"Please," Zayn begs. "Just... let me kiss you."
Diamond gives him that look - the one she always gives him. The one that makes him feel like a small child being denied ice cream. "Sorry, but you know it's against my policy."
She doesn't sound sorry...
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I wish Zayn would look at me like that
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Diamond, Zayn thinks once again. It's pretty and somehow it suits her, but he knows it's not her real name. Of course she wouldn't use her real one. Zayn will probably never know what it is. But that doesn't stop him from thinking about it, even four days on. She looks like a Claire, he thinks, but that's too plain. Maybe an Estella? Jennifer? Tracy?
The microwave beeps from the kitchen and he groans, unsticking his bare back from the couch to go retrieve his pot noodles. By now, he's sure that his blood is almost entirely made up of noodles, grease and ready-made meals, but his whole life somebody else always cooked. His mum, Harry, Perrie, Liam. He hadn't needed to know how, and now, five years into this deep funk he was in, he hasn't bothered to learn. Not even the thought that he is on a one-way road to heart disease can encourage him to glance at the cookbooks that are gathering dust in a cupboard somewhere. He knows without knowing that if he so much as picks one up, he'll see wavy blonde hair and crystal blue eyes and a pierced nose and a pretty smile. He'll remember her standing in his kitchen and trying out crazy things she'd read, things that sometimes worked and sometimes didn't. He'll hear her voice telling him to stop grazing as she cooked, joking about there being none by the time she was done. Those cookbooks aren't his. That kitchen isn't his, really. That space had belonged to Perrie.
He sighs, twisting his fork in his noodles. He hates how easy it is for her to invade his mind and fill his every thought, even after all this time. Even when she isn't aware of it. He hates how hung up he is over her. He hates that he hardly leaves his house, that he eats junk every day and that he hasn't smiled in months. He hates the pitying looks he gets from his mother and sisters whenever he goes to visit, because they know more than anyone that he is a mess. He hates that those same looks mean that he dreads going over there, even though they're the only ones that can make him smile. And most of all, he hates himself.
His mind drifts back to Diamond. Does she hate herself? Does she feel filthy and used every time her job is done? Is she happy with her life? What pushed her to become a prostitute?
Zayn licks his fork clean and drops it back into the plastic cup, placing both on the table. Perrie is beautiful, yes, but Diamond... Diamond is something else. Her deep brown eyes seemed never-ending, and her skin... he didn't really touch it, and he regrets it. He didn't let himself pay attention to the feeling of her hair between his fingers either. And he hates himself all over again for just using her like that. He hates himself for not trying to make her feel remotely special, regardless of her profession. He hates himself for just cùmming in her mouth and then sending her off.
