Hell's Angel [Ziam] [SAMPLE]

P R O L O G U E [SAMPLE]

Dedicated to Sh3sN0tAfraid for her wonderful enthusiasm when I posted this idea on my message board a couple of weeks ago. You rock, baby doll ^.^ xxx

Write #SugarandSalt in your comment if you want me to continue this story!

Zayn wasn't the most nefarious of men, so when he wished that his boss would slip up on the pavement as he left Zayn all alone to man the shop that night, well, there wasn't any heart in it. In fact, if Mr. Hugo McCarthy did fall over, Zayn would probably be the first on scene, checking for bruises or bumps and helping him to his feet. He'd brush off the dirt, ask Hugo if he was all right, then insist on walking him back to his car before returning to work. See, Zayn wasn't the kind of soul that could sit there and watch bad things be done to good people. He couldn't watch bad things be done to anyone, if he was brutally honest to himself. He'd take the bullet, endure the torture, let himself be killed! As long as no-one else was hurt, Zayn was okay. He'd be in agony and feel terrified and he'd most probably die but at least he'd be content, knowing that his actions saved others.

He wasn't a hero - on the contrary, Zayn considered himself an unremarkable man with a bad habit of daydreaming, and seeing the good in everything and anyone. If he saw bad things, he'd see them in the light: as something pure and good. He'd see something that made the darkness seem not so dark, or he'd find a way to guide himself through it. The light at the end of the tunnel was, in Zayn's humble opinion, not even at the end. There wasn't even a tunnel.

Darkness, without light, could not exist. Not to Zayn.

"You're too good to me," people would tell him, "Don't be so nice."

Yet Zayn could not help it. It's not like he considered himself above others, or even that he considered himself a 'superhero' of sorts. He just had morals, as any human, that varied from others. Maybe. Zayn believed everyone would do what he would if given the opportunity.

That's why, when the heavily tattooed man strolled up the isle right up to the cashier, Zayn didn't even bat an eyelash. He saw the tattoos, the cigarette sitting between plump lips, the overcast eyes. He drank in everything about the man in one moment: boots, ripped jeans, weighted jacket, mused hair. Everything about him screamed danger - as if the knife in his pocket wasn't a big enough clue - yet even as the man blew a wisp of smoke in Zayn's direction, Zayn could only smile.

"I like your tattoos," Zayn said, the bodyart monopolizing Zayn's attention. "They're beautiful."

Another breath of smoke, laced with what Zayn thought smelled of coal. It reminded him of winter during his childhood, and the many days spent crammed around the fire with his mother and sister. "I like your mouth," the stranger said, the lopsidedness about him now encompassing his lips and forcing a smirk, "though I could think of a better use for it than talking."

Zayn heard the inhalation then, and finally drew his attention back to look up at the man. "I'm sure you could," he said with an absent smile. "What does that tattoo mean?" He pointed to a pair of ebony wings on the man's forehead, which curled around the man's eyes like the fingers of flames. Zayn thought it was beautiful.

The stranger took in another breath of smoke, the soft puttering sound resounding around them, then blew it out and trailed his finger through the billowing smoke. "It's my rank, Sugar," he said, raising an eyebrow as he glanced at Zayn. "Why? You want one yourself?"

"I guess I would, but I don't have a rank." Zayn hadn't even the slightest clue what the man was on about. "Are you a high rank?"

The man laughed, and it sounded too seductive to be genuine. "The highest someone like myself can ever reach," he said. "As are you, Sugar, though your wings are white."

"I have a rank?"

"Sure you do. Everyone has a rank." Another inhale. Another exhale. Another sinister smile. "S'why I'm here, actually. I've been sent to bring a little black to the party, Zayn."

Zayn blinked, then smiled. "You know my name?"

"Everyone in Hell knows your name, Sugar. You're infamous."

"Infamous?" Zayn frowned, looking hurt. "I... don't know what I've done wrong."

"It's what you haven't done wrong, Sugar," the man said. "That's why I'm here. For you."

It was getting more and more confusing for Zayn but he followed along well, even happily. "For me?" he asked. "Who are you?"

"Well, Sugar," the man began, the cigarette beginning to burn out as it hung loosely in between those sinful lips of his, designed only for complete and utter seduction, "I'm your Hell Angel - and trust me when I say that there aint nothing you can do about it."