CONOR’S POV: I feel sorry for him. See, Zayn isn’t as free as I am. He has Cher, he has the band, whereas I can go wherever, and do whatever. “Could you come down?” he asks. This is always his request when he needs a hit. “Sure, straight away,” I reply. This is always my answer when I need a hit. I grab nothing but my keys and phone, trusting that Zayn will provide the most important item. It’s extremely expensive, so I leave it to him. He earns three times as much as me. I’m just Conor Maynard. I doubt I’ll ever get as much female attention as One Direction. I make my way outside, and just as I’m about to get in the car, it occurs to me that I’ll be more than unable to drive home, so I just walk. The street lights glint down eerily on my back as I bathe in their glow. The roads are scary at night - empty, quiet and lonely. I read the street names quietly to myself until I find Jano Alley, where I always meet Zayn. As usual, he’s sitting on the cold cement, waiting for me. “You ready?” he asks me, pulling the small package out of his bag. “Let’s do this,” I reply. “Do want to do it yourself this time?” he asks. I shake my head, as always. I’ve never done it myself – I’m too scared. “No, you do it,” I say. He takes the packaging off and grabs my hand. I flinch quite violently as he pushes the needle into my skin, but when the drug kicks in, I heave a sigh of relief. Zayn can’t seem to get the syringe into his arm fast enough. Once we’re both wasted, we lie on the wet asphalt, laughing at nothing until we eventually pass out.
