Garrix & Me (Martin Garrix Fanfiction)

Chapter 49

Martin's POV

The carrier rolls on for about ten minutes until finally I spot my suitcase. When it passes me, I grab it and pull it to the ground. Beside me, Fran yawns inconspicuously behind her hand. Her hair is mussed and in the harsh white lights in the airport, she looks like she just woke up from the dead.

"God, where are my bags?" she grumbles, looking past me.

I shrug and scratch my head. "See you around."

She turns to me and nods. "Yeah, see you," she yawns again and continues searching for her luggage.

Not expecting her to be fine with me just leaving, I walk away quickly turning back once to see whether she's following me or something, but she isn't. Strange.

I round the corner of the arrivals area and exit the airport. The moment I step outside I catch the familiar scent of Amsterdam. No matter where I go, this place is the only place that has a a particular air to it. I doubt it has anything to do with this place being home.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and my finger sways over my father's contact. I should probably call him but I need a minute to prepare myself. If he's picking me up, it's a give in that he'll have some sort of fucking lecture about whatever shit is going to happen in the next few days. I'm not ready for this.

There's a bench nearby and I sink onto it. I rub my eyes furiously, while the feeling of twisting anxiety writhes within me. I slam my hands down on the cold wood of the bench, my palms instantaneously turning a bright red. I dig my phone out of my pocket, closing my eyes for a few seconds to steady my breathing. Dammit. I scroll to the last name on my contact list and hit 'call'.

I wait for five rings until the call cuts off suddenly. She ignored it. She fucking cut the call. I sigh through my teeth in frustration. That's it. To hell with her.

I sit in the half fading light of a mid afternoon Amsterdam day with my eyes closed, on the brink of exhaustion. For half an hour, I procrastinate calling my father. People pass by and I hear the shuffling of their feet. Someone even sits down beside me on the bench but I don't bother paying them any attention. After a while, I send my father a text telling him I arrived. His demanding, controlling tone of voice is something I do not want to deal with just yet.

By the time my father arrives, the sky is a dark orange color, streaked with yellow. I shove my suitcase into the sleek black Lexus, which must be new since we didn't own this when I left, and open the door to the passengers side, jumping in.

At first my father says nothing. We travel slowly through the busy parking lot of the airport until finally we turn onto the highway to head back into the city.

"So," he starts, his voice gruff.

I don't say anything.

"Your mother and I are glad you're back," he remarks in Dutch, scratching his chin.

"Cut the shit," I retort and from the corner of my eye, I watch how his jaw tightens.

"Respect," he breathes slowly, "goes both ways, Martijn."

I stare out the window, watching the rows upon rows of flowers in the countryside blur by. I hate this place. My knuckles grip the door handle and I watch them turn white as he speaks again.

"Your deposition is scheduled for tomorrow," he states, his tone professional and emotionless.

I focus my attention on my knuckles. Eventually the blood supply is cut off, and I feel my fingers stiffen in their grip around the handle. Slowly, pain starts flowing through my veins instead and soon, it begins to feel crippling. Faded green veins appear along the back of my hand.