Wrote something for @siiinners based off the song ‘Style’ by Taylor Swift
[11:35;; SMS]: Be there at midnight
That’s the first text she gets from him in a month. Or had it been more? At this point she lost track of when they had last spoken. She just remembered he had walked away from her, cigarette dangling from his lips, while she stood there motionless on a sidewalk while drunk party girls and vagabonds brushed by her in the night. Never in her life had she felt so-- empty? That wasn’t the right word to describe how she felt the last time she laid eyes upon him. It was more of crushing disappointment. The kind that pressed on her chest as if forcing her back into the box she made for herself.
It felt wrong that the message made her stomach turn with butterflies. The idea of seeing him again was a mix of anxiety and excitement. The lines were beginning to blur between those feelings more and more with every passing moment she spent with him. Even more with every time she wasn’t.
The brunette didn’t even reply. Her read receipts were on and he would know. Besides, there was no use in arguing or trying to fight the inevitable. She would be back in his grasp at midnight. He was the sweetest drug on her lips and unable to be resisted. No matter how many times he seemed to drop out of her life, he always came right back in with a bang. It was all like a rubber band being fired back into her eye. Sometimes it would go somewhere, sometimes it would leave a sting.
She threw on some ripped jeans and an old band shirt, pulling her long dark tresses up into a ponytail. Same routine as always for the same cycle they were about to go into.
He pulled up outside her apartment. Midnight, on the dot. The one good thing about him being a rockstar is he was impeccably punctual. Headlights on his ‘low key’ car were off. After all, neither of them wanted the paparazzi getting whiff of this. She could imagine the headlines now as she descended the steps from her porch, and began to question whether she should be doing this at all.
Really, Griffon should just tell him to leave, but she enjoyed the little game they played, going round and around each time.
She slid into the passenger seat silently. The feeling of the leather on her skin was familiar and welcoming. This car had become very acquitted with Miss Singer. She had ridden in it many times... in more ways than others.
Thirty minute drive back to his house. Neither of them said a word. The only sounds were the engine, and each other’s breathing. His fingers twitched over the stick shift, and she felt his eyes on her every few seconds. She tried not to look, she really did. Griff knew one glance at him in his stupid white t-shirt and black jeans with that messy hair just falling into his eyes would break the dam of emotions she held for him. Many thoughts ran through her head on this drive. Was he high? Drunk? Was he coming down off something and needed her again? Did he feel guilty? Did he miss her? Or was this something his publicist had set up?
She fester and festered in her anxieties and ‘what ifs’ till the next thing she knew he was cutting the engine and his pretty little house in the hills was right in front of her. She swallowed, hard. As she rose out of his car, and crossed over the threshold she looked out into the twinkling lights below her of the city that had become a second home.
It was natural, instinctual even, for her to settle into the couch in his living room. Most of the lights were out, and his place looked spotless as usual. Almost un-lived in. She wondered how much time he actually spent here. How many nights did he actually stay here? How many girls had been sitting in her place since they last spoke?
He handed her a glass of water, sitting down next to her and relaxing back into the sofa. He hardly seemed anxious or bothered by the events that had transpired. It was as though their lack of contact had hardly happened and she had simply been sitting here all this time, never once having left his side.
“I heard you were with a new girl,” She remarked blankly, sipping from her cup, keeping her dark eyes forward. Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him. Don’t--
“Readin’ up on me, huh, Singer?” He snarked, draping his arm over the back of the couch.
“More like see your face on those rag mags in the grocery store.”
Silence fell between them. Heart beats and breaths came and went as they let the stillness of everything consume them. It got so bad, that just as she was about to get up and leave, he spoke.
“I can’t stop thinking about you and I.”
That’s when she finally looked at him, and by god the rational part of her had been right. The moment their gazes met it all came flooding back, filling her body and bones till she swore the thoughts bustling through her veins were gonna come spilling out her mouth like an overfilled pool.
He was so handsome. He had some darkened skin under his eyes, but not enough to look sickly, but just enough to make the electric blue of his irises pop. His wavy hair was messier than usual and had been cut since she last saw him. That golden little pendant he wore around his neck was still there, accentuated even more by his plain white shirt and pale skin.
“I’ve been there too a few times.”
He cracked a smile, and it cracked her wide open. She felt his hand drift from behind her to wrap around her body and urge her closer. She knew where this was headed. She always did.
Their lips pressed together hard and hungrily, like they both had been starving and finally found a feast to sink their teeth into. She dug her fingers into his skin, pulling him closer and closer, needing more and more of him to satisfy the ache he had left when he walked away from what they had.
His fingers knotted up in her hair at the back of her neck, mouth moving down to line kisses along her jaw back to the delicate skin just below her ear.
“We may go in and out of fashion, Griffon,” He panted, voice heavy and sultry, filling her head. “But we never go out of style.”
