PARKER | Dark H.S. AU

x. little white lies

Copyright © zylgnagnaba 2014

Harry stands at the foot of the stairs, deliberating upon the thought of pushing through confronting this mystery girl, who single-handedly made up rumors about him dating her, or not. His breath comes out as a big huff, releasing the tension in his chest while wriggling the hands on his sides.

Is he nervous?

He is, but he's not going to admit it, even to himself.

He wants this to be over and done with once and for all.

He went through all of the possible words that would come out of his mouth once he speaks to her. Everything seemed to satisfy him. He thought about humiliating her, degrading her for using his name for fame, or maybe even for money. He is determined to tell her how a low-life, fame-whore she is for making up such unbelievable stories just to convince the crowd that she is involved with him.

Harry is mad, but more than that, he's a little bit more anxious. If anything, he knows this isn't going to end in a very nice note. This would be another of his many firsts -- first time confronting a complete stranger. But he couldn't care less. It wouldn't be the first for him to fire bullets, though. If anything, he's the master of craft on words. He could go a long day yapping about how incompetent his people are, and if things get worse, the court might even end up being involved.

But Harry is nice enough to confront her first and give her a chance to abdicate her claims -- to tell the media that she was just a hands down attention-seeking liar -- before he speaks to the press and deny everything. He knows it would have been more humiliating if he does the latter. And being the gentleman that he is -- he mentally rolls eyes at that --, he chose to wait for this moment and finally talk to the girl.

"Sir?" Betty speaks, cutting off his inward ramblings. Harry stares at his secretary emotionlessly and she drags her sight towards the flight of stairs, waiting for her boss to take the first step up the rundown apartment building.

"Why on earth is she wasting her money on this pile of shit?" Harry thinks aloud, muttering to himself as he tentatively climbs up the creaking stair -- referring to the unusually gloomy and dingy establishment. "She owns a big house, isn't she? Why the fuck live here?"

"That's what I was also thinking about, Sir." Betty answers just to make a conversation, although she knows Harry was asking his self instead of her.

She also knows that Harry is asking these series of questions not because he's curious of the reasons behind the girl's dwelling preferences. By the disgusted look on his face as they successfully make the last step, she is certain her boss is just being judgmental.

Harry lets go of a deep, angry breath and places one of his hand on his hip, one of the three orange bulbs flickering up the ceiling as they navigate the dimly lit hallway. He snorts hopelessly as the poor light bulb completely loses its power, making the hallway a lot dimmer.

"Couldn't be fucking dandier." He scoffs off as he scans the numbers plastered on each door, taking note of apartment 13.

"Here it is, Sir." His secretary informs, steering him towards the third door on the left side of the hallway.

Harry nods and follows Betty towards the door as she pointed at the number 13. Chills crawl at the nape of his neck, as well as on his forearms. It's as if the dodgy digits are mocking him while his eyes fix on them, pacing back and forth to his face.

Against his own will, Harry balls his hand to a fist and knocks on the door -- the sound impossibly louder, echoing throughout the hollow space. For a brief moment, he wonders if there are other people residing in the building. He wouldn't be surprised if this certain Carlotta Anne Baker is the only one foolish enough to settle in such an unfriendly environment.