Unstable (Sequel to Twisted)

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"Are you sick?"

"No, I'm not sick."

Harry was sitting on the couch with his hand rubbing at his temples. His shirt was off, hanging off the other couch, and he was left only wearing his dark jeans. I didn't question why he wasn't wearing a shirt, but Harry had not been himself lately.

The Harry I knew was hot-tempered, deadly, and, well, intimidating as hell. He had no patience, and he wasn't going to hesitate to show anyone that he was in charge.

The Harry that I was seeing right now was a very stressed guy. He snapped here and there, but his mind seemed preoccupied elsewhere. I'm not going to complain, but Harry did always pull sexual advantages towards me back in London-now there was nothing.

It seemed like Harry was thinking about something 24/7. His face was always frowning in deep thought, and he would always rub at his temples as if he had a headache. And his face looked...exhausted. He literally had dark spots under his eyes, and his hair was brushed back out of his face, the curls swept back.

I let out a sigh and walked in front of him, reaching my hand out towards his forehead. He snapped immediately, his hand grabbing my wrist and stopping me.

"What the fuck are you doing?" His eyes glowered into mine.

"I'm going to feel your temperature."

"Why?"

"To see if you have a fever or not."

Harry released my wrist with a low scoff, shaking his head. "I'm not running a fucking fever."

"Then what's wrong?"

"It's none of your business." He clasped his large hands together and stared hard at the ground, licking at his lips. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration again, and I stifled a chuckle. To me, it looked like he was constipated or something.

"What do you call it when you loan money to a bison?" I asked, sitting next to Harry. I waited for a moment until he slowly turned his head to stare at me. His face was unreadable. "Harry, you're supposed to guess."

Harry shot me an exasperated look so I answered for him, "A buffaloan! Get it?" I smiled a little, trying to gauge some kind of reaction from him.

But he only let out a long sigh, running his hands through his hair and leaning back in the couch. He crossed his ankle over his knee, his foot tapping as he went back to thinking.

"Why did 6 eat 7?"

"Damn it, Claire," Harry replied, "that's the oldest joke in the book."

"So what is it?" I smiled big at him, ignoring the obvious annoyance radiating from him.

"It's the stupidest joke ever." Harry snapped back, turning to give me a fixed glare. "Now shut the fuck up and let me think."

I went silent from his harsh tone, and the feeling of hurt welled in my stomach. However, I was determined not to be fazed. I had another one up my sleeve.

"I was going to tell you a joke about amnesia, but then I forgot about it." I told Harry, tucking a strand of hair out of my face. His eyes met mine again; my face was smiling while he looked like he had enough.

"That's it," He grumbled, "get on your knees."

"What?"

"Get on your fucking knees. Right here." He pointed in between his legs, and my eyes widened when he began unzipping his jeans.