her stories about her and Zayn, when they started dating, some snippets of conversation about Harry.
We were around halfway back to Harry's from the studio when she turned to me and asked, "Can we stop at Devil's Due?"
I stole a glance at the time on the dashboard. It was late in the evening. "Is it open?"
Morgan grinned, dipping a hand in her bra and retrieving a small silver key. "It is if I'm here."
"Sure," I found myself smiling and flicked on the turn signal. "Do you have something to pick up?"
She shook her head. "Nah. Just in the mood for a new tattoo."
"What?" I looked over at her. "You're just randomly gonna give yourself a new tattoo?"
Morgan was busy inspecting her arm. She'd pulled her sleeve up to her shoulder and was trailing her fingers over her skin, seemingly trying to figure out where she'd put this spontaneous new piece of ink. "It's been a while," she said. "A few months. Plus, whenever I've thought about going to get a new one, all the guys are home and they're so..." she scrunched up her nose, "Judgy. Harry's the fucking worst. Always looking over my shoulder at whatever I do, trying to backseat tattoo, only to end up getting frustrated and demand I let him finish it."
I chewed on my lower lip, trying to suppress a grin. "And do you let him?"
Morgan laughed. "Obviously. The last thing I ever wanna do is tell him no. Actually–" she twisted in her seat, trying to get a look at the back of her arm, "–most of these are ones he's done. That's back when he was tattooing a lot. He's not at the shop much anymore."
"Mm," I hummed, hating the fact that I'd asked to drive if only because I now had a sudden fascination blooming within me, begging that I pull the car over and inspect every last smattering of ink along Morgan's arms. What possessed me to say this, I wasn't sure, but I found myself blurting, "Harry joked about letting me give him a tattoo on his neck."
"Yeah?" Morgan leaned her elbow on the door, resting her head against her closed fist. I could feel her looking at me while I drove, could hear the amused smile on her face as she spoke. "Guess I'll have to teach you how to use a tattoo gun."
"Yeah, let's actually not if we both want to keep our eyes," I joked with a short laugh. "What've you got in mind to get done?"
"Think I might get 'Going to California', the song by Led Zeppelin," she mused. "It's mine and Z's favourite song. I'd get his initials but he's so adamant on tattooing that on me himself and we just haven't gotten the time yet."
We were both silent for a moment. And then, very quietly, I asked, "You love him a lot, don't you?"
She was looking out the window now. We were a few blocks away from the tattoo parlour. "I really do."
"He's usually..." my voice came out especially soft and I couldn't brave looking her in the eye. "I mean, him and Harry, they usually come back from these things unscathed, right?"
"Unscathed might be a bit of an understatement," she blew out a breath. "They're usually alive but..." a gentle shake of her head came before her next words, "sometimes they come back looking a little worse for wear. I'm not entirely sure what they're off doing right now, something for fucking Damien, but they don't usually tell me. Or at least, not anymore, considering I used to freak out and tell Zayn he couldn't go or at least had to bring me."
"So, it is something for Damien then?"
Morgan turned to look at me, shifting in her seat a bit. "I'm assuming it's for... what Damien wanted Harry to do to make up for Italy. To make sure you stay alive."
I was thankful I'd put the car in park already out front of the shop, considering the news hit me like a physical blow. I'd known Harry had to do another job to make up for what had gone on in Italy, but I hadn't known that the job was dependent on my life.
"Wait," I shook my head, bracing a hand on the wheel, "Harry went and did this job to make sure I stayed alive? Were those the terms?"
Morgan opened and shut her mouth a few times, suddenly looking a little unsure of herself. "Did Harry not... tell you?"
"I knew he had to do another job but I just figured it was because we'd fucked up and–" I found myself wincing, "–killed all those people in Italy."
"That is why he has to do it," Morgan went on gently. "Just... Harry hadn't wanted to agree to it, because he doesn't technically work for Damien anymore, and I think Damien used you to get him to agree."
"Like he threatened to kill me?"
"He... I think he just said that in order for your agreement to be upheld, the one where you're left alone, that Harry has to do this job for him."
I tried not to let the impact of her words show. With a shaky breath, I fell back in my seat, running my hands a few times over the steering wheel. "So, it's my fault? That Harry's in Morocco right now probably on the brink of getting killed?"
"It isn't your fault at all," Morgan said earnestly and unclicked her seatbelt, shuffling herself toward the center console where she placed a reassuring hand on my leg. "Damien would have found one way or another to get Harry to agree and..." she trailed off, the skin between her brows creasing when I glanced over at her, "Wait, he told you he was going to Morocco?"
"I..." My brain turned over a few times. "I think that's what he said."
"Weird," Morgan frowned. "I could've sworn Zayn told me that they were going to Mexico."
"Oh..." I thought about Harry showing up at my apartment yesterday, how I'd been too hung up on the fact that he was there to really focus on anything else. "It was a long day yesterday. I probably heard him wrong." I shook my head. "It was most likely Mexico that he said."
"Either way," Morgan gave me a small squeeze. "It isn't your fault. Harry will be fine. Him and Zayn both will be. Okay?"
I nodded, feeling no more reassured than I'd been a few hours ago. "Right. Okay."
Morgan grinned. "Perfect. Now let's go tattoo."
--
I'd have to hand it to Morgan that the shop was a lot less intimidating when it was just her and I. She had a way of making places seem just that much more inviting, especially because the moment we entered, she made sure to switch on all the lights and connected her phone to one of the speakers she had on hand to play some music.
"Morgan, I can't," I blurted around an hour later. She'd gotten us some water, had set everything up, and been tattooing herself for the better part of 45 minutes. My face blanched at the sight of the tattoo gun she had outstretched in my direction. "Seriously. I'll fuck it up."
"You won't," she reassured, wiggling the item between her fingers. I was sat on a stool beside her, holding in my lap the appropriate aftercare she'd need. The only help I could offer. "And if you do," she continued, the cigarette between her teeth bobbing, "who fucking cares? It'll be a story to tell. There's literally one letter left. That's all you have to do."
My wide eyes flitted up to hers. "What if I hurt you?"
"Baby, the whole thing hurts. There's no doubt you're gonna hurt me, but it'll be a good pain."
I stared at the gun for a few more seconds, my stomach turning over. "I don't know..."
"C'mon," she sing-songed. "A single 'a'. That's all I'm asking you to do." A beat of silence. "How are you going to tattoo Harry's neck if you can hardly tattoo a letter on my arm?"
"I'm not going to tattoo Harry's neck," I blurted. "He was joking about that."
"That man never jokes," Morgan mumbled with a roll of her eyes. "Trust me. If he brought it up, he's expecting you to do it."
"I..." my face felt hot with nerves. "Are you really sure you want me to do this?"
She was grinning, something that only sent my anxiety skyrocketing. She didn't seem phased in the least. "Totally sure, babe."
The next ten seconds were ones that I wasn't even sure the actual me had anything to do with. One moment I was shaking on my stool, the next I was heaving a deep breath and reaching for the gun in Morgan's hand, forcing a smile when she began to cheer.
"Okay," she placed her arm on the table beside us. "So, what you're gonna do is dip the gun in the vial of ink," I obeyed, willing my hands to remain steady, "and then get it nice and close to my skin – yup, just like that. You're doing awesome. Then, when you're ready," she slid something on the ground over in my direction, "you're going to step on that foot switch, and it'll start the gun. All you have to do after that is trace the outline of the letter."
I took a deep breath. "That's it?"
She laughed. "You'll find that it's a bit harder once the gun's actually on my skin. It'll feel a little hard at first but once you get into the groove of it, it'll gradually get easier." She paused, noticing how I was still eyeing the tentative ink branded on her arm. "You've got this," she assured me. "I believe in you."
"Right..." I moved closer, careful to drag the switch by my foot with me. "Alright." I took a steadying breath. "Here goes nothing."
Tattooing was nothing like I expected. Morgan had been right that, at first, it was tough. I think that's because part of me had to get over that I was penetrating her skin with a bunch of tiny needles, but after getting over that thought, the gun moved more smoothly over the outline of the letter. It was completely finished in just over ten minutes, leaving the two of us to celebrate my achievement.
Morgan was grinning at what I'd done when I finally set the gun down on the tray beside us both. "It looks–"
"More like an 'o'," I winced, angling my head to the side.
She cocked her head to the side after me, the two of us inspecting the letter. After a few seconds, she turned to me, still smiling just as wide. "'O', 'a', who fucking cares? It looks great. And you've officially done your first tattoo."
"I basically tattooed a circle," I said flatly, watching as she dressed and covered the ink. The rest of the tattoo was perfect. A lovely font, bold and beautiful, reading 'Going to Californi–' and then that font abruptly changes, no longer sharp, clean lines, but jagged and broken ones for an a that looks more like an o. But she was right. I'd done it. And I was proud.
"I'm sure Z's gonna love it too," she said, busying herself putting away all of the ink and the gun. I stood up from the stool, wordlessly appearing by her side and let her hand me things that I could help to put away as well. She snorted. "He'll probably want you to tattoo one on him as well. Though Harry'd probably beat him to a pulp if you touch Zayn with a tattoo gun before him."
"I tattooed you."
She straightened herself up, catching my eye with a wink. "Yes, but I can actually hold my own against Harry."
"Very true," I laughed, following her into the hallway as she shut off the light and led the two of us to the front of the shop.
"You wanna smoke?" Morgan asked over her shoulder. "Get high, I mean?"
I contemplated this for a few seconds. "Do you have weed here?"
She was quick to shake her head, turning back away from me as she reached the desk, yanking it open to sift through a handful of papers. "God, no. I have some in the car. We don't keep any drugs here because of Harry."
My brows twitched together. I sat down on the cracked leather couch, stretching my legs out in front of me. "Because of... Harry? Does he not let you guys?"
Morgan seemed preoccupied with the files in front of her and didn't look up as she replied, "No, because he–" she stopped herself abruptly, flattening her hands on the desk and glanced up at me, suddenly looking like she'd said that wrong thing. "Because he doesn't like them," she concluded quickly.
I couldn't help but find myself frowning. "Mm... Right."
The girl before me straightened up, wringing her hands together. She drew in a deep breath, abandoning whatever she'd been searching for and carefully made her way over to me, where she took a seat at my side on the couch. For a long moment, she looked my face up and down, before quietly asking, "Has Harry told you a lot about himself?"
My gaze flitted down to the fray in my jeans that I was currently toying with. "He... If you're talking about his childhood and stuff, he told me he grew up in a foster home. And that he used to..." I could barely get the words out, a lump forming in my throat, "That he used to fight in those rings."
Morgan's eyes widened. "He told you that?"
I nodded. "He said that's why whenever they come around every month, he tends to get a little on edge."
For a long moment, silence hung between us. I wasn't sure if it was because Morgan had nothing to say or just didn't know what to say. Finally, after some time had passed, she shifted a bit and sunk back in the couch, shaking her head. Her voice was eerily quiet when she said, "I used to fucking hate seeing him like that. Seeing him fight."
The shock was evident in my tone. "You'd be there? When he fought?"
Morgan chewed on her inner cheek, leaning forward to brace her elbows on her knees. "I'd have to be. Damien would bring me."
"Damien...?" I thought this over for a few seconds. "What... I mean, why? Would you fight too?"
"Christ, no."
"How old were you?" A brief memory of her telling me she'd gotten involved with him when she was around 17 resurfaced and I had to suppress a shiver.
"Young," she wouldn't meet my eye. Her voice was low. So low that I barely even caught it. "Too fucking young."
"I'm sorry," my voice was just above a whisper and I instinctively reached to grab her hand. "I'm sorry you had to be there for that."
"Damien was... is," she slowly shook her head, turning to look at me. My heart lurched when I realized that her eyes were rimmed with tears. "He's a fucking piece of shit. Who I'd gladly watch die a slow and painful death if I could. I don't think I hate anyone more on this planet than I do him. Every day it makes me sick to think that he's got you involved in this lifestyle now." She drew in a shaky breath, looking a little unsure of herself for a few seconds before saying, "He... started assaulting me a few months after I'd agreed to start working with him." Her admission struck me deep, had nausea immediately churning in my stomach. I remained silent while she continued, "He took things away from me, forced me into scenarios that made me question every part about myself. Made me wish I was dead. I hated my life for a very long time, sometimes even still do, because of him."
Tears were slipping down her cheeks as she went on, "I'm free now. As free as I can be, I mean. Harry, god," she shook her head as I ran a reassuring hand up and down her back, "The very first thing that Harry did when Damien gifted him the cartel was insist that I work for him. He told Damien that he needed me and wouldn't take even a single other man from him if he just agreed to give me over. It was because he'd known what Damien was doing to me that he got me out of there..." her voice cracked, "and I can't even express to him how grateful I am. I owe him my life. I would have died if I had to endure even a few more months working under Damien. Once I joined his cartel, Harry said I didn't have to work with him if I didn't want to. That I was free to do whatever I wanted but I refused. Harry... he's... we didn't ever really talk. Not back then, at least, when everything was going on. In fact, until he stopped fighting, he barely spoke to anyone. He wasn't ever compassionate or emotional, which I think Damien liked, but he still got me out of there. Whether he'd tell me outright or not that he did it because he cared, I know it's because he's a good person. He's always been a good person, even if he isn't able to see that himself. And I'll spend my whole life trying to repay him for what he did."
"He doesn't expect anything from you, Morgan," I said gently, aware now that I was crying also. "You didn't deserve that. Neither of you did. And I'm so, so sorry you ever had to go through that. Thank you for trusting me enough to share this with me."
Morgan lifted her head to face me, watery eyes meeting mine. She reached up, gently tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "My hair," her voice was strained as she went on and she gave me a weak smile, "I used to love my hair until Damien started touching it. Until he started telling me that it was the only reason why I was beautiful, that it was the only reason why people would ever want me. Until he started grabbing me by my hair and–" she choked on her words, "–told me that I'd be useless to him if I ever got rid of it. That I'd be better off dead."
My voice was hushed as I reassuringly said, "That's not true. Not at all."
"I used to love my hair," she shook her head. "It gave me so much power. But now... Now I feel like it's the only reason why people like me. He's fucked with my head. Damien's completely fucked with my head," her voice shook. "All I can hear is his voice, telling me I'd be worthless without it. I feel like if I don't have it, people will leave – that Zayn will leave. He won't love me anymore. And that's crazy, I know it's fucking crazy because it's just hair but..."
"You aren't crazy," I assured her, running my hand up and down the length of her spine. "Not at all. But those thoughts aren't true either, I can tell you that with complete confidence. Nobody would love you any less. Your hair doesn't make you who you are, you make you who you are."
Morgan swallowed hard, eyes flitting to the ground. Her voice was just above a whisper when she responded, "I just wish... I wish I could get rid of it, you know?"
I ducked my head down, catching her eye. She turned to look at me, expression raw and vulnerable. I gave her a gentle smile. "We can. We can do that if you want."
She suddenly looked panicked. "But I just–"
"No one is going to love you any less," I caught her hand, giving it a squeeze. "No one. Not Zayn, not me, not yourself. We'll love you all the same."
She said nothing for a long moment before inhaling a long, steadying breath. "Okay," she murmured quietly and began to vehemently nod her head. "Okay."
I was grinning now. Tears still continued to fall down both of our cheeks. I gave her hand a squeeze. "Okay?"
Her eyes met mine and a choked sob left the back of her throat. "Let's do it."
No time was wasted tugging her to her feet. Morgan and I stumbled back into the hallway of Devil's Due, snagging from beside the nearest cabinet a black electric razor and pair of scissors. She was practically vibrating when I sat her down on a stool in the bathroom, the two of us facing the mirror. I held her by her shoulders, catching her eye in the reflection.
"You're sure?" I asked quietly, scissors squished underneath my palm.
Her mouth parted, eyes still rimmed red, but she managed a breathless, "Yes. Yes. Take it off. All off."
The first set of sobs that left her throat as I began to cut, lock by lock, long pieces of her hair from her head threw me off at first. Until I realized that they were sobs of relief, of finally feeling a sense of ease and contentment that I was sure she'd never been able to fully revel in since before she began working with Damien. As the sink grew with the remains of what had been on her head, the sounds coming from her grew more elated – enough so that I found myself crying just as hard.
By the time I took the razor over the remains of her hair, clearing off completely the metaphorical years of trauma and pain that she'd held with her all of these years, a sense of happiness had bloomed through the small room. Enough so that when we finished up, she couldn't stop shaking, crying, just staring at herself in the mirror – repeating over and over that she was free. And that she was still herself.
"You're still you," I murmured in her ear, holding her against my chest in a tight hug that she'd whirled around to give me. Her tears were soaking my shoulder. Mine were most likely doing the very same on hers. "And you're just as beautiful. The exact same beautiful, powerful Morgan that walked in here. I'm so proud of you for being so brave."
She was crying too hard to answer, only hugging me tighter in response.
It took us almost two full hours after that to get back to Harry's house. I cleaned up the remains of Morgan's hair in the sink and put everything back while she allowed herself to come down from the shock of what she'd done, to come to terms with the face that stared back at her in the mirror. The very same Morgan, I kept telling her, just one that looked a little different.
And she loved it. She couldn't stop looking at herself, feeling her head, crying whenever she realized it was all gone and that she was still alive. We were both emotionally exhausted though by the time the two of us finally wound down for bed. I'd sat with her in the guest bedroom awhile, the two of us chatting about trivial things until she'd fallen asleep and I'd selfishly slunk back to Harry's room where I'd slipped on one of his shirts and climbed into his bed.
The scent of pine alone was enough to just settle me after the events of the day.
It'd been around 45 minutes of me tossing and turning in bed before I finally broke down and reached for my purse, digging through it to find my phone – with a time that now read close to 11 pm. I had no idea what time it was in Morocco, or Mexico, or wherever the hell he was – and I knew it was a cumulation of what had gone on today that possessed me to do it – but the next thing I knew, I was clicking the phone icon next to his contact name, which laughably still read 'Scary Drug Man', and holding the phone up to my ear with a shaky hand while it rang.
And rang, and rang, and rang.
Only to go to voicemail.
It was hard not to feel a slight sting of rejection when I gently pulled the phone back away from my ear. He was probably busy. That was it. That was all it was. It wasn't that he didn't want to talk to me, or that I was being annoying, or – god forbid – that he was dead. He was just busy.
Right as I was reaching over to plug my phone into the charger on the nightstand, a text alert sounded out and I flipped my phone over with furrowed brows only to see no new notifications.
"What...?" I set the phone down on the nightstand, realizing only at the last second as I reached for my purse again, that I knew exactly where the noise had come from.
Carefully, I withdrew the burner phone. The one that currently only my four friends and a couple of security men had the number for. But when I unlocked the phone, my heart dropped to see that it was none of them who had texted me. No, the notification for an unknown number popped up.
Everything went still went I clicked on the message, feeling my ears start to ring.
"Beautiful little Ava," it read, "do you want your boyfriend to live? Meet me at the attached location at 1 a.m. and come alone or find his head sent to you in a box."
--
CHAPTER SUMMARY:
River wakes up and finds Morgan already at Harry's house. The two of them discuss their plans for the day with Morgan telling River that she's the only one out of the two of them with security access in and out of the house, meaning she has to be there if Morgan wants to come or go.
The two of them end up going to River's studio for the day to distract themselves where they paint, and Morgan buys some of the art that River had up for sale. They stop at Devil's Due on the way home and River helps give Morgan a tattoo that says "Going to California" – which is her and Zayn's favourite song.
Morgan ends up telling River about her history with Damien, how she used to have to watch Harry fight in the rings because Damien would bring her there. She talks about how Damien ruined her life and made her question everything about herself. She tells her that Harry is the one who ultimately got her out of her work with Damien by coming to an agreement with him to let Morgan work within his cartel. He did this to save her from the abuse she was suffering.
Morgan says that she hates her hair because of the comments Damien used to make about it – how it was the only reason why she was beautiful and why people liked her. She's worried that people will leave if she gets rid of it, even though she hates it. She's worried that Zayn will leave. River reassures her that that isn't true and helps Morgan to shave her head, to help rid her of some of the trauma she'd been holding onto.
When they finally make it back to Harry's place, River sits with Morgan until she falls asleep and then goes into Harry's room to go to bed and – on a whim – decides to call him. He doesn't pick up and she's about to go to sleep, trying to convince herself not to stress, when she gets a text from an unknown number on her burner phone that reads:
"Beautiful little Ava, do you want your boyfriend to live? Meet me at the attached location at 1 a.m. and come alone or find his head sent to you in a box."
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a/n: no harry and i'm so sorry for that!!!!! i know a lot of people are probably gonna hate me because of it! and i'm also sorry for leaving you on a cliffhanger, but I will try to get the next chapter out as soon as possible <3 thank you so much for reading and for 600k! 600 thousand kisses for you all! <3
ANOTHER REMINDER: If anybody ever needs to talk, I am here and I love you. <3