21 Murders | Harry Styles AU (discontinued)

IX. Flummoxed

flummoxed (adjective): bewildered or perplexed

[Watch the video above before continuing!!]

Noelle's POV

"No fricking way,'' I argue. "There is no way that Nickelback even compares to The Script. They aren't even in the same genre. This isn't some kind of drag contest, you can't cross dress genres."

"I never said it was cross dressing,'' Harry defends, taking a sip from his beer bottle. "Nickelback has obviously been around longer and has had more experience, therefor, they outweigh The Script by a crap ton."

"Gifted talent has nothing to do with experience! It is like comparing an immensely gifted child with the brain of an eighty year old man. Just because the old guy has been alive longer, doesn't mean he is smarter. It actually means he could be less gifted because by that time, he is most likely about to drop over dead with some disease."

"That's harsh,'' Harry shakes his head at me, lips pursing shut tightly as we have been over this debate ever since we finished putting primer on the walls. It has been at least two hours, leaving us at around four in the evening. "What about The All American Rejects, huh?"

"What about them?" I raise a weary brow. He better not knock them.

"Do you think they are better than Nickelback?"

"Without doubt, yes, I do."

"You have horrible taste, Noelle. Someone needs to teach you real music."

"Yeah, and someone needs to teach you variety and dimension. How are you ever going to find new artists or different genres if you never experiment with what you like? Harry, I am being serious. I need to get you out of this wormhole and into action because this funk you're in is stinking up the joint."

Harry just rolls his eyes at my comment. "Dimension my arse. Music nowadays is hollow and empty and meaningless. All it talks about is sex, drugs, partying, belittling women's bodies and more drugs. All the quality has been lost thanks to today's artificial talent, more like lack of."

"When was the last time you went to a concert, Harry?" I ask, setting down my bottle of beer onto the counter. The rim of the bottle leaves a circular sweat mark on the marble, my finger tracing the shape and popping the beads of condensation.

"I don't have time to attend concerts, let alone want to attend one." Harry shrugs, his shoulders broad under his regular N.Y.P.D. t-shirt. "I doubt you've been to one. I thought you said you were a nerd with no friends?"

"Heeey,'' I nudge him, a playful smirk taking over his lips. "That wasn't nice."

"Sorry, I was just stating the facts. You told me the first day that I met you that you weren't like other girls and now that I've spent time studying you, I know that you are, in fact, not like anyone else I have ever met. I just find it hard to believe that underneath that goody-two-shoes shell there is some grunge-rock concert goer. I don't know."

"Not all concert goers have gauges and tattoos, weirdo.'' I speak, rolling my eyes. "I am not that much of a goody-goody either, I don't know what you and Mendy have been smoking."

"Oh yeah? Tell me, when was the last time you were laid?" Harry inquires, a sarcastic brow being raised as I bite my lip and sit back in my stool. His elbows collide with the counter top, eyes meeting my height across from me. "You haven't, have you?"

"None of your bees wax, Styles,'' I cross my arms. "You're no panty dropper yourself, now are you?" His lips quirk into a smile, head shaking quite entertained. "What?"