Femme Fatale

1 - Hot Invasive

Life is a big pile of shit. And no, this isn't some distorted sentence from a self-help book. Especially because I'm far from being able to help anyone. I can't even help myself.

I push these thoughts out of my messed-up mind as I throw myself onto the luxurious couch. I grab a random brand of snack packaging from the dresser next to the couch. It's sealed. Great. I open the package with a smile and take one. I take out a cigarette from my pocket and light it right away. With every drag, I feel more relaxed. It's not weed, it's a cigarette, but it's just as relaxing. I tilt my head back, close my eyes, and snuggle deeper into the couch. Until I hear the noise at the door, it opens, and the light turns on.

Come on, Arabella. You can do this. You've done worse things. I think to myself before opening one eye. Soon, my ear is filled with the annoying sound of a high-pitched, feminine voice. Fuck me.

"Harry, there's a girl here!" she screams as soon as she finishes hysterically yelling. To be honest, I really don't know why people like to scream like that when they're in supposed danger. It's not like it's going to change a damn thing. According to my research, her name is Megan Storm. Ridiculous last name, I know, but who cares? She's the typical British blonde with blue eyes, tall and a model. If I'm not mistaken, she's Harry Styles' new fling, Liam's bandmate, and recently, roommate. It seems like everyone decided to live together in a mansion three months ago. Based on Harry Styles' not-so-favorable track record, he's the typical womanizer who thinks fame opens legs.

And well, it does.

Harry appears at the door and, even though his expression shows tiredness, he forces a smile. I think he thinks I'm a crazy fan. I take another drag as I watch his gaze quickly change from tired to lustful when he lays eyes on me. Nothing I'm not used to.

I am fully aware of my various favorable physical attributes.

While he slowly analyzes me, I do the same to him. Black skinny jeans, gray tank top, green beanie on his head, and some weird kind of boots on his feet. He's definitely attractive. I watch him moisten his lower lip after his "inspection."

He's very attractive, but he's not really my type — even though I don't have a fully defined one — and I definitely wouldn't consider any possibility of a relationship, even a sexual one, with him.

Honestly, I'm not considering any sexual relationship with any of them.

"Boo," I mutter as I blow the smoke slowly out of my mouth. My voice naturally comes out hoarse. As always. I don't understand where I got this fucking hoarse voice from.

"But what the fuck, why..." says... Zayn, I guess. It seems like he was the trigger for the move. According to rumors, he was devastated by the end of his engagement to Perrie Edwards for unknown reasons, and to "give him support," they all decided to live together. The stupidity of these people impresses me. Especially because nowadays he's photographed with a different woman every night. "Um... Who are you? A fan?" He genuinely smiles at the mention of the word "fan," which almost makes me sick to my stomach. He's really stupid to think that a girl like me, with piercings, tattoos, and a cigarette, sitting on his couch, would be a fan of theirs.

Not that I expected much more from a boyband singer.

"Where's Liam?" I ask, ignoring his question. His face seems a little disappointed. I bet he thought I'd spread my legs for him right there and melt away, only to be discarded by him later. Idiot. Usually, it's me who does the discarding.

"Ah, Liam is your favorite?"

I suppress a laugh. This thought is really hilarious. I take another drag of my Marlboro and quickly release the smoke before raising my left eyebrow.