Innocent Until Proven Guilty: A Zayn Malik Love Story

(2)

          “Can somebody please explain to me what the hell is going on?” I demanded, sinking further into my seat and bringing my knees up to my chest. I buried my face in between my thighs, using this method as a petty way to block myself from the cameras outside.

            Leaning over in his seat toward me, Zayn shrugged out of his suit jacket. In one swift movement, half of his jacket was around my shoulder while the other half was concealing me from the window. To my relief, the limo lurched forward and all of the blinding lights were behind us now.

            “You still don’t know who I am, huh?” He murmured, his thumb trailing down my cheek until he found an unpinned piece of hair. I watched from my peripheral vision as he tucked it away behind my ear.

            Almost instantly, goose bumps began to form on the nape of my neck and arms. “I know you’re the man I met one month ago on a plane to Australia.” I breathed out.

            “Then, that’s who I am,” he beamed, “Zayn Malik.”

            “Cut the bullshit.” I pressed my voice more firm this time. Neither of us was expecting the sudden change in my tone.

            His eyebrows furrowed into a charming smile, obviously finding amusement in this. When he realized I wasn’t going to stop until I got an answer out of him, he decided to reply. “Have you ever heard of the band One Direction?”

            “Hasn’t any teenage girl?” I said, a small smile appearing on my face. “Yeah, I’ve heard their music before. They’re pretty good, I guess.” My eyes narrowed in his direction. “What about them?”

            “Hi, I’m Zayn Malik,” he paused for a moment, “one fifth of One Direction.”

            I mentally slapped myself in the face. All of this made sense now – why he carried a group picture of himself in his pocket, why my father said there was going to be a celebrity part of the trial, and why there was a cloud of photographers outside the courthouse.

            “Now that I answered your question,” Zayn began, “you can at least do me the favor of answering mine.”

            I crossed my arms and closed my mouth which was probably open in shock. Drawing in a breath, I replied, “What is it?”

            “How did you find me?”

            “I was there during your trial.” I said, leaving that as my final answer. I didn’t want to think about any of that now. There was plenty of time to talk about it. I was still confused on which side Zayn was on, but to me, Zayn was the boy I met on the plane. Not the criminal anyone could be accusing him of.

            His playful smile was wiped off of his face almost immediately. There was suddenly a thick tension building up in the atmosphere. He shifted uneasily in his seat, not sure whether he should reply or not. I was glad to hear his voice when he asked, “How much did you hear?”

            “It’s what I didn’t hear, really.” I said, throwing in an amused smile. “I was struggling to stay awake the whole time.”

            As quickly as it had left, his smirk was now plastered on his face again. “Then why were you there?” He asked, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

            “I was there to support my dad.”

            “Who’s your dad?”

            “Troy Bolton’s lawyer.” (A/N: HSM reference FTW!)

            As soon as that name left my mouth, Zayn’s expression hardened again. “Where do you live?” I quickly gave him my address with a puzzled look on my face. I didn’t realize his bodyguards were in the limo with us until one of them pushed a button which rolled down the window in between the driver and us. He gave him my address, and the driver made a sharp turn.

            Neither of us said anything after that. I didn’t know how I should reply to this situation. There was something about my dad that Zayn didn’t like – and I was going to make sure I found out. Why did any of that matter, anyway? It’s not like Zayn’s the one becoming friends with him. I didn’t judge him off of what I knew so far, so he shouldn’t have judged me.

             I didn’t even realize we were sitting in front of my house until one of the bodyguards let out an awkward cough. I looked up almost immediately into Zayn’s eyes. “Why are you taking me home?” I demanded.

            “I don’t want a second offense for kidnapping,” he cheekily replied.

            I rolled my eyes, finding his humor in this situation very annoying. “Why don’t you like my dad?”

            “I never said that.”

            “You didn’t have to.” I replied, crossing my arms and leaning back into the seat. It was true; I was very good at reading body language.

            Zayn let out a nervous sigh. “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

            “I wasn’t trying to find you.” I firmly stated. “You were just – there.”

            “Don’t go to the second trial.”

            “I’m not making any promises.”

            “Johansen.”

            “Zayn.”

            “Why are you being so stubborn?”

            “Why are you avoiding my question?” This guy will be the death of me, I swear. “What did I do wrong?”

            Zayn’s expression morphed into a guilty one. “It’s not you,” he quickly answered, “It’s just – I’m not on good terms with your father.”

            “No, really?” I began chuckling sarcastically.

            “Johansen, I think you should go now.”        

            That was all I needed to hear. He didn’t want anything to do with me, and he made that clear. “Thank you for the ride home.” I muttered out, scrambling to gather all of my things. As soon as I was out of the limo, I made a quick sprint toward the door.

By the time I opened the door and turned around, the limo was already out of sight.