[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...
"One of the hardest things you will ever have to do, my dear, is to grieve the loss of a person who is still alive." — Unknown
A/N: leave lots of comments babes! it encourages me to update faster and I've missed y'all :(
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Z A Y N
Waking up, I'm startled by the sound of my phone ringing. I glance at it, not recognizing the number and so I choose to ignore it.
I barely roll over to go back to sleep when the the doorbell rings three times rather quickly. In a half asleep stupor, I stand and step into a pair of sweats to scurry down the hallway.
When I glance through the peephole, I don't immediately recognize who it is but then the doorbell rings another three times. I take a second peek, and it finally occurs to me that it's Langley—the dude that put a fucking potato sack over my head and drove me to meet Ezra.
Shit.
My stomach suddenly twists and I know this isn't going to be good.
Dare I say, my spidey senses are tingling and they're never wrong.
Taking a controlled breath, I undo the deadbolt and open the door and with a, "What the fuck do you want?"
"Get dressed. We're going to Ezra's office."
"Why?" I snap, irritated by the fact that both my deep sleep has been ruined and I'm having to deal with this prick as well as Ezra again. A chill runs down my spine, a reminder of who Ezra is and what he did to me last time.
"Just get fuckin' dressed," he barks while giving me an angry glare. I know better than to fuck with him and so, with an annoyed sigh, I saunter away from him and down the hall to get my clothing.
It only takes a matter of a few minutes stumbling about in the darkness of my bedroom—in my half asleep state, not even thinking about turning the light on—but when I walk back to Langley, it's plainly obvious that he's not pleased with the amount of time it took me to get ready. Grabbing a house key, I ignore him, stepping outside and locking up the house to reluctantly follow him to his car parked in my driveway.
As we begin the journey, I ask, "Why does Ezra want to see me?" I glance through the window, watching as little to no cars or people pass us by. I check my phone, noting that it's half past six in the morning—just around the time traffic would begin to pick up with people heading off to work or school.
