Marlboro Lights

This was the second time since I'd met Zayn that he'd all but vanished from the face of the earth for more than a week. This time was different only because he'd at least warned me before taking off, but mostly - it was the same. I still spent each day searching my town for the sound of his motorcycle, and I never heard it. I still spent my time in Atlanta searching for his face, and never finding it.

The last time he had disappeared, I went seven days between seeing him. This time around, I was coming up on day eight. Now that I knew he was doing some sort of secret business with police officers, I was slightly worried. Especially since I'd snuck around my father's office and did my own sort of research on Officer 3742.

It turned out that his name was Drew Porter, and he was a transfer from Boston. Without the clearance of a lot of special passwords, I couldn't find out much more, as most everything was locked away. But I knew his name, and I knew where he was from, and if I ever saw him again - I was all for asking my father to do some digging. I didn't have to mention Zayn, I could just say I met him in an elevator and he'd creeped me out. Which wasn't actually a lie.

But I hadn't seen him since then, even though I'd volunteered for Gopher twice since Zayn had left. My father may have been slightly suspicious of my sudden desire to help out around the office, but I just told him I needed cash, and he bought it.

So I stalked around the police station and took my time walking to my car, but like Zayn - Drew Porter was no where to be found. I had a moment where I imagined they'd been caught in some sort of gun battle and Zayn had died in a blaze of glory, but convinced myself that I was watching too many episodes of Criminal Minds. I promised myself that I'd ask Zayn the moment I saw him again how he knew Officer Porter, but until then - what I needed was a way to distract myself until Zayn showed his face again.

So, I did something I hadn't done in months.

I wrote a song.

For as long as I'd known how to read, I always wanted to be a songwriter. I remember listening to the radio and picking apart the lyrics I was hearing. I was much too young to understand what I was hearing, but I loved the way it sounded. I loved the flow of poetry that some songs had, and I wanted to make my own.

I had a basic understanding of how a piano worked and singing voice decent enough to not cause any ears to bleed, and my Macbook - however terrible my internet connection was in the middle of no where - had great recording tools. So whenever I was feeling inspired, I'd sit down and record a verse or two. I never, ever expected to make a living out of it, which was why I was in school to be a Social Worker, but it was fun, and I liked pretending I was good at it.

The problem was, I hadn't been very inspired as of late. That is...until Zayn came around. From the second I'd seen his face, I wanted to write about it. And so I did. It started off very rough and choppy, but a few hours at my keyboard and in front of the cheap mic for my laptop, and the inspiration had taken hold. For the first time I ever, I saw myself finishing a song.

I've got no clothes for you to borrow
But I've got places you can lay your head
I don't read books that I can lend ya
But I can see your history's been read
You know that I've been lookin' at ya

I recorded one verse, before pacing my living room trying to piece together the rest. So far, the distraction was working. I wasn't thinking about Officer Porter or Zayn's disappearance, I was content with picturing his face and stringing words into lyrics. If I hadn't been on such a productive high, I may have even felt a little creepy. I barely knew Zayn, and the most we'd done together was chat in my store, drink wine at the lake, and exchange a very G rated cheek kiss.

Still, I couldn't stop myself.

And now I'm lookin' out for any kind of danger
You got the prowell of a Tiger
Yeah baby, I can see your stripes
You got me hanging on your wire
At any moment you could strike

I'd spent nearly two hours dancing around verses before things really started to take off. Now I was standing in my living room, my computer and mic propped up on top of my television, with large headphones over my ears, belting the words to a song I was mildly proud of about a guy I may never see again.

You make me stop and wonder
What spell have I been under?
Who taught the voodoo that you do?
But I can see your glory
I wanna write your story
Somebody's voodoo's got me binded to you

And even when it's eating me alive
Your power ties my spirit up inside
There's nothing I can do to make it right
I'll follow you...

I stopped short in the middle of a line because there were hands on my shoulders. I spun wildly, my headphones ripping from my head and clanging to the ground. I was in full defense mode, ready to strike my attacker, until I saw his face.

"Zayn.." I practically gasped, throwing my arms around him in a hug that made me blush as soon as it began. I pulled back roughly, "Sorry, I just--wasn't expecting you."

He smiled down at me and I felt the butterflies kick up again.

"I knocked," he told me, "A few times. Then I heard singing."

I blushed hard, and turned away from him to stop the recording on my laptop. I shut it before he could read any of the lyrics. It was bad enough that he'd heard me, hereally didn't need to know what I was singing about. Or who, rather.

"Sorry, headphones."

I wanted to run away, but Zayn was still there and I still could barely move in his presence. He looked slightly more rough than the last time I'd seen him. It was obvious he hadn't shaved in several days, and if I was being honest - I prefered it that way. He was somehow even more beautiful with a beard. He wore a white henley under a black button up and the sleeves of both were rolled up, revealing what appeared to be a sleeve of tattoos. I wanted to hold his arm out and inspect every one, but I somehow thought that was asking too much. His hair stood up and wasn't as expertly styled as usual, but it looked even better than way. Like he'd just rolled out of bed, or maybe - just maybe - his perfect helmet hair days were finally over. It was about time. He was finally on the same level as us normal humans.

"Did you get my note?" He asked, "I slipped it under the door, didn't want it to blow away."

I audibly sighed in relief, so he hadn't broken into my apartment. That was good to know.

"Yes. I'm sorry I missed you. My dad had me at the station all day."

I stood for a moment, wondering why he had come to my apartment and not just caught me at work, but then I realized. I still had his jacket.

"Oh, let me get your jacket," I jumped, turning to head to my bedroom.

His hand caught mine and stopped me, "That's not why I'm here."

My heart may have actually fluttered. Or skipped a beat. Or stopped beating all together. I don't know. I didn't know anything. He was touching me and looking at me and it was getting harder to breath.

Always more in tune with my feelings than I was, Zayn laughed, his smile widening and lifting all the way to his eyes. I wanted to throw up.

"Jette, when are you going to just relax around me?"

My face felt like it was on fire, I huffed an apology.

"Stop apologizing, I just wanted to see you."

"You did?"

"Yeah. Don't believe me?"

I swallowed hard. "No, I just--just figured you were picking up your jacket. It's a nice jacket, probably expensive. I was worried you'd need it on your bike. I'm sorry I had it for so--"

He kissed me then. He kept his hand in mine, took a long step forward, and kissed me silent. I was rambling about his jacket and he kissed me. When the kiss ended and he pulled away with a smirk playing on his lips, I had to consciously remind myself that oxygen was vital to my survival, and that if I didn't start to breath again soon, I'd pass out.

"Oh. Thank you."

I watched Zayn's eyebrows raise in amusement, before his face broke into a laughing smile. "You're welcome."

Oh.
My.
God.

Zayn had kissed me and I said thank you.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting--"

He kissed me again and this kiss lasted twice as long as the first, which meant that I was absolutely breathless by the time I pulled away. His lips were so soft, and warm, and he tasted like cigarettes (which should have been disgusting, but it somehow worked) and something fruity. He was so gentle with me, like he was almost holding back. I wished he wouldn't.

"Stop. Apologizing," he demanded sternly, his nose just barely touching mine, though there wasn't an ounce of anger in his face. He was just smiling, staring down at me with eyes more rich than I'd ever seen before.

"Right, sor-" I stopped short, then smiled anxiously. "My bad."

And with that, Zayn released my hand and moved around me to my computer, placing a hand on top of it. I spied a bird tattoo on his hand, and wanted to ask about it, but refrained.

"You sing?"

I fumbled with my hands, shaking my head. "No. Well, I mean yes...but not to sing. To write. I was writing."

He smiled softly, "What were you writing?"

I really, really didn't want to answer that.

"A song," I croaked.

"Can I have a listen?"

I protectively took a step forward, reaching out for my computer like I wanted to snatch it away from him. "Oh no, it's not finished. It's not even good."

"I don't believe that," he said softly, smiling something fierce and almost convincing me to let him listen. But I was standing my ground this time. Nobody listened to my songs. Especially Zayn.

I puffed out my shoulders to make myself seem less intimidated, and more intimidating, and answered as hard as I could. "Maybe when it's finished."

Zayn narrowed his eyes, then shrugged, "Alright, you win. But I heard you singing, and if you ask me - you should sing to sing, not just write."

I blushed, "Thanks."

I panicked for a moment because I was no longer sure of what to say, so I did the most Southern thing I could think of. I tried to feed him.

"Are you hungry? Or thirsty? I don't have much in the kitchen, but I can whip something up. If you want. If not, that's okay..."

I was rambling again and as much as I hoped Zayn would shut me up with another kiss, I also secretly hoped he wouldn't because I still needed time to recover from the last one.

"Tempting, but I've gotta be going. I just got back to town and I wanted to see you before I finished up some business," he said, already heading towards the door.

I tried my best to not look dejected, I nodded and took a few awkward steps forward, nearly catching up with him because my living room was so small. "Okay, well. Thanks for stopping by. Do you...want your jacket?"

He shrugged, then shook his head. "I'll get it tomorrow. I've got some things to do in the morning, but-" he paused, now facing me, "-Can I take you to dinner tomorrow night?"

I was silent a moment too long because I couldn't seem to process what he was asking. But something in the back of my mind kicked me to life and I nodded, "Yeah. Yes. I'd like that."

He grinned, "Good. I'll stop by around six. Sound good?"

I just nodded, and he leaned forward, kissing my cheek like he had the night he'd driven me home. "See you tomorrow, Jette."

I smiled tightly, afraid that if I opened my mouth to speak, I would squeak. He let himself out and closed the door behind him, turning to wave before he disappeared up the hill and to where I guessed his motorcycle was waiting.

I waited for the sound of his bike before I turned away from the door, my heart rate violent and almost sickening. In all my giddiness, there was something gnawing at the back of my mind. I'd been so distracted by Zayn kissing me that I hadn't asked about Officer Porter.

As I opened my laptop to get back to work (now that I had even more inspiration), I grinned stupidly.

I'd ask him tomorrow night, at dinner.

Notes

Thank you for all the positive attention you have given me. I love you all so much.

xx Katie