One Direction One Shots 2

Backseat (Harry)

I sat with my back pressed to the green pleather of the corner booth. My thighs were simultaneously sticking to it and sliding off it – it was hot as hell everywhere in the city. Chicago was cold in the winter – famously cold – but in the summer, it was stupid hot. I reached out an arm and drummed my fingers on the table – not exactly nervously. Harry and I’d seen enough of each other over the past 7 months, once he’d gotten  done touring anyway, that the actual seeing him in person, in front of me was no longer a novelty. The nerves were now just par for the course of waiting for a gorgeous guy to walk into the room and/or up to you.

My fingers wound up slamming themselves down in the puddle my G&T was leaving on the wooden table top. I looked around the room – the door was open. Why was the door open? Stupid. hot. I hated that I loved this bar. It was corny to the nth degree – pseudo-Irish, it was always packed and, for some reason, it always had a “Happy St. Patty’s Day” garland strung over the top shelf booze.

Harry and I had met there, originally. I had been at a table, my friends over at the bar – two always being better in a crowd when carrying drinks. One to fend off the backs of too-tall frat boys or drunk women who always swayed towards you at the least opportune moment - $9.00 drinks all over your blouse and the floor.

I had sat there, glancing up the baseball game on the television (but never for long because the Cubs were just…awful.) Suddenly, two men flashed into my line of vision. I looked up – I knew who they were, immediately, and my mouth went dry. I had a very long, very surreal moment of trying to figure out if I was asleep. So, I furrowed my brow and stared at Harry and Zayn, standing in front of my table, yelling over the noise. Harry looked at me, glanced back at Zayn and back to me with a wide grin spread over his face. Always one to bristle at being made a fool of, I shook myself out of it and leaned forward. “I’m sorry?” I asked, looking from one to the other.

Harry stepped closer and leaned down a bit. “I said, do you know how to get to Halligan’s from here.” He smiled sweetly. I arched an eyebrow and said, “Don’t look now, but you’re there.” I gestured to the large sign that read “Halligan’s” that was plastered over the bar mirror. Harry looked to where I’d gestured and back at me. Helping himself, he sat down in the chair next to me. “Ah, well, that’s embarrassing.” I nodded and looked at the still-standing Zayn. “Yeah, I bet.” Zayn shuffled his feet and looked the other way. I returned my gaze to Harry, deciding that blunt was best. “So, now, do I pretend not to know who you two are? Is that how this works?” Harry leaned back and laughed a little. “Sure, go ahead.” I stuck my hand out and asked, “Whoever might you be?” He grinned and shot his hand into mine. “Harry. An honest businessman from overseas.” I nodded sagely, offering him my name back. Zayn, at this point totally uninterested, wandered further back into the sea of people. It had been incredibly crowded that night.

It was always incredibly crowded, actually. I wondered for a moment if Harry was there right then and I just couldn’t see him. The nerves grew worse. I shifted in the booth, pulling my skin off the pleather on one side and then the other. “Ugh,” I muttered, glancing down. “S’matter?” I heard a deep voice say somewhere above me. I jerked my head up, and there was Harry. I smiled wide, nerves gone. “I’m stuck to the booth.” I gestured down to where my skirt revealed my bare legs. Harry raised his eyebrows and said, “Well then, I better get us the drinks.” I shook my head and reminded him that he was still underage, alcohol-wise. He shrugged, “Yeah, I’m sure that’ll be a big problem. Anyway, you look younger than I do. I got in here, didn’t get carded.” Which might have been because of his famous face, but I admitted he was right. People constantly mistook me for 17 or 18 and not the 25 that I was.

Harry wandered easily through the throng of drunken people – moving languidly almost, his hands in the pockets of his black jeans. Sometimes, when the light of the television hit his white t-shirt, I could see the muscles in his shoulders shifting as he edged past people. I felt smoke rising in my chest, my heartbeat speeding up and slowing down simultaneously. He flagged down one of the bartenders – not hard to do considering they were both female and Harry was Harry. And just a few moments later, he was back at the booth, a glass of whiskey in one hand and my G&T in the other. I smiled as he slipped in next to me.