Fire Starter

Chapter Three

It's as if my mind loathes writing long chapters. *sigh*

This chapter might be moving fast, 'cos I'm trying to get to the fucking point; I. Do. Not. Want. Nicole. In. America. Lol.

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The day after I met Zayn when we had our lunch/dinner at McDonald's, we wound up leaving at about 9. Why? Because I decided that I was too lazy to walk home after that heavy meal. I sat there with my head down, half falling asleep. Zayn, however, had himself occupied, because the volume was up on his phone, blatantly flaunting his vigorous typing or texting.

I swear, I tried to keep my eyes open as I observed his hands that clutched the black iPhone, that was one generation behind. His fingernails were surprisingly clean. His big hands were on either side of the phone, thumbs maneuvering across the screen, long fingers crossing along the back.

I realized that the bird that I had once saw on him, was on his hand, not his neck. It was the outline of a bird on the outside of his hand almost where his thumb and index finger connects. It made me wonder if that was the only tattoo or if there were more.

I'd do anything to get a cool tattoo...

Zayn looked like the type to have millions, but I couldn't know that because the stupid jacket he wore.

Should I ask?

Of course not, that's so rude.

But what do I care, and possibly know about manners? Exactly. Nothing.

He was probably a pussy after the first tattoo that he couldn't take it. He probably vowed to himself to never get another. It hurt so bad, he couldn't even get the fucking bird finished.

To be honest, I had a thing for guys with tattoos, but Zayn had one tattoo, so he obviously wasn't even a third of my type.

At one point my eyes shut, and when I was practically drooling all over the table, it was time to call it a night.

The dark haired guy, whom I'd spent half the day with, had said: "I'll go get the car, and you wait here."

"I thought you had a motorcycle." I wanted to say, but words failed me to even try. Instead I found myself protesting to his suggestion. No way, was I going to ride in the car with a man whom's last name, at least, I wasn't certain of.

"Just carry me. Not like a baby. Give me a piggy back ride." I slurred like a drunk.

Not even 10 minutes later, and we were out in the cold, I was wearing his black leather jacket, -which turned out to have a box of cigarettes on the inside pocket- he was wearing a long sleeved shirt, and I was hugging his body to myself, nuzzling my face in his neck.

It was a long walk compared to earlier, because he was actually walking, and not speed walking, and he had the weight of another person. Me.

I wasn't sure what made carrying me, so different from driving me, as to why I protested. If he wanted to kill me, he'd have a better chance while it was pitch black outside with no one around while carrying me.

But then again, my intoxicatedly sleepy mind was having separation anxiety issues at the thought of him leaving me to go get his car. It didn't all add up when I think back to all of that.

I shivered against Zayn, and he'd say things like, "We're almost there," to calm my shivers. The only thing I could really think about was how good he smelt, and how I needed to hold onto him during my sleepy state, or else I'd fall and that wouldn't be pretty at all.