"Styles, meet FBI Agent Caroline Forbes. She will be on your case and with you every day until she gathers more evidence and can turn you in, or you confess," the Sheriff informs me as I glance from him back to her, and she gives me a polite smile...
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"What the bloody hell are you doing in my room?" I hear for the millionth time it seems in the hours I've spent babysitting this drunk, forgetful, grown man.
Infuriated, this time I just shove over the trash can from my spot that I'm laying on the bed with my eyes strained, wide open. Instead of answering, I wait for him to throw up for the fourth time.
Harry turns and looks at the trash can I've place next to him in disgust and shoves it back. "Get that out of my face."
I don't even feel like moving it myself, leading Harry to meet my eyes before discovering I'm wearing his robe.
"You know that's mine, right?"
It hits me that he's sounding much more coherent, and I push my body up from the bed to sit up, feeling so tired that if I wasn't holding myself up with my hands, I'd fall right back down.
"Are you sober?" The words come out hoarse, the exhaustion I'm experiencing quite obvious.
"I mean, I've got me a headache but clearly sober enough to wonder why you're in my room, wearing my robe, sticking a trash can that smells like vomit in my face when I wake up," he sits himself up too, leaning back on his pillow, giving me a look that sets me off.
"Oh, I'm sorry," I straighten my posture, ready to pop. "Do you not recall throwing up on my lap when we arrived home? Or, how about the other times you threw up in the house and gave me the pleasure in cleaning it up? And when you wouldn't let me change, because you are so damn clingy, I had no choice but to undress and cover up with the closest thing near me?"
"Easy goldie-locks," Harry extends his arms out in case I lunge at him, "I didn't know."
"Of course you didn't know!" I shout, my eyes starting to tear up, and he coils from the loudness of my voice. "Never, ever drink like that again!"
"I'm sorry!" The man apologizes, and I start to cry a little, purely worn out. He leans forward and rubs his hands on the soft fabric over my arm, and I shake my head.
"I don't remember anything about going home," he confesses, his voice a little groggy, but calm. "Will you tell me, Caroline?"
With the back of my hand, I wipe my eyes, further smudging my makeup from last night. When I open them, Harry stares into mine with a glimmer of sincerity, and I let out a tired sigh.
"A gang of people showed up at the strip club... they had guns—"
