[COMPLETED]
❝Of all the races I've started, loving him is the one I never want to finish.❞
In this re-imagination of my most popular story, Arielle Hawthorne is an illegal street racer, just like Zayn Malik. Zayn's egotistical, flirty, and a major p...
"Racing is life. Anything before or after is just waiting." — Steve McQueen
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A R I E L L E
When I pull up to The Lounge, my throat instantly dries and my stomach twists in knots. I was nervous to see Zayn. I knew what this drink meant.
It meant Zayn was probably going to attempt a move on me, and I was probably going to allow him to do so. It didn't just mean a harmless drink shared among racers. It didn't mean that he was buying me a shot of liquor because we were comrades on the streets.
No, it meant that this was his shot to get with me. I imagine this entire encounter will be filled with attempts at trying to get in my pants, and I'd been thinking about it for the last twenty minutes.
I didn't just like him. There was more to it. I feel so attracted to him that it physically hurt me. It caused my heart to race whenever I saw him, and it wasn't healthy. It couldn't be. Physically, I can't resist him.
So when I enter the bar, I anxiously search around for him. I spot the raven–haired man sitting at one of the far booths, glass full of hard liquor set between his fingers. He rakes a hand through his hair, bobbing his head slightly to the slow beat of an R&B song playing through the speakers.
I imagine that he probably likes R&B. He seems like the type to enjoy music with a heavy bass. Music that you'd fuck to. That, and probably the odd rap or reggae song. He looks like the type to buy some choice weed, smoke it, and just enjoy the music. Or again, fuck crazily to it.
A cool breeze washes over my body from the air conditioning. I adjust the jacket on my shoulders, suddenly feel iffy about my choice of deciding not to wear a bra this morning since when I checked the weather it said it was hot today. I'm positive my nipples are hard and will definitely be showing through the thin material of my top.
I take a moment to breath before approaching him. He doesn't notice me until I'm almost right in front of him and I hate that even just by lifting his head up to gaze at me he looks hot as hell.
How does he do it?
A amused smirk dances across his lips and he greets me with, "I wasn't sure if you'd show."
For the first time since seeing him today, I take in his appearance. He still has the same earrings in as three days ago, and of course, the same hair cut. It's longer, but not too long with shaved sides that make him look young. Except for the stubble that covers his face, which makes him appear older. He's wearing black jeans and a patterned shirt which has a few buttons undone on the top, exposing that tattoo of his that I love so much—wings with a lipstick print between them.
