This Thing Upon Me [Order The eBook] [Harry Styles]

Chapter 13

(DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. It's important to remember this is all totally fabricated, embellished, and exaggerated for entertainment purposes.)

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"Since Singapore, he started slipping through my fingers at an alarming rate, and everything I did from that moment forward was just an attempt to cling to what was left of him, until finally I was grasping at nothing but air." 

When I left, he was livid. I heard him throw something against the wall, hollering unintelligibly. I walked faster so that he couldn't catch up to me in that head-space. Then I took the stairs so I wouldn't have to wait for the elevator, just in case he followed. Midway down the steps my knees buckled, and I sat and wept harder than I had in years. The worst part was the echoes. I'd never heard myself cry so hard. Every sound I made was amplified, and I just sounded pathetic. Later a security guard came down the steps behind me.

"Mr. Styles? You ok? I think it's best if you return to your room." I couldn't look back at him. "Mr. Styles?"

"Yeah, mate. I hear you." I croaked. "Uh, just give me a minute, would you?" I wiped my face with the end of my sleeve.

"Sure." he said. Then, "Here." He offered a cigarette. I took it, knowing it would make me sick. Then he sat beside me and fumbled for a lighter. He was a tall, middle-aged Chinese guy with a close haircut and tired eyes. He had straight white teeth and visible laugh lines. I placed him in his early 40s.

"Han. He said, extending his hand with a smile.

"Harry." I nodded.

When he found the lighter, instead of handing it over, he indicated I should put the cigarette in my mouth. Dumbfounded, I took a second to assess the cigarette and saw that it wasn't a Marlboro. I don't know why, but I just felt like I should do it anyway. I popped it between my lips, wiping my tears and turning to face him. He struck the lighter a few times before it caught, and I noted that his hands were big and red. He had long hair along the knuckles.

First inhale hit like a ton of bricks. Usually, it went down somewhat smoothly, but this thing was just nasty. Nothing like Z's. I hit it again and it was so pungent I nearly gagged. No menthol. No filter. No calming effects. I began to cough and my eyes watered over.

"Easy there." Han said, rubbing my back. It seemed overly familiar and a step too far for hotel security, but I didn't mind it. His hand was huge and heavy, so to be honest it felt good. It slipped up and down my spine, going in broad circles between my shoulder blades. It was all I could do not to lean into it. I hit the cigarette again in hopes that it would take my mind off his touch, but he never stopped.

I'm no idiot. I immediately felt the moment his touch became sensual. His circles grew broader and slower and soon he was rubbing across the small of my back and along my ribs, like Z had been doing only moments earlier. I was afraid to look at Han and read his face—afraid I would see what I already sensed in his touch. My breathing became shallow, so I let the cigarette burn and burn and burn between my fingers, the ash growing so long that it fell off without me thumping the filter.

Zayn. The second I thought of him the effect of the guy's touch began to wane. Why the f—k was he still rubbing my back? I had a choice. I could sit and pretend not to pick up what he was putting down, or I could give him a signal for more.

"How's that treating you?" Han asked, indicating the cigarette. His accent was vague, and I assumed it was a regional twinge I was picking up on.

"Good, I guess." I said, tilting it to watch the tip burn.