Filthy Cloaks / H.S.

Chapter Eleven.

No Perspective.

After leaving Cairo in the motel room, Harry felt the progressive urge to go out for a smoke.

All the pent-up frustration had really gotten to his nerves, especially after meeting her. He still remembered that night, at the club — The first time he'd gotten close to Cairo. It wasn't like that night on Crowlair Street.

It was explicit, more intimate. He recalled his gaze directly in front of her line of sight where the darkest of glimmers could be seen under the ignited fire. He could feel her vigilant breaths stroking his cheek, watching as her caramel whisked eyes fluttered from his delicate caress on her inflamed skin.

Harry couldn't fathom how or why, but he knew that that night changed everything for him, whether he wanted it to or not.

Of course, his stubborn pride rejected the idea of feeling such relations, and that led him to this exact moment of forestall, frustration, and vexation.

After making his way downstairs, through the bar area, and out the entrance door, he felt the cold whip of wind freshen his skin. He closed his eyelids for a second, sighing as the mix of contradicting temperatures rendered white mist out his mouth.

There was a railing placed on the doorstep to which he leaned, resting his elbows and bending his back onto it slightly. The air was windy but warm, fondling his brown curls and skimming his nape.

Nothing laid in sight but rolling debris of the road with the mere moonlight giving exposure to the scene. He would have considered this relaxing if it hadn't been for the fact Boozed Malice gangs encompassed the place. Boozed Malice was the opposing force for the Filthy Cloaks.

And if they find out who he really was, it would be a much uglier time.

Harry reached over to his back pocket. He grazed the side of his knife while grabbing his Marlboro pack. It was already half finished due to his lack of self-control over the addicting material. After taking it out, he pulled the much-needed cigarette from the kitschy box.

The cigarette rested in between his pointer and middle finger, letting it rest there for a moment as he pulled out his red lighter. It was the same one he used the night at the club when he met Cairo. The touch of it sent a bolt of electricity through his skin.

He licked his lips to rid himself of dry texture before doing the same coat to the tip of the cigarette. As he placed it gently on his lower lip, the cigarette dangled wearily as he cuffed his hands close enough to his mouth. With the flick of his thumb, he managed to burn the end of the finely wrapped tobacco, watching as a quick burst of orange illuminated it.

Harry loved the feeling of trapped heat inside his chest any time he sucked a good amount of burned tobacco, no matter how cheap and inimical the object tended to be. He enjoyed how he took it in, expanding his chest with a warm and stretching sensation, pushing the limit just to feel that deep burn throughout his chest.

It had been a while since his last cigarette. And by a while, Harry meant a couple of days. The overwhelming prickling sensation was just what he needed to drag out a long moan resonating from the depths of his throat.

He rolled his eyes back a few times just from sucking the cigarette before the sensation began to fade and the best part of smoking was coming to an end.

It felt so good that he almost dismissed the uprising noise hurdling inside the motel.

Harry's ears began to pick up a commotion from the motel, specifically the bar area. At first, he thought it was a drunken fight between two men before he heard a voice that sent chills down his back.