"Aim for the three, sweet Cherry. The solid red. She's lookin' right at you, callin' your name, winkin' at you an' shit, beggin' for a kiss and a little dip in the pocket. Give it to her."
The last three days have been an anomalous blur of daring flips and catches, deliciously forbidden kisses and wicked trailing hands laced with racy sweet nothings, the deafening roar of packed audience after packed audience, skating to The Sweet Hereafter soda fountain on the edge of town for root beer floats, dripping with sweat and glitter under piping hot stage lights, bonfires on the breezy beach at night while Harry quietly strums his guitar, draining practices with blistered hands and arduous schmoozing with the press, cuddling and making out in your soft sheets with your even softer boyfriend. But by far your absolute favorite activity has been learning how to play pool under Harry's tutelage at the swanky pool hall just a quick pink van ride away, dubbed The Cat's Paw.
And three days from your first performance also marks the end of Tex's silent grace period, meaning if he doesn't grow some balls and own up to his cowardly deed by tomorrow evening, it'll be on your shoulders to break the very unsettling news to Harry yourself. At least he will have some processing time afterward to manage his inevitable rage with Sunday looming on the horizon, the one day a week in which you are liberated from both stage performances or practices. It's hard to know how much resentment he'll carry towards you upon hearing the information about Riff's set-up; if he will be compassionate about your involvement or if the news will act as a fault line in your recently seamless relationship. Truthfully, you've been on edge all day long about the confrontation and subsequent probable shift and of course Harry's picked up on it, but you're trying your absolute best to love him as boldly as you can in the vain hope that he'll take pity on you when the time comes. Because you know deep down in your stomach, no matter how much you were hoping for the contrary, this will all come crashing down on you. However, the weight of the avalanche still remains to be seen.
The timing is truly a shame, considering how well things have been going between you two and how hard you've worked to open yourself up to Harry. You've navigated a lot of obstacles thus far in your relationship and you know that you'll be able to handle another one, but it just doesn't seem fair to either of you. You're both just trying to catch your breath, but no one around you is giving you very much space or air, forcing you to wheeze your way through your liaison with your palms over your mouths and eyes in order to keep toxins out.
It's hard to know if it would have been better for him to find out about Riff sooner rather than later. It doesn't do very much good to ruminate about it now, but your anxiety doesn't let your mind rest as you wish it would. Your kneejerk response is to think that if he'd known about your compliance too early in his pursuit, it might have sent him running in the other direction with his bubble of patience bursting under the heartsick pressure of your deflections. But finding out now, after so much time and opportunity for disclosure has passed, is just downright hurtful and you know it. You're prepared for his array of emotions; deceit, annoyance, humiliation, anger, distress. And your all-time least favorite reaction that he has a habit of reverting to: avoidance.
Part of you understands that withholding the information from him may have had a tinge of selfishness attached to it, but mostly it came from a fear of confrontation. Facing him by way of facing yourself and the objective, stony truth of the entire, stupid situation: you're a naïve, perfectionistic and guarded person. Harry has never been shy in telling you this, in begging you to peer inward and scrutinize your patterns and behaviors for your own sake. Sometimes he's so accepting of you that it's easy to forget that you have emotional work to do. But at the same time, you know that his composure and sympathy have a limit and when that runs out, you must be able to stand on your own in order to maintain your share of the scaffolding of your newly remodeled relationship or the entire thing will cave in once his weakness begins to buckle. Harry's strong, but he's not fire-proof. No one is. Even superheroes armed with the vitality of the sun need rescuing too.
Zippy reflections manage to keep you sane and fervid; rapid blinding shocks of sunshine reflected in a mirror, the light bouncing across the ceiling before they disappear. Poking your head around Banana Split's fuzzy bark and the ensuing grin that electrifies Harry's beautiful face when his gaze lands on you, a stolen wink across the practice room that's meant to be shared by the two of you only, Harry protectively brushing clingy sand from your bottom after your lunch break, the way he deflects the attention of the press's microphones from himself post-performance by simply pointing a finger towards you, his fingertips ghosting over your panties when he sighs a plea against your mouth, a tumble in bed coming to a pause when you land in a straddle across his hips, his jaw popping as he scarfs a peanut butter sandwich over your kitchen sink at dawn, the sappy, non-sequitur questions he asks right before he falls asleep, the way he twirls the chunky, possessive ring around your finger when he holds your hand.
Your fierce sexual escapade in the dressing room hasn't left yours or Harry's minds and it was silly of you to think that it would help quell Harry's inner beast for the time being, but the exact opposite has happened. He's been attempting to get into your pants non-stop, both physically and verbally, with almost continuous innuendos and brave dips past your waistband. He came close last night while you were making out and you thought that you were almost ready for further expedition, but you chickened out at the last minute and you're not exactly sure why. There's just something about the level of courage needed for another person to see you at your most vulnerable, to see you at your peak when you've truthfully never even seen it or felt it yourself. As Nettie said, you know that he would take proper care of you in regard to anything sexually-related. More than most men. But it doesn't make that susceptibility any easier.
His moans haunt you in waking life and in dreams. If someone as acquainted and comfortable with sex could crumble in your hands like that, you're terrified to see what will happen to you when you allow him to have his way.
Fuck, baby. It all aches. Touch me... touch me...
Zippy reflections manage to keep Harry sane and fervid; rapid blinding shocks of sunshine reflected in a mirror, the light bouncing across the ceiling before they disappear. The way you idly stand with your feet in a ballet fourth position as though the dedication and practice lived inside of your muscles, your fingertips unwrapping the wax paper from a shiny red lollipop, the curve of your ass when you lean over the vanity to apply your mascara in the mirror, your hips bumping together as you brush your teeth side-by-side before a performance, how your snorts always seem to come as a surprise to you no matter how frequently they occur, making him eggs and toast each morning before he goes surfing, the way you bashfully close your eyes and press your chin into your shoulder every time he surprises you from behind with an infatuated cuddle, how easily your skin bruises once he's sunken his teeth into it, the maudlin and crestfallen look on your face as you watch him pull his trousers on after he's climbed from your bed at five in the morning to go surfing.
Your moans haunt him in waking life and in dreams. If someone as wide-eyed and innocent about sex could get aroused from caresses and kissing alone, he's ecstatic to see what will happen to you when you allow him to have his way.
Harry... I want you to feel as amazing as you make me feel.
With your rising fame due to newspaper articles, radio commercials and local news programs as well as Harry's established and prominent, recognizably handsome features, you've discussed and agreed upon only openly dating in places that are outside Malibu's city limits. You've always been accustomed to Harry being stopped for autographs and photographs, but it's a new development to be asked for yours as well. It's unlikely that anyone on the outside of the circus would see you two together at an establishment and think of your vague personal relationship as unprofessional, but the chance of being spotted by one of Harry's friends or one of your coworkers within a couple mile radius of the theatre is much too high and a risk you're both wanting to completely avoid.
Besides, there's something wildly thrilling about your little secret. It adds a special element to your relationship that most don't have, as if the pull and magnetism of your attraction knows no bounds and would relent for no one. An unstoppable love that has so much power it just must be, regardless of consequence or struggle. Knowing that your affair is off-limits only makes it more delectable, like a beckoning, ceramic cookie jar on the counter in your parent's kitchen. You know that the treats inside of it taste like heaven, but they taste even better when you've stolen a handful when no one is looking. Sneaking off into your bedroom to savor them underneath your sheets, grinning at the fact that you've outsmarted everyone and have gotten exactly what you wanted, despite the risk of being caught or sinful gluttony involved. Rules are only fun to break because they exist in the first place. And cookies are always delicious.
"Mmm..." Harry's breath hitches in his throat when your ass wriggles up against his perpetual, three-days-long, half-mast chub, his tummy slowly breathing into your back as he helps you align the pool cue in your hands. Your lollipop clicks against your molars as you suck on its juicy saccharine sweetness, the red felt of the pool table below your fingertips dimly lit by the low-hanging swag lamp a couple feet about your heads.
You squint one eye to focus on your shot, pausing for a tick to rest your chin on your shoulder to gaze into Harry's mushy and brilliantly shiny emerald lights with an innocent inquiry, "are you sure I shouldn't aim for the blue ball?"
"Unbelievable." Harry shakes his head at your unintentional prod as his hands glide up your arms, over the rise of your tits for a soft pet and then further down to pinch your hips, "mmm... no. Red." His arms wrap clear around your waist for a squeeze, his chin resting on your shoulder as he sways your hips back and forth to the Nina Simone record playing on the jukebox, "trust me. She's ripe."
"Okay." You pull your cue back and laugh when it accidentally bumps Harry's shoulder, his exaggerated, dramatic wail making it even harder to concentrate than his constant touches do, "watch out, Sunshine."
Harry steps back with his palms surrendered in the air before swiping his bottle of Pearl beer from the edge of the pool table for a sip, "she's all yours, Cherrywood. Make me proud."
You blow him a kiss which he catches and stuffs into the waistband of his trousers, finally removing his delirious, lusty energy enough for you to take your shot. The white cue ball strikes against the red, sinking it into the corner pocket with a satisfying clack followed by a dissolving burial.
Harry tucks his middle finger and thumb into his cheeks for an obnoxious whistle that echoes off of the walls of the crowded pool hall, "that's my good fuckin' girl!" He spins you around with a beaming smile, your arms flinging around his neck to pull him in for an embrace. His response is immediate, pinning you against the edge of the pool table with his arms around your waist and his face burying into your neck, "nothin' sexier than a pool shark."
"Aren't you supposed to be my opposer?" You pluck his burning cigarette from the nearby ashtray balancing on the table and suck cotton candy mist into your lungs, "you're not just letting me win because I'm a girl, are you?"
Harry narrows his eyes at your insinuation before nodding his head at the cigarette smoldering between your digits. You hover the filter over his mouth, his pouty lips kissing your fingertips when he helps himself to a drag and then exhales pink clouds towards the ceiling to skirt your eye contact, "absolutely not." He is absolutely letting you win, "I'm your partner, Honeydream. Remember?" He clicks his tongue in satisfaction when you nod with that heart-stopping smile, "kiss." You connect your mouths for a taste of his candied tongue, his lips sucking on your muscle before he draws back just enough to trace your dewy bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, "another." Your grins flash together and then wilt to make way for another kiss, his voice huskier this time when he suggests, "another. But lower..."
"Harry!"
"Or I can go down if you'll lemme. I'm more than willing to taste your-"
"Harry!" You squeal and smack his shoulders before covering your face with your palms, "oh my god, you're embarrassing me."
Harry grabs your wrists and pries your hands away, "petit a petit, l'oiseau fait son nid. That's not embarrassment, sweet thing. That's lust. It stings like a motherfucker, I know. But I can make it stop. D'ya know how?" You shake your head and he holds up his hands to wiggle his fingers in the air, "these. Also..." He sticks his tongue out and slowly licks the tip of his index finger, "and-" Both of his eyebrows pull up along his forehead when he points to his crotch, "each have their perks, Cherry bomb. Just say when. I'll fuck you straight into that squeaky mattress and the last thing you'll feel is embarrassment."
You tilt your head and decide to ride this horse in the direction it's going, "what's the first thing I'd feel?"
Harry clenches his teeth and groans through a smile at your unexpected cheekiness, "toffee. Jelly. Fireworks."
Your fingers tangle into the hair at the nape of his neck, "try again. I already feel all of those things."
"Fuck..." He doesn't know whether to look at your eyes or your mouth or maybe even brave a glance at your tits. Or perhaps he could just simply toss you onto the pool table and crawl on top of you, ripping your little blouse off and blossoming purple blood to the surface of your skin without a care of who sees. Guiding your legs around his waist and tracking wet kisses down your stomach before he pulls your underwear off with his teeth. What did you ask? "Um... mudslides-"
"You're lying about not letting me win, aren't you?"
Harry starts backing up towards the bar with his hand wrapped around the neck of his empty beer bottle and his index finger pointed at your chest, "need another drink, Honey?" He accidentally stumbles into the big, red couch shaped like a pair of salacious lips in a clumsy effort to hide his shitty attempt at lying and his raging libidinous appetite, "whoa- fuckin'... came outta nowhere."
You toss your head back in laughter before chasing after him and tossing your arms around his shoulders, deciding to drop the teasing and change the subject as you two paw at one another through the ritzy, affluent crowd and to the bar. You catch eyes with a couple middle-aged women who metaphorically clutch their pearls as they scan the fearless yarn of tattoos up and down Harry's arms and across his clavicles that peek out from the collar his button-down shirt. You are completely unashamed of your lover and in fact, their judgment amuses you because you know deep down, they want to jump his bones just as much as you do. There's no way anybody walking this planet with functioning sexual organs wouldn't want to see what a naughtier version of James Dean's good looks are capable of. Perhaps the best part of the whole display is that you're convinced without speaking a word to anyone else in your proximity that he has the classiest heart in the room.
A chalkboard hangs above the shelves of liquor, scrawled fetching handwriting that announces "$1 French 75 Fridays."
You're covetous in your action when you sling your arm around his neck and he laces your fingers together without hesitation, "French 75 Fridays? What's that?"
Harry hums a damp kiss into your knuckles, "French 75 is a cocktail. Gin, lemon, champagne. It's a special on Fridays because, y'know... alliteration. Want one?"
Your fingernails scratch up his back and ravel into his hair, twisting his curls and dragging against his scalp to make his spine shudder. Harry's eyelids slip shut as he inhales a deep drag of calming air, his mind immediately escaping to your soft bed or your beachy lunch break or the shade of Banana Split. Any possible opportunity for him to disappear inside of his fantasies is one he'll take in a heartbeat, but he would much rather have the real thing.
"Oui, s'il vous plaît. Guess what?"
"Chestnut."
"Clod!" Harry's grin is so large that he has to run his fingers around his mouth to subdue it while he leans on the bar to order your drinks. You wait until he's finished and he bathes you with his sparkling, neon green lightning again, his bottom perching on a nearby barstool before he pops you between his legs, "my mother called me this morning after you left to go surfing."
"No shit? And?"
Harry knows that you have a rocky relationship with your parents, the realization having dawned especially heavily as you stepped further away from your bubble-like, Midwestern upbringing and gained a more comprehensive perspective around your feelings towards them and your childhood. He knows that you're too polite and sweet to ever harbor resentment for their protective sheltering, but he also knows that you deserve to feel exasperation for their narrow-mindedness and he reminds you of this all the time. Yes, you can love your family while still disagreeing with them and yes, it's completely maddening to discover cracks in a relationship that you never saw before. Particularly as you go through the work of carefully caulking them all by yourself and then attempting to splash a new, shiny coat of paint on top. But you're smart as fuck and he's supportive of your process, knowing from experience that it's healthy to explore and ask existential questions that our parents have never even considered. Otherwise we'd all just be moving backwards or standing stuck in archaic mud like idiots.
"She saw us in the paper yesterday. She actually congratulated me... but my father refused to get on the phone. I could hear him muttering something about a pair of degenerate devil's children in the background."
Harry cups your jaw before walking his fingertips down your throat, "you deserve every little drop of praise and more. You're the best dancer on god's green earth and it's really sad that you can't dance the way you want to. Don't hear him. I know it's hard to remember acclaim and forget backlash, but there are a shit-ton of more positive highlights for you than negative. And it's fuckin' awesome that you flipped 'em the bird and did what makes you happy, despite their opinions. You're a tough bitch and you have no fuckin' clue. Kiss, please." The pads of his fingers grip your neck tightly when you indulge him in his request, your tongues meeting for a split second before he kisses you once again with another deliberate squeeze, "mmm... your pops can bite it. And your old lady kinda sounds like a drag, too."
Your mouth parts in shock and you cock your head to the side in the most adorable expression of mental connect-the-dots when you remember a conversation over nail polish from a couple weeks ago, "that's exactly what Nettie said! Thank you, Harry... for saying all of that." It's amazing to him that you still blush whenever this much emotional content is dumped on you, but he supposes it makes sense considering how little time you've spent delving inwards. His thumbs trace over your ruddy cheeks in the same moment that your drinks are placed on the bar, but you're both too focused on one another to really notice, "what's your mom like?"
"She's beautiful, wise. An Earthbound angel. She tries really hard to be optimistic. I wasn't the easiest kid to raise, y'know."
You giggle at the sweet love he has for his mother. Your mom always told you that you can tell a lot about a man by the way he treats his mother, that the respect they have for their mom deeply represents how they'd conduct themselves in a relationship with a woman, "really? Shocking."
"Get bent, Honeydope."
"She did a good job though. I'm sure you had lots and lots of shiny, blissful moments."
Harry shrugs as nasty memories from adolescence that make his stomach churn start to resurface, "she'd love you and your influence... your hold over me. She'd think you're cute as hell. My dad's a shitty prick. My mum's tried to leave him a buncha times 'cause he drinks. A lot." Harry holds up his bottle of beer in the air and clinks the neck against the coupe martini glass pinched between your fingers, "cheers."
If Harry could bury every little thing that doesn't feel good, he would. Because everything that doesn't feel good just feels bad.
"You can talk to me."
It's hard to read his expression with the way his hair has fallen into his face, his fingers fidgeting with his coaster as he shreds the edges through his wicked contemplation. In reality, Harry hasn't opened up to as many people as you'd once suspected. You were always jealous of the women he chose to let through his grumpy walls, but now you're starting to wonder if they were ever inside in the first place or if he was simply using sex as a detached escape from all the rottenness that he was hiding inside of his tightly-guarded stronghold. Sure, you know as much about Harry's present existence as you possibly can since that's where he prefers to reside, but you don't actually know very much about how he's ended up where he is today. Why he feels the need for such a strong rebellion, why he genuinely felt the urge to join the circus. Tex knows a lot about him and not through verbal recounting, but mainly because he happened to be adjacent during some of the occurrences when they took place.
Harry perches a cigarette between his lips and brings it to life with the strike of a match, the tip of his nose disappearing in a haze of pale pink before he refocuses on you. A forlorn, wilted tropical leaf up top, a plump, freshly sliced strawberry down below. The hunt and the chase over and over again. He shrugs as memories of pissing off crusty old teachers whirl through his brain, their bony fingers pointing to the exit door as he strode out and slammed it closed behind him. Calling his sister trite, immature names because he was always jealous of how smart and courteous she was.
A million images surface and he surprises himself when he jumps right into the thick of it without a second thought, "I stole my dad's car to pick my mum up from her double shift at the restaurant because my dad was too drunk to do it himself. I couldn't stand the thought of her standing there, upset and waitin' for a cab in the dark with sore feet. He was so pissed that he called the fuzz on me as soon as he noticed. My only savin' grace in his eyes was that I was athletic. Teachers would fudge my grades to keep me on the football team, until that fucker popped my shoulder and tore my rotator cuff during a match. Lost my scholarship after that and gave up on school. My dad kicked me out just before I turned eighteen."
I was a dumb-as-fuck kid, that's all. Joyridin'.
You open your mouth to reply without even knowing how to properly respond, but he interrupts with a disdainful scoff projected into the bar top below his hands, "he'd get rough with me. And mum sometimes." Harry swipes his palms down his face and takes a long swig of his beer, his adam's apple bobbing with each swallow. He shakes his head and chuckles before drilling miserable holes into your face, "I've... never told anyone that before." And he's never wanted to.
Your fingertips tip-toe across the bar to land on top of his hand, "thank you for trusting me, Harry." Your eyes search one another's while he mentally begs you to tell him that you love him, "you're a loving, sentient, altruistic person and you never should've had to deal with that maturity at such a young age. And no one ever deserves abuse. Your dad made his demons your own. You carry a lot and somehow still manage to be considerate and productive. That's the definition of strength. I admire you." Your smile unfurls very slowly as you prop your elbow on the bar to cup his chin in your hand, "and I love how gallant you are towards your mother. It speaks volumes. It shouts them. You're good, really good. Bright, blinding rays of sunshine."
Harry's kittenish smile and soft dimple melts into his cheek as he nuzzles his face into your palm and sponges a couple kisses into the delicate skin of your wrist, "you feel so fuckin' good, Cherry. You make me feel so goddamn good."
The way Harry observes you with a tender, fond expression of contentment, with his cheek resting harmlessly in the palm your hand and his mouth pulled into a gooey smile, his hair curled around his forehead and his eyes glazed over with a display of devotion towards you compels you to pause and appreciate him. The type of level-headed grounding he possesses is infectious, his stunning features are palpable, his sparkle is enchanting. You idolize him; you want to be just like him and you can't imagine a better attribute in a partner, both romantically and professionally. The level of candidacy he requires forces you out of your protective shell and begs you to be a better person, for yourself and for him, and the amount of growth you've sprouted in such a short period of time is tremendous. It may not be the type of growth you're your parents had wanted for you, but it's exactly what you want for yourself. And you have him to thank. Your vulgar, cotton candy dreamboat.
He may just be the best teacher you've ever had.
"How do I make you feel, mm? Tell me a secret?"
Harry lifts his head and weaves your fingers together, toying with his threaded ruby ring wrapped around your middle finger and sucking in a breath of air when you dive forward to speak against his lips, your noses nested up side-by-side, his hair tickling your temple, "you make me feel like no one ever has before or ever will again. Satisfied and starving all at once."
"Fuck me. God." Your little chuckle is drowned in one of his absorbing kisses that may be considered inappropriate for such posh company, with one hand dropping to the back of your neck and the other to the fullest part of your ass for an unabashed grope. The sounds of The Cat's Paw slowly dissolve around you as you suffocate in one another, the only importance in this moment lying in your deep regard for each other and the unbreakable swish of your tongues, the teeny breaks that Harry takes to mumble little scattered sentiments of "my good girl" and "my sweet Cherry" into your mouth.
And when you pull away with a quiet mutter of "just for you", his pupils stretch like a drop of iodine in water.
"'Kay, time to blow this taco stand." Harry stubs out his cigarette, rising to his feet and mindlessly shuffling a stack of bills from his wallet before tossing it onto the bar top. The fact that Harry always leaves a hefty tip at bars and restaurants suddenly makes more sense knowing that his mother has worked or maybe even still works in the service industry. His loyalty and convictions know no bounds and you mentally add that to his ever-growing list of sexy, superior traits.
He paid the tab for the entire table. And he tips like a Rockefeller. He's a keeper, hun.
"No, but- my fancy French martini!" You try to gulp it down before Harry can tug you away, his hands clutching your waist and yanking as you grip the bar for anchorage, "quit it! You're so pushy."
His mouth meets the shell of your ear with hot breath and an even hotter correction, "mm'forward. You're pretty fuckin' pushy yourself, but I dig it. I'll give you my best French when we get home." You can feel his lips pull into a smile against your skin, "come an' love your daddy all night long." He swipes your cardigan from the back of the tall, crimson velveteen chair where you left it, holding it up in the air for you to slip your arms into and then tucking your purse into his underarm. You lock eyes with one of the disapproving women from earlier, her surprised expression at his chivalrous gesture pulling a boastful, sly smirk into your cheek. He definitely has the classiest heart in the room and maybe even the entire world, but the true depth of it is a secret for your eyes only.
The neon signage spelling out the name Cat's Paw hanging above the awning of the building is comparable to a melting candy apple liquefying into the black scrim of night. And the smell of a nearby joint curling dank, skunky clouds under your nose is just as toothsome and delectable. You somehow manage to slip out of Harry's arm and towards the two men passing the smoke back-and-forth to each other, their eyes illuminating when you approach with an endearing request, "got any extra?"
"Whoa, zappy alert!" Harry intercepts the joint hand-off mid-air and returns it to its owner with a respectful nod of his head, "cool it, Smokey the Bear. Dream career is calling, remember? Sleep and all that? Your most important, staunch-ass rule? Since when did I become your babysitter? Seems backwards."
With a stomp of your Mary Jane heel against the sidewalk and a petulant whine, Harry can't help but grin at your adorably buzzed tantrum, "but I wanna try it."
"You'll get the spins, babe."
"What's that? One puff can't hurt."
Sarcasm drips from the tip of his tongue as he declares a line he's probably heard from a hundred disparaging adults in his lifetime, "that's what they all say. Next thing you know, you're lyin' in a ditch somewhere, strung out on heroin. It's a classic crash and burn, Honeysin." He clutches your neck in the crook of his elbow and steers you towards his van, perching you against the pink passenger door and crowding you for a bit of heat, "the spins happen when you mix booze with doobies. Seedy territory." His mouth nestles into the sweet spot of your neck, your skin tingling from where his teeth delicately scrape, "I'll smoke with... and then maybe you'll let me go down on you." You gasp at his candor and slap your palm over his mouth, but he merely pries your fingers away and pokes the tip of his nose into your cheek with cool, unruffled feathers, "it'll feel outta sight. Believe me."
A single eyebrow perks at his potent guarantee, "promise?"
Explicit images flashes in the empty space between his eyelids and his reptilian brain; your head falling back as your body arcs away from your mattress, your juices flooding his tongue, your toes curling into your sheets, "swear to god."
"Do you smoke weed?"
Harry's expression twists into lighthearted contempt as he points to his chest, "this angel? No... yes. But I'm not a jell head. S'nice to get loose sometimes."
"Do you do other drugs?"
"What is this, dig-up-all-of-Harry's-shit day? You're my drug. I'm completely addicted to Cherrytits. It's fryin' my brain. Now get in the fuckin' car."
"Can we dance when we get home?"
The limits of Harry's composure are gradually peeling back from the corners, but when he slows down and takes the time to regard the innocent gloss across your eyes, the ribbon tied into a bow at the crown of your head with its pointed ends twisting into your loose hair, the way you watch him with a small smile as if attempting to seep into every fiber of his clothing, he understands that you're simply trying to value every hairpin turn of his soul. A muffled growl slips through a smile, his lips sealing with yours before mumbling, "fine. One French song. But then we're sackin' out. I gotta be up at dawn to beat the gremmies, Cherry."
His dedication is non-violent, but somehow still firm and a big part of you loves how his personal priorities will relent for no one. Even you. But he does a good job of compromising.
A hushed cheer of victory spirals up your throat and fills the tiny gap between your mouths while his smile widens and he kisses you again, his mouth traipsing across your jaw to whisper in your ear, "gotta cut out before you turn into a pumpkin, yeah? Big day tomorrow... early show." He has no idea exactly how big tomorrow will be and that same nagging fear of the unknown picks at your insides, "quoi de neuf, hmm? You keep makin' that fuckin' face. Gotta tell me somethin'?"
Damn it, Cherry. Don't fuckin' keep shit from me, alright?
You had no idea that you were even making a face, "what? No, I just... maybe one-too-many French 75's?"
"That or you're fulla shit."
"I'm not! Je suis sage comme une image."
"No duh." He narrows his eyes in playful scrutiny as he pops the passenger door open for you before letting himself in as he always does. Another list-topping action of courtesy, "let's get your pretty ass home."
Hi! Don't go too far! There's more on the way. This chapter got so long (shocker) that I had to split it up, so consider it a little double-update, Memorial Day Weekend treat. Get ready for what's next... any predictions?
I love you! See you very, very soon! Just hang tight.
Xx B
HOW ABOUT THAT INSANE ASS FLYER BY NONE OTHER THAN FatBottomedGirls ? Have I expressed how much I absolutely ADMIRE AND ADORE THEM? I mean, just look at it!!!!!