50 shades darker

Chapter 19

Everything in it is entirely imaginary and intended only for entertainment; I created it for fun. I did not write 50 Shades darker or any of its characters, and I do not own them.

Chapter 19

I stare at the flames, mesmerized. They dance and weave bright blazing orange with tips of cobalt blue in the fireplace in Harry's apartment. And despite the heat pumping out of the fire and the blanket draped around my shoulders, I'm cold. Bone-chillingly cold.

I'm aware of hushed voices, many hushed voices. But they're in the background, a distant buzz. I don't hear the words. All I can hear, all I can focus on, is the soft hiss of the gas from the fire.

My thoughts turn to the house we saw yesterday and the huge fireplaces— real fireplaces for burning wood. I'd like to make love with Harry in front of a real fire. I'd like to make love with Harry in front of this fire. Yes, that would be fun. No doubt, he'd think of some way to make it memorable like all the times we've made love. I snort wryly to myself, even the times when we were just fucking. Yes, those were pretty memorable, too. Where is he?

The flames shimmy and flicker, holding me captive, keeping me numb. I focus solely on their flaring, scorching beauty. They are bewitching.

Louis, you've bewitched me.

He said that the first time he slept with me in my bed. Oh no . . .

I wrap my arms around myself, and the world falls away from me and reality bleeds into my consciousness. The creeping emptiness inside expands some more. Charlie Tango is missing.

"Lou. Here," Mrs. Jones gently coaxes me, her voice bringing me back into the room, into the now, into the anguish. She hands me a cup of tea. I take the cup and saucer gratefully, the rattle betraying my shaking hands.

"Thank you," I whisper, my voice hoarse from unshed tears and the large lump in my throat.

Gemma sits across from me on the larger-than-large U-shaped couch, holding hands with Anne. They gaze at me, pain and anxiety etched on their lovely faces. Anne looks older— a mother worried for her son. I blink dispassionately at them. I can't offer a reassuring smile, a tear even—there's nothing, just blankness and the growing emptiness. I gaze at Liam, Niall, and Ethan, who stand around the breakfast bar, all serious faces, talking quietly.

Discussing something in soft subdued voices. Behind them, Mrs. Jones busies herself in the kitchen.

Zayn is in the TV room, monitoring the local news. I hear the faint squawk from the big plasma TV. I can't bear to see the news item again—Harry Styles missing—his beautiful face on TV.

Idly, it occurs to me that I've never seen so many people in this room, yet they are still dwarfed by its sheer size. Little islands of lost, anxious people in my Fifty's home. What would he think about them being here?

Somewhere, Taylor and Des are talking to the authorities who are drip feeding us information, but it's all meaningless. The fact is—he's missing. He's been missing for eight hours. No sign, no word from him. The search has been called off—this much I do know.

It's just too dark. And we don't know where he is. He could be hurt, hungry, or worse. No!

I offer another silent prayer to God. Please let Harry be okay. Please let Harry be okay. I repeat it over and over in my head—my mantra, my lifeline, something concrete to cling to in my desperation. I refuse to think the worst. No, don't go there. There is hope.

"You're my lifeline."

Harry's words come back to haunt me. Yes, there is always hope. I must not despair.