21 Murders | Harry Styles AU (discontinued)

XXXVIII. Overtax

overtax (verb): to make excessive demands on (a person's strength, abilities, etc.)

Harry's POV

My eyes shoot open at the sound of metal-on-metal contact. Groggily sitting up and slanting my head sideways to see the sell door, the overly rambunctious officer stands with a coffee in one hand and a donut in the other.

"How stereotypical of you," I mumble to myself and wipe the sleep from my eyes.

Through a mouth full of breaded cake donut, he replies, "You're free to go."

"What?" My jaw drops. Surely he didn't mean it.

"All charges have been dropped from your case. You're free to go, you lucky bastard," with the tick of his head, he walks back behind his desk and wipes off his hands before reaching into a cabinet and pulling out my bag of personal belongings.

"The agent isn't testifying?" I gape, still not believing the man. If he wasn't going to testify against me, why else would he piss me off and wind me up? Something about the stunt makes my stomach churn in uneasy circles.

"Nope," the officer pops the 'p' and I step out of the sell to retrieve my belongings. I never realized how much shit I carry in my back pockets until it's all tossed on the surface of his very much cluttered wooden desk.

"You're free to leave whenever," he adds, plopping both of his heels onto the desk. The clock adorning the wall reads a little past nine, and as I make my way out the door, I make a mental note to remember the very relaxed and nonchalant officer.

Like the weather on a tall mountain, chilly wind whips through the air and clouds linger in the sky - moving quickly in the heavy breeze. They form into delicate shapes before morphing into ordinary figures. A bright and beaming sun sits behind one cloud, releasing its rays upon the street and starting to melt the dewy remains left from last night's low temperature.

I consider calling Noelle, but knowing her, she won't answer. The two attempts I made and miserably failed at replay in my mind, bringing out the fears in the back of my head and dragging them to the forefront.

She doesn't want to talk to me, most likely. I can imagine why. My anger once again blared over her voice when in that parking garage, but I just couldn't let myself sit there and take their shit. The shit-eating grin the Internal Affairs agent wore right before I was on top of him had me planning multiple forms of torture on his conniving arse.

Speaking so publically about how much of a fuck up my father is was one line crossed, but when he went to the extreme and tried bringing El into the equation, I about lost every fiber of willpower I've been trying to build up.

Why would someone even think such a way? Who does he think he is to have such a say in the matter? The small hint of anger I thought I had managed to keep under control once again starts to flare under the surface of my skin. I can't let it bother me now, though. I need to speak with Noelle and that anger can't be shown when doing so.

Shortly after I round the corner of this very dead street, I see a bus station. The bench is cold when I sit, making me wince, but as I sit in place for a few additional minutes, the sun's harsh rays beat down on me and melt away any remnants of goose-bumps on my arms.

When I let my vision dance over the street, the only thing that comes to mind is how abandoned and beat down the apartment buildings are; cracked windows, stray cats and water-bruised trash lay in the street's drainage swales.

My cell phone vibrates against my thigh and I dig it out. When the metal is felt on my fingertips, I glance down to see Royce's name on the screen. Pressing answer, I bring the item to my ear and speak, "Royce, what's up?"