Heroin {harry styles}

31

"I'm not a bad guy."

I turn around from washing the breakfast dishes to see Harry standing there in all his shirtless glory, with his tattoos on full display.

When he came down for breakfast, he took his bowl of cereal and left the kitchen without a word.

He brought it back a little later for me to clean, along with my own, and I thought he'd left after that.

I guess I was wrong.

"Okay," I agree for the sole purpose of not having this conversation again.

"That wasn't sincere."

I dry off my hands quickly and lean against the counter, crossing my arms.

He's right. It wasn't sincere. Not in the slightest.

"Yes it was," I lie.

"You looked above my head when you said that," he says.

"So?"

What does me looking over his head have to do with anything?

"You look right above my head when you lie," he smirks.

I look Harry straight in the eyes and say, "I don't think you're a bad guy."

But that time I realize that halfway through the sentence, my eyes briefly flicked to the wall behind Harry's head.

Shoot.

"You just did it again!" He accuses. "Stop lying to me!"

"No I didn't!" My brain automatically defends out of pure stubbornness.

Harry stands there and raises an eyebrow at me, obviously amused by this whole thing.

"Okay I did," I finally admit.

"I'm not a bad guy," he repeats, his eyes full of some emotion that I can't quite read.

"Whatever you say," I give in without actually agreeing with him.

"I mean it," his jaw stiffens.

"Think whatever you want, Harry."

"Tell me what makes me such a bad person then, yeah?" He pushes.

I take a deep breath before responding.

"You broke apart a family last night," I start.

"Two, actually," he corrects. "And I explained that already."

"You're the leader of a huge gang," I point out.

"How does that make me a bad person?"

Is he actually joking? "You sell drugs and weapons and whatever else for a living! All of that stuff hurts people!"

"Hey, I do fair business. The way I see it, if people want that stuff they're gonna do whatever it takes to find it. Why not be the one running the show?" He smirks. "Beats going to college or working in an office nine to five my entire life."

"You hired and killed a prostitute," I list off another reason.

"Yeah," He sucks in air through his teeth. "Haven't really got an excuse for that one. I was extremely not sober. If it helps, most of the time I just find girls in clubs to hook up with. Prostitutes aren't usually my style."

Harry really doesn't see anything wrong with this stuff. I don't know how many times I can say that I can't believe him. I can't believe that someone like him exists.

But I guess I'm starting to believe it, because the terrible things he does are beginning to surprise me less and less as he keeps doing them.

I pull out one more incident just to see what he says.

"You kidnapped me and got me addicted to drugs."

Harry's eyes flicker to the floor for a second before he looks back up at me.

"And I'm sorry for that," he says, sounding more sincere than I've ever heard him sound since I've known him. Never in my life did I think I'd be hearing Harry Styles, the cruel, cold-hearted, gorgeously tattooed man, apologize to me.

I guess I can say it one more time.

I absolutely cannot believe this man.

I'm not sure what to say, but luckily I don't need to say anything because he speaks again.

"You don't still want to...you know, anymore, right?" Harry asks.

"You mean the drugs?" I clarify and he nods in response.

"It comes and goes," I shrug. "Not as bad as before though."

Harry looks like someone just stabbed him in the chest for a second before he quickly composes himself again.

"I have to go to work," he states simply. "There are a few baskets of laundry in my bedroom that need done."

I look at him questioningly, clearly remembering what he said about his bedroom.

Harry rolls his eyes, obviously knowing what I'm thinking. "You can go in to get the laundry. But I swear to god, Layla. I will know if you look through any of my things."

"Okay," I answer, turning back around to finish washing the dishes as Harry begins to walk out of the kitchen, grabbing a shirt off off of the island on his way out.

"I really am sorry," I turn my head to see him stopped in the doorway, gazing at me sincerely once again. "About the drugs. Not the kidnapping, though."

Before I can respond, he's gone.

That's where he draws the line? He can be sorry for injections me with heroin against my will, but not for kidnapping me?

In conclusion, that whole conversation was pointless. Harry almost had me convinced, but I definitely still think he's a terrible person.

I'm sure of it.

After finishing our few dishes, I decide to get started on Harry's laundry.

I have to admit, I'm curious as to what his room looks like.

Turns out, it's just like any other room. It's clean and really similar to mine, only bigger and definitely not the same colors. His walls are dark grey, and so is most everything in there. Surprisingly, his whole bedspread is solid white. I definitely didn't expect that. It lightens up the room nicely, though.

He has a few shelves on the wall, lined with books. But they aren't just any books.

They all have plain, black, leather spines.

That's weird. They don't even have titles or anything.

But knowing that somehow, someway, Harry will definitely be able to tell if I touch them or even get a closer look, I ignore them.

I quickly spot the three baskets of laundry in the corner of the room.

For someone who wears the same thing ninety eight percent of the time, Harry sure has a ton of laundry.

I carry the first basket downstairs and load up the washing machine, deciding I'll grab the other baskets as I need them.

A few hours later, all three baskets of laundry are clean.

I start folding them, as I usually do, and put the clean, folded clothes back into the baskets.

I've always just left the clean laundry outside his door I. The hallway, but since he let me in his bedroom already I guess he won't mind if I put them back where they were.

I take the baskets upstairs, making three separate trips since I can only carry one at a time.

Each time I enter and exit Harry's room, it feels like those little black books are staring at me.

But I fight the urge to be nosy and leave them alone, finally closing Harry's door when I'm done with all the laundry.

For the rest of the day, I have nothing to do. At all.

This place could not get more boring if it tried, and I actually find myself waiting for Harry to get home just so I'm not stuck here by myself any longer.

a/n
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