Crooked

home, sweet home. [chapter three]

It had been a few days since the jail incident, the day where I met the charming Louis and the other one. I knew his name was Niall, but I preferred to call him Crooked. In my mind, anyways.

Things were quiet at home. It was more quiet than usual; my parents left earlier in the morning for work and came later at night, and my brother preferred to stay over at the devil's house, only coming over for a change of clothes. I didn't want to admit it to myself, but I knew the reason for my family's absence was because of me. It was hard to pretend like I didn't care, but I did, and it hurt. A lot.

The pent up feelings of hurt and abandonment pushed me to a point where I didn't want to live in my own house anymore. I wanted to escape, to leave and never come back. However, there was one problem: I didn't have any money.

"Angie," I whined. "C'mon, help a brother out." I was talking to my best friend Angie on Skype, who was currently studying in Oxford, England, doing entertainment law. I had no idea what that was but I knew Angie had studied her ass off at school to get where she was now. Me? I decided to defer for a year, living off my parents’ money while I figured out what to do with my life.

Angie sighed, "Cass, I know for a fact that if I lend you money you're going to use it on clothes and alcohol." Before I could protest, she gave me a sharp look and I fell silent. "But you could do that thing I've wanted you to do since I told you I'm moving out here?"

I raised an eyebrow at her. "You won't lend me money but you'll fly me out to England to come live with you?"

She grinned. "All you have to do is take some money from your family's bank accounts and live with me! Oh, and get a VISA and all that jazz."

I laughed. "You make it sound so easy." We continued to chat, joking around of course about how I could go to England and actually live with her. We knew it wasn't going to happen but talking about it reminded me of the recklessness within me I used to possess when I was in middle school. Maybe I could go; I just needed someone to help me out. Angie couldn't, since she was in England, but I needed a way out. Someone who could take me to England and hire me to do something, so I could find a legit excuse to take my parents money. They would notice straight away if I took money from them and didn't ask in advance.

The question was; did I know anyone who came from the England area besides Angie?

"What's that look on your face?" Angie asked me suspiciously. I snapped out of my reverie and grinned at her.

"I have an idea. I gotta go, talk to you soon!" Without letting her reply, I switched off and grabbed my purse, running downstairs and out the door in a flash.

---

It occurred to me while I was in the car that I had no idea where to go to find him. Meeting him was a sign, a way of escaping and I had to find him soon. While waiting at the red light in my black second hand Toyota, I thought of a place that may have his personal details.

The police station. Home, sweet home.

I pulled up at the station and locked my car, heading inside at the front desk. The police officer raised his eyebrows when he noticed who I was.

"We don't usually get prisoners coming back," he smirked. "How may I help you?"

I fought the urge to roll my eyes at the mention of the word 'prisoner'.

"Remember the other day when you told me that a boy named -" I attempted not to inwardly shudder, "Niall paid for my bail? I was wondering whether you had his phone number so I could contact him myself?"

The police officer gave me a stern glare. "Can I be sure you won't use this number to hand out to others?"

I gave him a weird look. "Who would want Niall's number?"

"You don't know who he is?" I shook my head.

The police officer mumbled "kids" under his breath, which I clearly heard, before handing me a slip of paper with Niall's phone number written. "Just don't give this out, do you hear me?"

I nodded and thanked the officer, confused to why anyone would want Niall's number. He didn't look like he could be a part of a mafia, nor a drug dealer. He must be famous then. Did he act? Was he a professional bull-fighter?

I shook the silly thoughts out of my head and decided to call the number, gulping nervously as it rang twice before an Irish accent spoke.

"Hello?"

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I hope you guys enjoy the direction I take in this and don't think it's too cliche' or done before.

Comments are love!