Chapter Six

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"What the fuck did I do wrong now?" I yell as the clamor of the music dies down and my eyes find those mossy green ones that are full of contempt

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"What the fuck did I do wrong now?" I yell as the clamor of the music dies down and my eyes find those mossy green ones that are full of contempt.

We've been practicing for about a week now and Harry's bitching and moaning hasn't let up on me. I don't know if this is some sick initiation into the band—surviving his reign of terror. Or if this is simply how it's going to be for the remainder of my time with them. I have a feeling it's the latter. But either way, I want to strangle him.

"You're going too fast!" He yells.

"Styles, come on, mate! She was literally perfect the whole time," Louis shouts at him.

"Oh, shut it, Tomo! If she hasn't fucked you yet, she doesn't want to! Stop with the compliments and flirting!" He exclaims to Louis with his jaw clenched so tight between the words that come out of his mouth, I swear it could act as a knife.

"Lou is right, Harry..." Niall meekly remarks from behind us.

I stare him down, tongue in my cheek. Smug because his friends and bandmates are siding with me and he hates it.

"Go through it again," Harry demands, slowly through gritted teeth.

He gives us barely enough time to situate ourselves before he's counting us into Kiwi. Luckily, I've got fast hands and a need to prove him wrong, so I'm on top of it, much to his dismay.

His glaring is incessant the whole time, full of heat and a sharpness. His voice soars over the instruments, a gravelly grit to it. And honestly, being unbiased for a minute, he sounds incredible. Looks pretty good, too.

But that's beside the point.

"Someone finally decided to get their shit together," Harry says, aiming his words at me as soon as the song ends.

"What are you even talking about? I've been playing nearly perfect," I huff, tired of his bullshit.

He lets out a scornful laugh and I have to resist the urge to let out a guttural scream of frustration, but I keep my cool because I know that annoys him even more. And there are few things I enjoy more these days than getting under his skin.

"Nearly perfect?" He mimics my voice as he circles me, inching closer and closer until he's staring down at me, our chests almost touching. "Funny, Charlie."

He's so close that I can see his teeth catching on his pink lower lip when he says "funny". The exaggerated, mocking that his voice drips with. The way his eyes catch on mine—so green and so full of fire. The chill that descends down my spine as they rake me up and down. The thickness of his dark brown lashes that frames them. The very light speckling of stubble that shadows his jaw and above the cupids bow of his mouth.

My breath hitches in my throat. There's an unspoken tension that rises like invisible heat between us. It's coursing through me, wrapping around my throat and taking the words from me.

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