Smoke & Mirrors • Zarry

1. What's not to like?

"How much for an eight ball this time?" a rail thin blonde asked Zayn as she perched on the arm of his black leather couch, her nostrils flared and red, raw, probably from sniffing too much, and she was fiending, just like they all do.

Zayn sat opposite this regular customer of his that Friday evening around half past eight, pre-rolling blunts with this medical grade Indica that he had just picked up from the best dispensary in Northbourne London, his brown knees poking out from the holes of his black ripped jeans as he leaned forward on his favorite velvet, burgundy arm chair, glancing up at Laney every so often while she bounced her leg, jittery, knowing full well that she didn't have the money to pay for what she wanted.

"80," he replied flatly, dragging his tongue across the blunt wrap and pressing the edge of the leaves together, admiring how well crafted it was.

"50," she argued, biting her nails, which were already down to stubs as it was.

"You still owe me from last time you know," Zayn replied. "It's 80."

"I don't have fucking 80 pounds!"

"Then you don't get your snow, Laney."

"Can I give you a blow job for it?"

Zayn pondered the idea for a moment and looked her over. Thin, pale, straw blonde hair that needed to be brushed. But she was sort of pretty, he noted. She had that natural bone structure that other women paid too much money to acheive and her eyes were this honey hazel with these full lips, but she was a mess and he felt a bit sorry for her, actually, because she came to him every other day for the same thing and he hoped that she would get some help one day because it was becoming a real problem.

But Zayn loved a good blowie, a firm hand job, a nice raunchy fuck, among many other things, maybe even too much, but there had to be some limitations set in place because he was still a business man, after all, and cocaine wasn't cheap, nor was it as easily obtainable as other street drugs. He shook his head no and leaned back in the chair, folding his toned, tattooed arms behind his head.

"Can't say yes. I really need you to pay me in monetary means."

"I'm not gonna make it" she pleaded. "Can I just get a bump till I figure something out? Please?"

"Fine," he agreed, grabbing the bag of coke from under the coffee table.

He reached for the flat edge spoon, lifting a small, coin sized amount from the bag and placing it on the table top in front of her, to which she jolted forward and grabbed a cut up straw from her pocket, snorting it quickly.

"Oh thank fucking God," she said, sniffling and smiling to herself. "You're the best, Z. You always got people taken care of."

"Yeah well next time I'm not gonna be this nice," he pointed out, placing the bag back under the table as she stood up and grabbed her purse from the couch.

"Can I still give you a hand job at least? Not even as payment but like...I just wanna touch your cock so bad," said Laney with a smirk dancing on her lips.

"I'll beg for it, even. I've heard you like that."

Zayn raised an eyebrow, feeling his cock stir in his pants the moment she uttered the words beg for it.

He couldn't help it even if he tried.

Zayn was a bit of a sex panther and everyone around knew it. News in that part of London traveled fast, it seemed, because he had been proclaimed a sex God by both men and women over the last few years that he'd been living in London, and there was nothing but truth to the rumor.