The Butterfly Effect

5. My Place or Yours?

Harry's POV August 24, 2016

I sat across the table, a shot of tequila with a lime wedge draped over the side in front of me. I may be able to manipulate time, but sometimes I wish I was born with the power to control my anxiety. It sucks, if you must know.

I couldn't let him know I was nervous though. No fucking way.

The alcohol burned my throat as it slid down. When people describe it as smooth, they don't know what they're talking about. It feels like you've drunk bleach or battery acid. Should that even be consumed by humans?

"Your clothes look a little....wrinkled," I laugh, teasing lightly.

Louis smiled at me, sipping on his vodka. "Well, with the night I had, yours would be too. Let me put it this way: Cougar. Husband. Threats of choking. Just a typical day in the life of an escort....but I did get $400 out of it," he laughs.

"Wait, what?" I asked amused.

"She was a customer but wanted to take me home. Money talks, you know." He winked at me. "You're hot for a frat boy."

I faked gasped and put my hand bent, fingers facing myself. "Well I never. You trying to say frat boys can't be attractive? Pick someone who can do both!"

"Touche," he cocked an eyebrow at me and flashed his million dollar smile.

What am I doing here, even? I don't have $400 for a tip. Hell, I hardly have money for the dinner menu. I'm on a Happy Meal budget.

"Let's cut the small talk, shall we?" He asked taking another shot. "I'll get the bill, don't worry about it. You wanted to take me out because you are curious, aren't you?" He picked up a cherry that was in a bowl on the table, looking at me dead in the eye.

Oh shit. Oh shit.

"You wanna know how my audition went...what kind of moves I have that made me cut out to be a escort?" He leaned forward, motioning me to do the same. He stood up out of his chair, hot breath ticking my nose. "But the only question I have is...."

Oh fuck. I can't even think straight right now, much less answer a question. Stay calm.

"My place or yours?"

Fuck. Yep, he's good.

Throwing money on the table, I grabbed his hand and ran out of the bar. I saw him eyeing me, wondering why I paid for the drinks when he clearly offered. I don't have an answer. I just beat him to it is all....right? No other particular reason. *Whistles*

"Yours!" I yell as we run down the street.

I giggle.

What the fuck? I am holding hands with someone I hardly know and giggling.

Fuck me! Oh wait. He's going to take care of that....I think?

As we continued running, not very graceful might I add (I never promised to be in shape), I could feel tiny droplet of rain hitting my head. Why we weren't calling a cab, uber, or anything else is beyond me.

But there's something freeing and...child-like about this experience right now.

It makes me giggle.....

Again.

"Strawberry or banana?" He shouts over the thunder clouds rolling in.

"What?"

"Nothing!" He laughs.

We slow down our running, stopping in front of an upscale apartment complex. I am more than glad I chose his place over my frat house. He'd probably snarl his nose at all the beer cans, sweaty bodies, and loud music playing. Then again – maybe he's looking for something out of the ordinary too.

We take a glass elevator to the 10th floor. Louis walks me over to his door and pauses before he unlocks it.

"Don't get attached," he reminds, which sounds more like a warning to me.

I don't answer him. I see a glimpse of something in his ocean blue eyes, like maybe he's talking to himself when he says that. Or is that my narcissism speaking?

"I won't keep you out much longer, Curly. It's probably getting past your bedtime college boy," he teased as he grabs a remote and pushes a button. Instantaneously, his apartment begins to fill with music. It's soft and slow, sensual.

He edges closer to me, taking no time in unbuttoning my plaid shirt. I watch his eyes travel down with each button. I can see my butterfly wings beginning to poke through the empty space. It's making him curious, I can tell. His teeth is biting his lip rather harshly.

I told you, I'm irresistible.

But I'm still intimidated. He must be mind blowing. What if I'm just mediocre?

He guides me toward his bedroom. The color scheme is red, grey, and black. The blankets look like they're made out of silk. There is a television hanging on the wall

There is no small-talk. It's almost like a routine. I try to look at him in the eye, but he avoids. He keeps his head down, trying to undress me, concentrating. It's almost as if he has zoned out now, doesn't want to think anymore.

"Strawberry or Banana?" He reiterated. He opened a drawer beside his bed, holding up a pink wrapper and a yellow wrapper.

I point at the yellow one, my cheeks now a crimson color. What the hell is wrong with me? Get it together, Styles. Get it together. Ugh, not even the tequila is giving me confidence tonight. Then again, how much effort can it take? What's below is cheering me on. It wants to play.

"Good choice!" He inches toward me.