Once in a Lifetime ➳ Larry

chapter eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

Harry's tense muscles ache as he sits up in a stranger's bed.  His legs feel sticky with sweat and body oil residue.  The man sleeps comfortably beside him, tangled up in the sheets, snoring obnoxiously.  His belly rises up and down each time he inhales a raspy breath.  Harry can't remember his name, or if they even exchanged names in the first place. 

    An intense hangover burns in his brain, making his eyes sensitive to the bright sunlight that filters through the nearby window.  He faintly recalls drinking shots of tequila and taking drugs from one of his co-workers.  He instantly regrets it.  He tried to forget about Louis, to intoxicate his mind and let go of his feelings, but it didn't work.  If anything, it made only it worse.

    Shame settles in his gut as he slips on his skimpy outfit, tugging up his skirt around his hips where purple bruises stain his skin.  He then pulls on his silky top, which feels tight on his chest.  He nearly stumbles over his own feet whilst he steps into his fishnet tights.  He steadies himself on the wall and tries to focus on breathing.  The world seems to spin around him rapidly in a blur of painful motion. 

    "Rose," a hoarse voice calls out, interlaced with confusion.

    Harry turns around on his heel.  The man awoke from his slumber.  He sits up in his bed and rubs his eyes tiredly. 

    "What are you still doing here?" the stranger pesters, squinting at Harry's disheveled frame.

    Harry swallows awkwardly.  "I— um, sorry.  I'm leaving now."

    The man looks faintly panicked as he glances at his alarm clock.  He rubs a hand over his exhausted face.  "Well, get out of my flat, slut.  My girlfriend should be home soon from her holiday."

    A sharp pain shoots through Harry's heart.  Shit.  "Girlfriend?"

    "Yeah," the man says dismissively. 

The black-haired man reaches over to his bedside table and checks his phone, carelessly scrolling through his texts as his dark thumb moves down the screen.  Harry stands there dumbly in silence.  He knows he should leave, should focus on putting his life back together, but his feet are glued to the floor.  He helped this man cheat on his girlfriend.  He blames himself, even if he didn't know.

"You have a girlfriend," Harry says numbly. 

The man looks up with a raised eyebrow.  "Did you not hear what I said, whore?  Get out of my damn house," he spits bitterly.

Harry's jaw tightens.  "You had sex with me," he murmurs.

"So what?"

"So, it's wrong.  You're in a relationship."

"Fuck off, mate.  Don't tell me how to live my life," the man hisses.  He angrily points towards the door.  "Go back to your pimp.  I'm sure he's missing your slutty arse."

Harry crosses his arms over his chest.  "I'm not a prostitute," he corrects.

"You sure seemed like a rent boy last night," he chuckles dryly.

Frustration surges in Harry's veins.  He hates being treated like an object, as if he's owned by someone.  As if his life has no meaning.  As if he's just part of a pimp's collection.  He enjoys his job, he loves stripping, and he likes the thrill of being on stage.  He'd rather spend his evenings in a nightclub than be hunched over a desk in a miserable cubicle. 

"If you're so disgusted with me, why'd you fuck me?" he demands.

The man shrugs as he stands up from his bed.  He grabs his carton of cigarettes off of his nightstand and ignites one with his lighter.  He slips it between his chapped lips and takes in a deep breath before exhaling a cloud of grey smoke.  Whilst the cigarette bobs in his mouth, he pulls on a pair of dirty, hole-filled jeans.