Pretty Punk Cherry

13 ⭑ What're you some typa' fuckin' stripper?

Although, maybe not. I wasn't sure I could stoop down to the depths of fiery hell.

Regardless, it didn't matter, I felt bad, so I said sorry, and so did he.

I wasn't bothering him, I knew what not to say now, and we were just co-existing.

We weren't going to be friends and that was that.

"Ok-what is that even supposed to be? Throw up?" Harlow made a face as he gazed down, adjusting the death metal, cropped, cut off shirt on his chest.

I huffed out a breath and grabbed the bowl I'd dropped on the floor, "It's.... pizza? Or it's supposed to be, but-it's not really going according to plan?"

"Yeah, no shit sherlock.. It looks like a troll puked its' guts out in'ere." Harlow grabbed my arm strongly and pulled me up to my feet, avoiding stepping on the mess with his nice shoes.

"Where are you off to? I was making this for you too but you're all dressed up."

"I was gonna go out to a bar and drink myself to sleep, but it looks like I'm gonna have to stay here for a bit and clean up this mess you made." He let me go and then looked around at the stuff crowding the counter.

"Are you feeling better?" I asked nervously, placing the dirty bowl onto the counter.

"That's not your business, Cherry." The reply wasn't really mean, more so just the truth in a passive aggressive way.

I quickly changed the subject, "Well-then, go out." I gestured toward the door, "I promise, I'll clean this all up and have pizza done by the time you get back. You don't have to clean up anything, its' my mess, I made it."

"It's very bold of you to assume I trust you in my house alone. Niko and Mikey aren't here, and you will burn down the house if I don't stay, so move." Harlow tutted his hands and I stumbled back out of the way so he could pick up the bowl of mush and trash it, "Pizza. More like Porridge..." he muttered to himself.

"Okay-hey...." I laughed slightly, "I tried my best. I'm better at baking."

"If you were good at baking, you'd know that eggs?" Harlow picked up the carton and walked back to the fridge, "They don't belong in bread dough."

"When I say I'm good at baking, I really mean I'm good at baking desserts. Cakes, cupcakes, pies, cookies, that kind of thing. And you can't say I'm not good at that either because I saw you stuffing your face with banana muffins when you came out for dinner last night." I pointed at him momentarily as I walked toward the sink.

"Oh whatever. They were mediocre at best, freak. You didn't add enough cinnamon, that's for sure." Harlow said matter of factly, grabbing a bottle of cleaner from near me under the sink.

I began to wash my hands, looking over my shoulder at him, "I added the perfect amount!-"

"Uh, no, I could taste it and it was fucking wrong."

"What do you know about baking?" I huffed, grabbing a paper towel to dry my soaked hands.

"I used to work at a bakery when I was a teenager. Believe me, I know more about baking than you ever will. Now shut up, please, and get the hell back over here." Harlow dumped the paper towels he'd used to clean in the trash and then clicked on the ipod radio by his oven.

Confused, I just stood there for a moment, "H-"

"What did I just ask you to do? Come here, Cherry. Don't be dramatic. I'm gonna help you."

"Oh." My eyebrows raised and I quickly rushed forward, "S-sorry. I didn't think that was what you wanted me for. You want me to help?"

Harlow looked at me like a fool, "Would you rather fucking starve?-"