Exposure • h.s.

CHAPTER32.

If I've made it through the longest, most grueling thirty minutes of my life, I can handle just about anything. It's like time has stretched out, thinning with every thud of Harry's bedhead banging against the wall, forcing me to endure the sounds of an intimacy I'm not part of but is being thrown in my face.

Tick.

"Oh, fuck, Harry, yes, yes, yes!"

Tock.

"Yes, yes, keep going, keep going, keep going!"

Tick.

"I told you to stay still, darling."

Tock.

"Oh my god, mab...ba-baby!"

I feel as if I'm teetering on the edge of a cliff, and on the other side, in the abyss, there's just the possibility of me emptying the contents of my stomach.

These noises are seriously getting on my nerves. There's no need to be so theatrical and over-the-top, almost as if they're shooting some porn movie for their own private entertainment.

And right now, I'm not sure if my hearing has suddenly become super sharp, or if they're just making an incredible racket, but I can hear it all. Absolutely everything.

The bed creaking, their bodies colliding, bare footsteps on the floor, and Harry's dominating instructions, arranging those two girls just the way he likes.

Sadly, being forced to hear it all leaves little to no room for my imagination.

What's even worse is that I'd kill to be in those girls' shoes: the fact that I almost feel the physical need to have someone as obnoxious as Harry makes me physically sick.

The more I think about it, the more it occurs to me that, in the end, a moment that felt so meaningful to me like the one Harry and I shared was just another routine, everyday thing for him. Once he was done with me, he moved on to something that perhaps satisfied him even more.

Something better than me.

Thankfully, the screams come to an end, and I can finally get out of the bed where I'd been sprawled out, almost in a state of catalepsy, while I endured the sound of Harry burying himself between another girl's legs.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. But if I hate him so much, why can't I stop thinking about him? And why am I consumed by jealousy?

I sneak over to the closet, hunting for an outfit that won't attract too much attention. It's a bit of a challenge, given my penchant for tees with fun prints, glitzy stuff, ruffled skirts, and whimsical little dresses. But I manage to fish out a simple black tee and a pair of flared jeans from the jumble of clothes hanging there, two pieces of fabric to hide beneath without risking drawing all the city's artificial lights.

I grab a crossbody bag, chain clattering as I sling it over my shoulder, ready to dash down the stairs (no way am I taking the elevator now) and join the guys in the living room.

I go to open the door to the room after having brushed my teeth about three or four times, hoping to flush down the sink not just the traces of Harry left in my mouth but also the thought of him in bed with those other two girls.

The thought of Harry in my mouth is a violent thought, causing me a pain that's entirely unnecessary and annoying.
I think about my skin as if it has been marked after Harry's firm, warm touch, as if that contact's just left me full of distressingly purple bruises.

Just as I'm about to step into the hallway, I hear the door of the room next to mine creak open, and out come the two girls from earlier, now right in front of me. The makeup that once must have been a light veil of color has given way to smeared mascara under their eyes, almost as if they've been crying – and I'm pretty sure they haven't; their lips are chapped, swollen, cracked almost, marks on their necks, obvious love bites.