Mabel Donovan
"Mabel? The fuck are you doing? Where the fuck is Fran?" someone right in front of me yells over the loud music and swirling colors.
All I see is Harry, who is pushing through the crowd, getting curious and confused looks as he goes, anger pervading his shiny emerald eyes.
"Heyyyyyyyyy Harry!" I shout when I see him. "You having a good time? 'Cause I'm having a fucking blast, dude."
Harry's gaze sweeps over the scene in front of him, which is a bit blurry due to the drinks I've downed.
"I told you to stick with Fran. Where is she?" he asks again, sounding pretty insistent.
"She went to get a drink with... Serena Van... no... Selena. Gomez. Selena Gomez. Can you believe it? Selena Gomez!" I explain, bursting into laughter.
I follow the music, swaying to the beat, and... the two middle-aged guys that have been dancing with me up until now seem to do the same.
One's got his hands on my hips, and the other's holding onto my shoulders, leaving a trail of damp kisses on my bare neck. At this point, I'm way too tipsy and confused to make any sense of it all - so much so that these wild scenes just feel like the natural progression of a night that's all about living in the moment. Shapes, figures, and sounds all mix together into a hazy jumble of images that flash around me.
All this is probably due to the drink the sleazy old man bought me as an apology for earlier: since drinking it, I'm struggling to keep my eyes open, to control my moves or rein in my inhibitions, which seem like they've completely disappeared. That must've been one strong drink.
Harry must be disturbed by that sight: he frowns, his gaze seeming even darker than before. He notices the old guys latching onto me, my body completely under their control, while I can't really process the whole situation.
He stares at one of them with a fierceness and anger I've never seen in his usually brooding stare. Then, out of the blue, he offers me his hand, probably expecting me to take it. But I don't; I give him a puzzled look, overdoing it a bit.
Harry comes closer, and the two guys holding onto me catch on and instinctively let go, as if they've seen a ghost. Or better, a black cat.
Why did he come here to ruin my night? He could've left me to enjoy this intoxicating madness a bit longer.
"Mabel," he calls my name again, his tone rough yet sounding like a request, cutting through the loud music.
"No," I reply, as if he'd asked me a question.
The two guys by my side back away, while Harry gets dangerously close. They give him space, like he's got a higher rank in some unspoken hierarchy, seeming almost scared.
Harry keeps his eyes on them, his semi-transparent black shirt sticking to his skin, probably wet with sweat.
Then he comes closer to me, his hand finding my waist and gripping it.
It's the first time he's touched me... like this: his movements are angry yet carry something delicate as they break against my skin.
He leans down to my level, his curls caressing my cheek.
"Dance with me," he says, his lips brushing against my ear, sending an unexpected shiver through me.
"Yeah, as if," I reply again, trying to find his green eyes in the dim light. He's still fixed on the guys behind me, who are now having a hushed conversation and sneaking glances at him.
"Styles," one of them says, and I recognize Michael's voice, the creepy old guy from before. "She's dancing with us."
"She's done now."
"But we're not."
"Do I look like I give a motherfuck?" Harry retorts, icy.
I don't like Harry's tone. It's clear to me that he's just here to spoil my fun night, to claim me; to assert, once more, that he's in control, his dominance over the rest of the world. And I'm not okay with that.
"I'm not done dancing, dude. I'm with them, not you," I say, wanting to get under his skin. I don't like being told what to do, so even if it goes against my own interests, I won't let him have his way.
Harry's eyes snap to me, his face muscles tightening visibly. He keeps his gaze on me, his green eyes narrowing, and a smirk appears on his face – it's the look of someone who knows something they're not sharing.
He opens his mouth to speak, pins me down once again, taking in the sight of a sweaty and confused version of me.
Then, with a grim "As you wish," he turns away.
And he walks off.
A sense of unease washes over me as I slowly piece together the dynamics of that interaction.
The feeling intensifies as the two middle-aged guys (they may be even older, actually) come closer, this time more aggressively.
They grab me roughly, trying to control my every move.
One of them slips his hand under my blouse, working his way through the gap at the back, and gently starts massaging my shoulder.
"Hell yeah, sweetheart..." Michael whispers in my ear. "You've got the spirit of someone who's going places..."
Then he whispers something to the other guy, still audible despite the loud music.
"How long before it kicks in?"
Those words send a wave of cold shivers across my skin. They're waiting for me to get completely wasted.
Maybe, just maybe, I'm in danger.
Maybe, and this is just a thought, Harry came to make sure everything was alright.
Taken by sudden panic, it's like the buzz disappears: I regain my senses and control over my movements for a brief moment.
"Um, guys, I'll be right back," I say, trying to step away, but the two men block me. Michael stands in front of me, stopping me in my tracks.
"Where do you think you're going, sweetie?" he asks with an arrogant tone.
"Bathroom," I reply quickly. It's tough to keep my words steady, but I manage to do so.
"You're way too drunk to go all by yourself," the other guy suggests. "We'll walk you there..."
I'm in trouble. Big trouble.
I need to think quickly, even if it's hard.
"Okay," I say, gathering some courage. The two men are now shamelessly showing their filthy intentions - it's clear what they want, and at this point, I need to figure out how to save myself.
They start following me through the crowd as I weave among people, searching for a familiar face... Harry's face.
Michael grabs my hips. It's not a playful gesture anymore, his touch is more on the possessive side. He's purposefully rude. Almost brutal.
Think fast.
In the distance, I think I see Niall making out with a redhead without holding back, pressing her against a metal railing. Zayn's talking to some suit-wearing guys, standing under the DJ booth. They haven't noticed me, and they're too far away. Going to them would be pointless.
I use the crowd's energy to push forward. I pick up my pace, sometimes stepping on sticky stuff on the ground, pretending to dance, but the alarm that bells in my head drowns out the music.
As I make a sudden turn, being in full-blown panic mode, I crash into a girl who had her back turned to me.
Was she snorting cocaine from a silver tray?
My push causes her to turn around, revealing that half her face is smeared with the substance, and the impact made her head smack the metal she was leaning against.
"You fucking bitch!" she yells, as the people around her stare in shock. A bunch of burly guys come towards me, furious and ready to confront me. I must have accidentally provoked the wrong person, so now I have to escape from both the old pigs behind me and a crew of tough bodyguards ready to give me a hard time.
I seize the moment. I need to find a way out of here and shake off these potential troublemakers.
"Michael! Ouch!" I shout, turning to the man, who freezes, bewildered. "Shit, you didn't have to shove me into this girl to get her attention!"
The bodyguards shift their focus to him, and he retreats, hands up. His friend remains silent.
I quickly address the bodyguards while, out of the corner of my eye, I see the unknown celebrity trying to tidy herself up and brush off the cocaine cloud that landed on her because of me.
"I'm so sorry... it was them, not me..." I say, playing the innocent card and giving the bodyguards my best innocent look.
"They're trying to bug her – I mean, that's what they told me. They want to hook up with her, and they said they'll do anything to get to it. You guys surely know what to do," I blurt out, trying to slip away from the mess I've tangled those two creepy guys into.
I glance at them for a split second, relishing the sticky spot they've landed themselves in, cornered by bigger guys who not only thought their run-in with their charge was deliberate, but also believed they were the culprits.
"You dirty little slut...", Michael exclaims, looking at me while he and his friend are being taken by the shoulders by those bodyguards, ready to teach them a lesson.
Fuck 'em.
As I start wandering through the crowd, leaving the two creeps behind me, cold sweat on my forehead makes my disheveled hair stick, narrowing my already limited sight even more. There are people making out, getting touchy in a... private way, people drinking (and puking on the floor), peeing in the corners of the place, people snorting coke and blowing their nose with hundred-dollar bills, and just generally doing everything you wouldn't find in a regular club.
It's all chaos, desperate and dark, almost macabre. It's like the carnival of the skeletons hidden in all Hollywood's closets.
"Look what the cat dragged in," someone growls as I walk by.
I turn to look. I could spot those eyes a mile away.
"Harry," I call, my tone almost like a plea. I don't know how I'm finding the guts to approach him after turning him down earlier. "Can I talk to you for a sec?"
Harry gives me a once-over, his face smoothed over with a kind of painful indifference.
Then he cools me off: "I'm busy."
With a hand gesture, he indicates his company for tonight – drop-dead gorgeous models, clearly irritated by my interruption and clearly waiting for him to give them the time of day.
I manage an awkward smile, trying to seem sober and not stumble over my words.
"I get it..." I start, pushing the wet strands off my forehead. "But it's kinda urgent. Just a second. Please?"
Harry rolls his eyes, then lets out a sigh. He looks at me, then at the models. Looks back at me.
"No."
"Please."
"You know I love it when you beg, but I'm with them, not you," he mumbles, smirking, pleased to have thrown back the same words I used to reject him ten minutes ago. The two models, oddly serious, size me up, acting all superior. One of them even mouths a "bye."
I roll my eyes in frustration. Meanwhile, at the far end of the room, I spot Michael and the other old dude heading my way, trying to navigate through the muddled crowd.
Blood's dripping from their noses, with stained clothes and messy hair.
They got beaten up because of the lie I told the security guys.
And now they're coming after me.
Fuck my life.
The survival instinct kicks in, pushing me to do something I'd never normally do. The fear of Harry and whatever he might do to me seems to crumble under the urgency of the moment.
I grab his hands.
I feel the metal of his rings, the warmth of his skin under them, and I intertwine my fingers with his. Harry seems surprised by my sudden and uncharacteristic move, but he reciprocates the touch, gripping back. He waits for me to speak, the anticipation in his look almost feels warm.
I'm not sure what to say, so I stumble through, "Do you still wanna dance? I changed my mind."
Harry looks even more puzzled now. He must have figured out I'm quite drunk, but there's an additional alarm in his eyes – like he's sensed something off. He looks away again, his curls brushing against his neck; there's an intensity in his gaze, as if he's locking onto a target – he must've spotted Michael and his friend.
"I do," he says, pulling me away smoothly, and he keeps holding my hand as we navigate through the crowd.
"Sorry for dragging you away from your friends," I say, louder than the music.
"I don't have friends or shit like that, Mabel" he informs me, stopping abruptly at a spot within the crowd. We're concealed beneath a staircase, hidden from most angles.
He faces me, his eyes locked onto mine. The sight leaves me breathless.
"Well, thanks for getting me out of there," I say louder to be heard over the music. Harry stands before me, arms extended towards me, guiding me through the crowd, away from the two older men following closely.
"They got what they fucking deserved," he says, turning back, smirking. "A little blood never killed nobody."
"I'm in deep trouble, though. If they catch me...-"
"What did you do for them to look so fucking pissed?", Harry asks.
"I might've convinced some bodyguards to beat them up by telling a little white lie," I admit, lowering my head as I admit my "crime".
"Oh my fucking... Mabel - I told you to come with me earlier," he says, getting serious.
"I didn't think those two rats could be actually dangerous," I defend myself, raising my voice over the music.
"Of course you wouldn't," he replies, nonchalant as always.
I swallow.
"You get the vibe here, I don't," I admit, slurring my words a bit due to my intoxicated state.
"I can just read the fucking room," Harry retorts, speaking through gritted teeth.
"But you...," he starts before I slump forward – I feel heavier, as if the alcohol I consumed is making a comeback, ready to mess with my head.
Harry grabs my chin, tilting it up so our eyes meet; his grip is steady, his fingers clenching the skin of my face.
"...you've always got to follow your damn instinct. You always need to get yourself in trouble."
"That's not entirely true," I protest, defending myself.
"You want me to make you a bloody list, Mabel?" he asks, a hint of bitterness. "You just keep causing a lot of fucking trouble."
I sigh, defeated. Nothing has gone right for me in the past year, and being close to the root of all my problems is nothing but a harsh reminder.
This terrible situation triggers a desperate laugh.
"Let them kill me, then. You'd do me a favor."
Harry raises an eyebrow, his gaze darkening; he bites his lips, his nostrils flaring.
"Or maybe, you could be the one to kill me, Harry. Wasn't that your plan all along? Getting rid of me with your weird bad luck thing? Less trouble for everyone, right?" I say with disdain, ending with, "...I'm not afraid of death anyway."
At that grim invitation, Harry stiffens. It's like I touched upon a forbidden topic, delving into a conversation I shouldn't have started.
"My bad luck won't fucking kill you," he says, completely serious. His cold demeanor clashes with the festive chaos around us.
"Won't be necessary..." he adds, matching the music's rhythm with his moves. He twirls me around, his strong arms spinning me. He presses his back against mine, his open shirt brushing against my skin. He breathes into my ear, and I catch a hint of apple in his breath.
I'm scared.
I feel the urge to kiss him.
"...because at this rate, you'll be killing yourself."
I'm frozen, unsure of what to say. Words seem to melt on my tongue before I can speak them.
I keep my gaze steady, even though I'm seeing without really looking. I catch glimpses – people dancing, people kissing, people arguing.
Then, the two men from earlier.
Harry must have noticed them too, because he stares into the distance, tracking them like a sniper.
At this point, I expect him to leave me here, at the mercy of those men, ready to be handed over to a likely (if not certain) death.
Instead, he moves to grip my hips, whispering, "Mind if I...?"
I nod without a second thought.
"Now dance," he suggests.
"But what..."
"Do as I say," he thunders.
I start moving against him – it's a weird feeling, creating some tension that I can't quite define.
"You'll have to play along for a bit," he whispers in my ear, "at least until those fucking pigs leave. People like them only get the concept of territory, and right now, in their eyes... I'm marking my territory. I can promise you they wouldn't dare mess with me."
I nod, a bit dazed and definitely annoyed by that piece of information. It's nauseating that women are talked about like something to conquer in some invisible testosterone-driven battle.
The DJ – at this point I'm pretty sure it's a DJ set by Meduza – starts another song, a must-have for any good night out, and the crowd seems... to lose control.
The beats of "Piece Of Your Heart" fill the room with chaos: people who were sitting get up to dance, those already standing start cheering, and everyone, in their own way, enthusiastically welcomes the track.
Although Harry and I are in a corner of the dance floor, we get pushed around by the excited and intoxicated crowd. The room is now almost overflowing, with people pushing us around, and for a moment, I remember the overwhelming situation from a few days ago; it's tough to breathe, and if the ceilings weren't high, I'd probably be feeling suffocated by now.
"Shit," Harry comments under the pressure of all those people. My body collides into his, now pressed against each other – there's no room to move, so I can just stay pinned against him, sending electric sensation just where my skin meets his.
"Not what I needed," I comment, "can't even breathe."
Both Harry and I try to spot the two men.
"Do you see them?" I ask, turning my head to him. Harry stays quiet for a moment, then looks at me, nods, and puts his hands on my hips.
He whispers, "Remember what I told you? Dance. But make it believable, for fuck's sake."
"Can I...?" I ask, hinting that my movements mean I'll end up bumping into him.
"Mhm," he mutters, holding me tighter. "It's going to be a brief torture."
I squeeze my eyelids shut, trying to funnel all the drinks into my brain, so I can look relaxed or at least unreserved in my movements.
"Be convincing," Harry reiterates, urging me to loosen up. "It's going to be your fucking problem if they figure out that I'm just helping you out."
"I'm trying," I reply, my heart racing like crazy. I take advantage of the swaying and chaos of the people around us, raising my arms toward Harry, who's standing behind me, and lowering his head to match my height. I hold him close, my fingers gripping the base of his head, feeling his damp curls, his distinctive scent.
Just like that, I start moving my hips in a swaying motion, trying to match the pounding beats that make even the crystal chandeliers (just like the ones at The Box) hanging from the ceiling tremble. With a deafening buzz in my ears, I keep swallowing, my nerves on edge. I feel Harry's chest against my back, his breath in my ear, and from the corner of my eye, I notice him scanning the surroundings.
We're drawing curious gazes from many of the people around us who, despite the music and frenzy, never seem to have a shortage of attention. They follow the movements of all the faces around them. Including us.
When I notice that the two guys from earlier got closer to us, I instinctively freeze. Their faces are flushed, visibly agitated. One of them clearly mouths, "it's over for you, bitch."
As Harry notices the situation, his voice reaches my ear like a gust of wind.
"Don't show them you're looking at them," he warns me. "Play along and let yourself go a bit, okay?"
"Okay..." I say, struggling with the lump of saliva in my throat.
"Good girl."
I keep moving against Harry. The motions become frantic, almost urgent. I press my hips against him, feeling him brushing against me in return. I decide to follow his advice, to really let go. I pretend that the person behind me isn't the one who orchestrated my downfall, a celebrity, someone known for their bad luck.
"Fuck, Mabs..." he pants, licking his lips, sending a warm throb between my legs. I can't quite grasp it – whether it's the situation, his heat, the intoxication, or the strobe lights that keep confusing me.
Harry presses his hips harder against me, making me feel all his arousal.
Gosh, he'd be a really good ride, wouldn't he?
Not again, Mabs - what's with you tonight?
I miss my sober thoughts.
"That necklace you're wearing..." he whispers, his moist lips grazing my ear. "Is it to protect you from me?" he asks. He must be referring to the evil-eye choker.
Yeah, I'd like to say, but it's not working all that well.
"No..." I gasp, breathless. "I just like how it looks around my neck."
Harry's teeth make an appearance, shining in a lopsided smile. His eyes are intense, as if he just injected himself with a shot of adrenaline.
"You like the feeling of having it on?"
I'm taken aback by the question.
"What?"
Harry doesn't answer, but I sense him swallow. My back seems to tremble – is it just my heart pounding, or is Harry's doing the same?
Before I can do anything, he lets his hand slide down my forearm. Then it goes upward, reaching my collarbones, and his fingers reach the necklace, playing with it.
"The sensation of something around your neck. Something that tightens it."
Harry's actions precede any coherent thought in my mind. His long fingers stretch across my neck, lightly pinching the skin, then moving to the sides and... tightening.
That move is full of sexual tension.
He's choking me.
"What did you call me, baby? A snake?"
"Harry," I gasp, caught off guard. The sensation of his grip is strong but not stifling, it's oddly... enjoyable. Harry smirks against my temple, amused by my surprised reaction. I struggle to catch a breath – not due to his hold, but because of the intense excitement his touch is igniting within me.
"Fuck, Mabel, you're so fucking hot right now. Looking pretty fucking convincing," he playfully remarks, as I release a throaty moan. The warmth and the dampness spreading just between my legs aren't exactly helping to clear my head.
"Don't stop. The two scumbags are watching."
I wish I could see it with my own eyes, but I can't manage to lift them: my eyelids feel heavy, and opening them requires a bit of effort.
Meanwhile, I keep pushing against Harry's hips, making circular motions, and I feel something growing hard, now pressing against my ass.
"You can be quite a good girl when you want to, you know?"
"Only for tonight," I retort.
Harry chuckles darkly at my statement, loosening the grip of his hand. An intense, tension-filled aura radiates from him, scalding my skin.
"Then after this, we can go back to not being friends," I say, maybe with a touch of unwarranted boldness, fueled by a daring desire.
"Friends?" he inquires, the word morphing into an amused laugh that rises above the music. "We dry-hump for a bit at the club, and you think we're fucking friends now?"
In this instance, not turning to face him and locking eyes feels like a stroke of luck. The alcohol cushions the impact, and it might even be hitting me harder now.
"You're not my friend, baby."
Harry's words shatter me like flowers caught in a hailstorm.
"But... " I interject, a hint of naivety tinging my voice. Saying that word feels like wrestling with a heavy weight, while a... peculiar numbness floods over me.
"You never will be."
"O-oh," I stutter.
My head spins, and it droops against Harry's chest.
I struggle to stand on my own, and the world around me blurs even more.
"Mabel?" Harry's distant voice calls out, full of concern. "How many drinks did you have?"
"Two... maybe five... and then a drink that... Michael offered me."
"What did you just say?" he roars, and even with half-closed eyes, I can see Harry scanning the room in search of that jerk and his friend.
"Fuck! This wasn't the deal!" he shouts, causing a few people around us to turn his way, startled. "That fucking piece of shit!"
And I plummet, swiftly and relentlessly, forward, losing consciousness.
"Mabs?"
I think there might've been something in that drink.