Getaway Car [HS]

Chapter Twenty-Four

Harley jolts into consciousness from the edge of a nightmare.

She dreamt that she was back in the club after being drugged by Tate, running around in search of Harry. No matter where she went, he was nowhere to be found, and the longer she went without finding him, the more distressed she became. Up and up, she climbed the staircase from the basement until she busted down the door to the roof.

Cool autumn air bit at her face and blew her hair from her shoulders. The wind was powerful, and when she looked up at the sky, storm clouds were converging. It didn't hold her attention for long. Her eyes were soon drawn to the figure standing on the ledge of the building, arms down at his sides and palms facing up as if he was commanding the thunder cracking overhead. But, he wasn't. He was embracing his self-inflicted death.

The closer she got as she walked over, the clearer the image of him became, and it hit her that it was him. Harry was swaying on the ledge in the unyielding wind. This made her spring forward into action after him, shouting at him not to jump and throwing herself into running strides with all of her strength.

"Harry!"

Her pounding footfalls approaching had his shoulders tensing, and he took it as his cue to finally step off the edge of the roof.

She screamed, "NO!" at a volume so loud, her throat burned from the strain, and leapt off the building after him, her fingers barely scraping the back of his shirt by the time the fear forced her back to consciousness.

The lamp on her bedside table keeps her chest from tightening with anxiety as she scans the room with sleepy eyes in an assessment for any potential threat. Nothing is found. As always, there is no monster lying in wait at the end of her bed, no criminal preparing to steal her away and ship her off across the sea.

She forces herself from the warmth of her bed with a sigh. Mornings are always the hardest.

It's quiet and lonely, giving her thoughts room to take hold and dig their roots into her mind. Most of them are spent in eagerness to get to whatever she has planned for the day so she can move past the strange period of rumination and isolation that exists between the hours of six and nine. Today won't be any different. She'll get breakfast down and try not to think about the anxieties that smother her appetite as she does it, then go on with the day as if she didn't commit treason against Leo last night.

The floor creaks beneath her feet as she makes her way across the room. Surprisingly, she's starving this morning. Unlike most days in which she must simultaneously encourage and distract herself enough to get started, she's practically running to the kitchen.

But, when she pulls the door open and lifts her foot to step through the threshold, she is met with the sight of someone laying sideways in front of it. Not just someone, she corrects herself. The pillow and blankets she laid out for him on the couch before she passed out last night are spread on the floor as a makeshift bed. Harry rests there, cocooned in her old comforter from childhood with unicorns printed on it. Weeks ago, this might've gotten a boisterous laugh out of her, but it doesn't today. Today, it makes her disgruntled face turn tender as she watches him sleep.

She takes a risk and steps over his body, careful not to ruin the moment by waking him before she can get a good look at his face.

Here, he doesn't look like the ruthless killer everyone knows him as. He looks delicate this way, peaceful, and she doesn't think she's ever found him as pretty as she does currently. There's something inherently vulnerable about it, seeing him in one of his few moments of weakness when the walls built up around him are finally lowered. Then, of course, she's faced with the realization of why he's sleeping on the floor in front of her bedroom door.