Ignition [h.s]

03

^^ a visual of the outfit I'm describing at the end of the chapter :) 

HARRY STYLES

The whip of her blonde hair is the last thing I see before I slam the staff door shut. I've got no idea who she is, or why she keeps routinely coming back to the art gallery—American Gothic is big, but not big enough to warrant weekly visits. What I do know is I don't have a good feeling about her constantly snooping around. It feels like she's spying, doing some digging on the artwork or something. Multiple security guards have flagged her as a person of interest to me, worried that she's planning on stealing a painting. I highly doubt she'd be capable of doing anything like that as she gets frightened at the slight raise of my voice. All I really can do is tell her to leave when it's closing time, and hope she isn't being planted here by enemies.

I decide to shut off the portion of my brain which has become so perplexed over the blonde visitor and her intentions, turning around in the darkened room to face the muffled, girlish squeals. The truth of the matter is that there isn't a girl in here at all, but much rather an overweight and middle-aged business man security had caught trying to steal a sculpture some days ago. That's what makes this so amusing—his high-pitched muffling into the duct tape across his mouth makes him sound so pathetically helpless and weak despite his large, foreboding appearance.

His forehead glistens with sweat whilst I roll my head in a slow circle. He pushes against his restraints which does little to help his situation because I've bolted the chair to the floor. It also smells foul in here and I quickly notice the grey of his dress pants near his crotch area has gone a darker shade—he's pissed himself.

I walk forward with a scrunched nose and what I imagine to be a look of disgust too, causing him to flinch and snap his eyes shut. I bend down in front of him before gripping the edge of the damp duct tape by his cheek, ripping it from his mouth resulting in a groan of agony.

That couldn't have felt too good on his moustache.

"Hopefully we will be more co-operative today, won't we Mr. Adams?" I stand back to my full height and crumple the worn tape in my palm, tossing it into a dark corner which is filled with many more crumpled pieces of tape from the other times I've had to shut his mouth up already.

His head is twisted to the left and stays that way as though I'd slapped him into that position. He doesn't even want to look at me. His nostrils are flared like he's trying his best to hold back what he wants to say, though I wish he wouldn't. His whole presence is infuriating me more by the minute—how many more days will we repeat this cycle before he decides to break?

I take some steps backwards into the shadows by the door, sinking to my haunches and taking a packet of cigarettes from my breast pocket. He doesn't answer my question so I give him a meditative offer. "Want a ciggie?"

His eyes darken from where I'm sat. "Do you want me to set this place on fire?" He looks relatively amused with his comeback too. What a fool.

I put a cigarette between my lips whilst I fish in my back pocket for a lighter. "Funny you'd unveil a potential escape opportunity to me like that so easily, Mr. Adams." I smirk with a shake of my head, my fingers nimbly grabbing for the plastic of my black lighter. He groans when he realises his mistake, taking to spit at the space on the floor just in front of me. It would appear he doesn't have the strength to project his spit much further than a couple of meters, not far enough to hit me at least. It's evident my beatings have stripped him of energy. He should be lucky I'm not all that offended by the notion.

"You're a real piece of shit, Styles." Adams huffs whilst I strike up the lighter. His comment causes me to grin wolfishly and my cigarette wobbles in its balance between my teeth. My hand shakes unsteadily as I draw the orange flame to my face, lighting up the end carefully but quickly. As soon as smoke filters up into the air, I snap the lighter off and toss it back into my pocket; the less time I have to hold that thing the better.