Caught in the Crossfire

“ANOTHER ROUND!” Oakley screamed loudly, slamming her empty shot glass down on the bar table, her face twisting and contorting as the aftertaste of the alcohol came back to haunt her.

Around her, the various men she’d befriended chorused in agreement, slamming their fists against their chests or the table in front of them. The furniture rattled in protest, but the intoxicated group paid it no mind.

The bartender, though reluctant to give the drunken girl yet another shot, set one down in front of her anyway, putting a pitcher of beer that, to Oakley, tasted more like piss than a refreshing carbonated beverage in front of the boisterous men.

Without a single word of thanks, Oakley threw back the shot, squeezing her eyes shut and swallowing repeatedly to keep the alcohol down, trying desperately to make the burning in her throat move southward into her stomach.

When she succeeded, she threw her hands up in the air in celebration, and the middle-aged men, all in different stages of balding and obesity, screamed in delight and toasted each other.

“Okay,” Oakley started, getting to her feet and grabbing the bar so her knees didn’t give out underneath her, “I think I’m done for tonight, boys.”

“But we were just getting started!” one of them complained, while another slammed his mug down in protest.

“We’ll meet back here tomorrow night,” she promised in the slow voice she only used when she was trying to keep herself from slurring her words. “Promise. It’ll be fun.”

As Oakley stumbled away, using people and chairs around her to propel herself toward the door, the men clanged glasses together and sang some old English drinking songs to each other.

Oakley closed her eyes for a second as she put her hand on the doorknob, ready to throw it open and expose her scantily-clad body to the chilly outside air.

But when she opened her eyes, she saw a fine-looking gentleman sitting in a corner table, all alone, a bottle of Corona in front of him.

Oakley straightened up, flipped her dark hair behind her shoulder, and strutted over to the stranger, plopping down in the seat across from him.

He looked up at her quizzically, tearing his eyes away from the book resting in his lap. “Can I help you?” he questioned.

“I don’t know,” she responded in a sultry voice, which hid her intoxication quite well. “Can you?”

She narrowed her vibrant green eyes a little bit, searching inside his brain for the answer she needed.

Gorgeous eyes, nice tits, skinny, soft-looking hair…why not?

Trying to remain cool, the man made a show of closing his book and putting it on top of the table, using his elbow to help him lean closer to the mysterious girl sitting across from him.

“Depends on what you need help with,” he whispered, his gaze traveling down to her chest for a second before journeying back up to her face.

Oakley mimicked his sitting position, one side of her pale lips pulling up in a little smirk. “It seems that my ride disappeared, and I’m looking for a place to stay the night. Think yours is available?”

A light behind his eyes flickered with excitement, but he tried his best to hide it, shrugging his shoulders and leaning back in his chair. “I’d have to call my roommate and make sure it’s okay.”

“Well, your roommate could always join us-” Oakley started, but before she could finish, she was yanked to her feet by a strong grip.

“There you are,” Zayn gasped, completely exasperated. “Do you know how long I’ve been searching for you? For fuck’s sake, Oakley.”

“Is that your boyfriend?” the stranger questioned, his face turning redder than blood itself with embarrassment.

“He wishes,” Oakley responded sarcastically as Zayn threw her arm back at her side.

“Come on, Oakley. We’re going home.” And with that, Zayn stormed out of the bar, simply assuming that Oakley would follow like a lost puppy dog.

For a second, Oakley thought about disobeying her protector, settling back down at the table and, ultimately, going home with the stranger. She would certainly have a much better time, and she found that it was easy enough to push the thoughts of Zayn out of her mind when she really tried.

But from the way the stranger looked at her with disgust, she knew that there was no way he was going to take her home any longer.

With a huff, she resisted stomping her foot and scampered out to the London street to locate Zayn.

She found him easily enough, considering he’d stopped a couple steps away from the exit to make sure that she could find him. Because he was powerless, he always forgot that, wherever he was, Oakley could track his thoughts and find his location. It was one of the better perks of her ability, even if she did have to know the recipient really well in order to perform it.

Too bad Zayn didn’t have the same capabilities. He was always rushing around the city, checking the numerous bars she frequented, desperately searching for his partner. Almost always, she was drunk, or at least trying to get picked up. It drove him absolutely mad with how little responsibility she had, and it made him wonder more than once why the fuck he’d told her brother that he’d take her under his wing.

“You always ruin my fun,” Oakley snapped once she caught up with Zayn. “That boy was cute. And he actually liked me.”

“Actually liked you?” Zayn scoffed, rolling his dark eyes. “Every guy you’ve ever seen likes you. And you use it to your advantage well enough.”

Oakley opened her mouth to snap at her old friend, but he shook his head and continued, “Is that the kind of guy you like? The kind that can’t take his eyes off your rack long enough to listen to a word you say?”

“Not like,” Oakley corrected. “I don’t even know if I’m capable of liking guys. But kinds like him are fun to fuck around with.”

“You disgust me,” he muttered under his breath as he stuffed his hands into the pocket of his heavy leather jacket.

“Good,” she hissed. “Because your prude-like ways disgust me, too. So I guess we’re even.”

“I guess so.”

There was a moment of silence as both parties evaluated the argument. To Zayn, it wasn’t that he was a prude. In fact, he was quite the opposite. Inside of him, there was a romantic side that was desperately trying to get release, but he refused to let it win. To him, keeping the city was more important than waking up next to the girl of his dreams. There was really no comparison.

And he especially didn’t want the immature lifestyle that Oakley seemed to crave desperately, with her throwing herself around like she was worth nothing, getting drunk what seemed like every night, and taking absolutely nothing in life seriously.

But to Oakley, Zayn was just a wet noodle in the soup of life: taking a perfectly good recipe and ruining it all from his lack of vibrancy and love for excitement. He was just too serious, too brooding, too moody.

“Zayn?” Oakley spoke up after she seethed for a couple minutes, the alcohol running through her veins dissipating her anger.

“What?” he snapped. Sober as a heart attack, Zayn was still irritated at the girl that was supposed to be his equal in work.

“We’re going the wrong way.”

The two stopped and looked around. It only took a second for Zayn to realize that she was right. With a muttered, “Fuck,” and a turn on his heel, he started back in the opposite direction.

“And I thought I was the drunk one.”