Harry Styles, one of the FBI’s most wanted criminals turns himself in– and all he wants to do is speak with one rookie agent.
It’s her job to figure him out and it’s his to protect her from her past, but all secrets have to be told eventually.
AN// You can keep up with this story here via the tag HSBlacklist or on Wattpad at brutallybeautiful !
I'm brushing my teeth in my pajamas when there's a knock on my door. My neighbor has been coming over every morning to borrow sugar and I'm to much of a pushover to say no. The first day he came over, he tried to introduce himself. The second day, he told me about the American Pie Movie he watched the night before. The third day, I told him I was running late and then had an awkward exchange when we both left our apartment two hours later.
Today, I was brushing my teeth so of course I won't be able to talk to him. I walk to the kitchen, grab the ziplock bag I've already prepared and shove it into his chest as soon as the door is open.
And should I say I'm really surprised when it's not my neighbor standing at the door? (Hint: the answer is no)
"I don't need any sugar, thank you," Harry laughs, pushing himself past me to invite himself inside.
"I will take a cup of coffee though, if you're making it."
I stare at him, the door still half open, toothbrush still in my mouth, hair pulled into a I-don't-even-know-what on top of my head. Harry strides in and takes a seat on the barstool at the breakfast nook in my kitchen.
"Are you going to close the door? Or just let your neighbors assume we slept together last night?"
I roll my eyes at his comment and trudge to the kitchen sink to spit. I mock him in my head in a dumb voice. I thought for someone who can't answer a single question that you ask him would be more subtle about the flirts.
"What are you doing in my house?" I ask him, wiping the excess toothpaste from my face. I want to ask him how he knows where I live, but I know it would be pointless. He wouldn't answer anyways. Harry stands up and pours himself a cup of coffee, a cup of my coffee. Not that I was going to drink the entire pot, but still, I was annoyed.
"I wanted to wish you good luck at the trial today,"
"Thank you?" I raise my eyebrow in confusion.
"Your apartment is nice, neighbors are nice as well. They offered me a doughnut."
"They call the cops on me all the time," I tell him and we both laugh. We look at each other for a moment, in an awkward silence.
"Can you- I have to get ready," I mumble.
Harry stands up, straightening out his black button up shirt. He eyes me up and down, from the slippers on my feet to the bun on top of my head, and grins.
"You look cute like this. Maybe I can see it again, sometime," he winks.
And with the stupid smirk on his face, Harry walks out the door.
"And what happened when Kurt Weber entered the rail car at Washington Metropolitan Area Transit?"
"Kurt Weber, entered the seat next to me and held a knife to my abdomen." I say quietly into the microphone. Photos of the cut on my stomach flash on a projector. "And admitted to using Jamie-"
I'm interrupted by a man on the jury who begins to cough loudly. My eyes dart towards him. His hand is clasped over his heart, people are already starting to surround him, the judge is banging his gavel to keep the court quiet. A court marshal ushers me down and leads me out of the room.
"We ask that you stay in here, for your protection," the marshal mumbles, opening the door for me. I don't even think anything of it as I walk through the threshold, don't take note of how odd it is, until I black out and wake up in the trunk of a car.
When I was nine, I almost drowned in the ocean. Sometimes I wake up at night remembering the feeling of water filling my lungs, the feeling of my dad pounding on my chest, beating the water out of me. I remember the sound of my mother crying and the gasps from the surrounding crowd.
I had come to the conclusion when I woke up again that I would take reliving that moment one thousand times over before wanting to remember this moment ever again.
I start panicking at the realization that I was in the trunk of a car, with a throbbing headache, hands uncomfortably zip-tied behind my back and I had no idea why, or how. I feel the car roll to the stop and my breath hitches in my throat as footsteps drag against the gravel, coming closer towards me.
The sun is bright when I see it again and I squint behind the tears that filled my eyes to see bald headed man greeting me outside of the trunk. He grabs me by the arm and yanks me out of the trunk, forcefully. My eyes dart around, looking for anything familiar, but all I see are trees, dense trees and a small cabin up ahead.
Before I can even think about where I'm going, my feet are carrying my away from the bald man and I'm running towards the tree line as fast as my legs can go.
But, with my hands zip-tied behind my back, I can't catch myself when he pushes me to the ground and I fall flat on my face, cheek scraping against a stick. I suck in a sharp breath at the fall. I literally had the wind knocked out of me, even more so when he delivers a kick to my side with a loud grunt.
He yanks me up again, this time holding tighter onto my arm as he drags me to the cabin (smart move).
"What do you want with me?" I scream, thrashing in his arms.
But he doesn't answer. And I had a feeling that he brought me out here to do a lot more than just kick me in the side.
I'm sitting in a wooden chair, legs tied together, hands zipped tied with a second zip tie, watching as the man walks around, grabbing all sorts of bottles and jugs.
In front of me is a white room, lit up with fluorescence, medical cabinets sitting high on the wall. There's a weird metal tub in the middle of the floor and the bald headed man is pouring liquids into the tub. I gulp.
"Don't you think I should at least know the name of the person that is going to kill me?" I ask him, fumbling with the zip ties behind me.
"Kirby," He mumbles, not looking up at me. I freeze at the reply. Deep down inside me, I knew that I wasn't going to make it out of here. And he just confirmed my fears.
"You don't look like a killer—you look like a, you look like a father. A son?"
Kirby stops pouring the liquid into the tub and looks up at me. Bingo.
"A son then, how old is he? How old is your son?"
"He's 15, he's in his own band." He smiles proudly. I resent him and the way he's so casual as he pours up some sort of concoction that's probably going to end my life. He walks to another cabinet and grabs something else to pour into the tub.
"I knew it, a caring father. Not a killer."
He pulls out a tray and wheels it next to me. I don't want to look down to see what's on the tray, but I do anyways. And I regret it.
Sharp scalpels, a long pointed metal stick, medical utensils. He picks up the metal stick and wipes it with a wipe.
"Are you a mother?" He asks.
"That's good," he smiled. "I was told to make you suffer."
I'm trying to keep conversation with him to avoid the inevitable whatever the fuck he's going to do to me. And I'm trying to keep calm, but I can't keep calm as he inches closer towards my neck with an object too sharp for my comfort.
"Oh wait," he stops.
He walks back into the white room and grabs a camera with a tripod on it, setting it up in front of me.
"Harry is going to want to see this,"
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