Slight Pressure

5. Gyno to the Rescue

                   

written by styles_orama

Harry's at home feeling somewhat sorry for himself because of Louis's bullshit about oysters and pearls. Louis can be such a judgey snot.  He means well deep down somewhere, leagues beneath his cockblocking asshat behavior, but right now those good intentions have Harry on the sofa with only a kitten to snuggle and banter with. To be honest, Labia isn't the sort of pussy on his mind.

Not that he just wants to fuck Riley. No – absolutely not. Harry operates best in monogamous situations, but so far none of the girls he's dated seem to be looking for the same kind of relationship he is. What type of relationship is he looking for, exactly?

He wants someone to laugh at his corny jokes, even if they only laugh because the jokes are so terrible. He wants a girl who doesn't freak out if a couple of raindrops fall on her hair when they're taking a stroll by the vintage thrift shops on the square. He wants to sit at opposite ends of the sofa and give a foot rub (to clean, pedicured feet – he isn't a freak, by God), and get one in return – which might lead to tickles, touches, and shortness of breath after having his face between her legs for twenty minutes of a very moist dessert.

Harry definitely likes the little things. Strawberry lollies. Blue eyes. Riley seemed so shy at first, but then when Louis came in – she stood firm about not wanting him in the exam room. Although Harry was terrified, he admired her strength and somehow it made him feel a little special. Like she'd chosen him. She did though. She'd chosen him. And what's he doing about it? Standing her up when he's supposed to be meeting her at Franco's. What kind of Chosen One is he?

Harry searches the cushions for his phone because some late night Chinese take-away would be the best thing to further his current feelings of self-loathing. One missed call. If that's Louis calling to verify that he's home alone and miserable, he is going to plot an elaborate revenge.

It's Riley. Fuck. Harry checks the time. She left a voicemail? Who leaves a voicemail these days? She's probably bitching about him standing her up. Dammit. Did he give a definite yes? Should he even play the message? He's just going to feel even worse after she rakes him across the coals. Harry's thumb hovers over the delete button, and then like an idiot, he presses play with a grimace, and holds his breath.

He can hear all the usual "bar" background noise. Noise, music, laughter, a toilet flush. A toilet flush?

"Hi, Harry. Umm. Yeah. I don't know why I'm calling, really. Well, kinda. I was hoping you'd show up here, but then – who can blame you for not wanting to hang out with a girl who you met checking for STI's, right? I'm in the bathroom at Franco's, and . . . sorry for rambling. Liam showed up here and he's all touchy-feely and I'm just sort of scared of myself, ya know? I'm a weak person, Harry. You should definitely stay away. You are so smart. But I guess medical students–"

Riley talks so long the message cut off before she finishes. Harry feels sick for being such an asshole, but mostly for letting Louis's bullshit get to him. Fuck. The least he could do was be a friend, right? Right?

He fires off a text to Riley: You still there? At Franco's?

One minute passes. Then five. Nothing.

Harry starts to type a second message, but is interrupted by the ringing of his phone. It's her.

"Riley?" He answers, breathless.

"Hellooo, Doctor Styles." Riley's voice is slurred, but she's laughing.

"Are you okay, Riley? Are you still at the bar?" Harry asks, struggling to pull on a pair of joggers over his long legs while still sitting on the sofa with Labie.

"I talked so long on your voicemail. I hate voicemail. I hate when people leave me voicemail, so I don't know why I was rambling on yours. If you're anything like me, you probably just deleted it and didn't play it anyway, right? I talked so long it cut me off. I can really talk a long time, Harry. Seriously. It was in your best interest not to show up tonight because really. Look at how long I'm talking right now? Is this insane or what? Granted, I don't talk as long sober as I do when I'm intoxicated, but still, I am often long-winded. I think that's because I find myself witty. Maybe I just talk to entertain myself sometimes, I don't really know."

"Are you at Franco's? I'm coming to pick you up. You sound wicked smashed. You all right?" Grabbing his keys and wallet, Harry's out the front door and locking it behind him. He didn't even put on shoes.

"Harry you don't –"

"Riley. Do not go anywhere with Liam. I know you don't want to do that. Go to that little diner next door. I'll be there in five to ten."

"It's okay, Harry. I understand. You didn't come . . ." There's a slight crack in Riley's voice that further ignites his protective instincts.

"I'm coming now, Riley. Now. I'm almost there. Meet me out front of the diner, and I'll drive by and scoop you up."

Nothing.

"Riley? Babe? Are you outside?"

"I'm so – did you just call me babe?"

"Um, uh. Sorry about that. Should I not call you that? I guess I – " Driving down the street at a crawl due to traffic, Harry could see Riley up ahead. She was in front of the diner like he'd asked. Good girl.

Riley starts to rant about how he has no right to call her babe, and why the fuck should he have that privilege when he'd stood her up at the bar tonight? That she'd have to be a complete idiot to allow him to call her that. She's quite animated as Harry pulls to the curb. Knowing better than to respond to her accurate tirade, he just listens as he leans over and throws open the passenger door. Riley's pacing the sidewalk in such a hissy that she doesn't even notice him until he gives the horn a gentle tap and calls her name.

She taps the end call button aggressively and strides with purpose towards Harry's car, causing his life to flash before his eyes when she plops her beautiful blonde drunken self into his passenger seat.

It's a cool night, and Harry notices the goosebumps on her arms right away, reaching into the backseat for a hoodie.

"Let's get you warmed up." Harry speaks in a low tone, almost afraid to make eye contact with her as he hands off the jacket.

Riley puts her right arm in the left hole and Harry tries not to laugh at her woes, but he can't quite help it. She's beautifully problematic.

He reaches over to help her, causing her to pout. "I'm not your babe, Harry," she protests, looking directly at him with her baby blue eyes, a hint of smudged mascara beneath the left one. Without a thought, Harry swipes his thumb across the tip of his tongue, and with a couple of soft strokes, she's symmetrical once again.