Game On. Harry Styles

Chapter | Three

[DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU GET WOOZY]

WE GOT 8 NOTES LAST CHAPTER LETS DO IT AGAIN!! I HOPE YOU ENJOY (sorry it's a filler chapter)

“The truth will set you free. But not until it is finished with you.” 

― David Foster Wallace

Chapter Three

I watch him cautiously as I roll onto my hands and knees for a less vulnerable stance. There’s sweat beading on his forehead and he’s squirming in his sleep like he’s having a nightmare. I don’t know why he’s sleeping there, because the couch is obviously way too small for him. His feet are hanging over the arm and his head is bent upward so his chin is touching his chest. If it were any other situation in any other bedroom, I’d probably laugh at how awkward he looks. For all I know this isn’t even his bedroom. I slowly crawl backward off the bed and onto my feet in silence, I don’t know where I am, there is a new body and for all I know they were murdered in this house. This could be their house. 

  ‘Think, Desirae. What is the last thing you remember?’ I remember ditching Harry for a bunch of guys and accepting a drink, that’s about it. ‘There must have been something in that drink.’ I reach down between my thighs for my gun which has left an impressive groove from sleeping on it all night. I guess the fact that it’s still there means that nothing happened. I mean, who would bang someone who had a gun strapped to their leg? It would certainly set off warning signs in my head. I hold it out in front of me and aim it at Harry as I pull back the hammer with a click which stirs Harry awake. 

  “STAY WHERE YOU ARE!” I scream, and my head pounds in protest. Harry jumps in fright and cowers into the couch. The room is a mess. There are clothes all over the floor including his jeans and shirt from last night which lay next to him on the couch. He has tattoos all over his body, and he holds his hands out in front of him.   “Woah! Woah! Chavez, babe, put the gun down. You’re okay! You’re alright! I’m not going to hurt you,” he tells me, but I’m not buying it for a second. “What did you spike me with?” I demand in the quietest voice possible, careful not to make my head pound even more. His hair is all over the place, especially at the back where a few curls are floating over his head like a halo. 

  “It wasn’t me! You know it wasn’t me, don’t you? Remember, you went and took a drink from those guys?” He says calm and collected; his hands never moving from out in front of him and his eyes never leaving mine. I know in my heart that he wasn’t the one who handed me the drink, but I just really don’t trust this guy. He’s given me no reason to trust him at all. 

  “So what you could have spiked it and then given it to him!” I scream and slam my palm into my head as a reflex. Each pound is worse than the last and Harry has the nerve to stand up. “Sit the fuck down,” I warn him but he doesn’t oblige. 

  “You need to go see a doctor,” He’s whispering but it sounds like he’s talking into a bad megaphone; loud and irritating. 

  “And you need to sit the fuck down,” I whisper and work really hard to focus on him; he sits down very cautiously and appears to never look at anything but me. But I can’t be entirely sure because I can’t really see his eyes. “Where’s your medicine cabinet?” I ask him and pad my way over to the two closed doors which I assume lead to the wardrobe and bathroom. 

  “You need something a little stronger than what I have,” He tells me. Who does he think he is trying to tell me what to do? I think I can diagnose this myself. It’s called a hangover for a reason; if it were any worse they would call it a scarier name. I just need some Nurofen, and preferably as soon as possible. Lord, help the person who comes between me and my pain killers, and it seems that person will be Harry. Luckily, I don’t care much for him.