50 shades of Styles

Chapter 19: Meeting the Styles Family

Soft lips brush across my temple, leaving sweet tender kisses in their wake, and part of me wants to turn and respond, but mostly I want to stay asleep. I moan and burrow into my pillow.
“

Louis, wake up.” Harry’s voice is soft, cajoling.
“No,” I moan.
“We have to leave in half an hour for dinner at my parents.” He’s amused.
I open my eyes reluctantly. It’s dusk outside. Harry is leaning over, gazing at me intently.
“Come on sleepy-head. Get up.” He stoops down and kisses me again.
“I’ve bought you a drink. I’ll be downstairs. Don’t go back to sleep, or you’ll be in trouble,” he threatens, but his tone is mild. He kisses me briefly and exits, leaving me blinking sleep from my eyes in the cool, stark room.
I’m refreshed but suddenly nervous. Holy cow, I am meeting his folks! He’s just worked me over with a riding crop and tied me up using a cable tie which I sold him, for heaven’s sake – and I’m going to meet his parents. It will be Zayn’s first time meeting them too – at least he’ll be there for support. I roll my shoulders. They’re stiff. His demands for a personal trainer don’t seem so outlandish now, in fact, they’re mandatory if I am to have any hope of keeping up with him.
I climb slowly out of bed and note that my clothes are hanging outside the wardrobe and where are my boxers? I check beneath the chair. Nothing. Then I remember – he squirreled them away in the pocket of his jeans. I flush at the memory, after he, I can’t even bring myself to think about it, he was so – barbarous. I frown. Why hasn’t he given me back my boxers?
I steal into the bathroom, bewildered by my lack of underwear. While drying myself after my enjoyable but far too brief shower, I realize he’s done this on purpose. He wants me to be embarrassed and ask for my boxers back, and he’ll either say yes or no. My inner goddess grins at me. Hell… two can play that particular game. Resolving there and then not to ask him for them and not give him that satisfaction, I shall go meet his parents sans culottes. Louis Tomlinson! My subconscious chides me, but I don’t want to listen to her – I almost hug myself with glee because I know this will drive him crazy.
Back in the bedroom, I put my clothes back on, and climb into my shoes hastily brush out my hair, while styling it the best I can. I then glance down at the drink he’s left. It’s pale pink. What’s this? Cranberry and sparkling water. Hmm… it tastes delicious and quenches my thirst.
Dashing back into the bathroom, I check myself in the mirror: eyes bright, cheeks slightly flushed, slightly smug look because of my boxers plan, and I head downstairs. Fif­teen minutes. Not bad, Lou.
Harry is standing by the panoramic window, wearing the grey flannel pants that I love, the ones that hang in that unbelievably sexy way off his hips, and of course, a white linen shirt. Doesn’t he have any other colors? Frank Sinatra sings softly over the surround sound speakers.
Harry turns and smiles as I enter. He looks at me expectantly.
“Hi,” I say softly, and my sphinx-like smile meets his.
“Hi,” he says. “How are you feeling?” His eyes are alight with amusement.
“Good, thanks. You?”
“I feel mighty fine, Mr Tomlinson.”
He is so waiting for me to say something.
“Frank. I never figured you for a Sinatra fan.”
He raises his eyebrows at me, his look speculative.
“Eclectic taste, Mr Tomlinson,” he murmurs, and he paces toward me like a panther until he’s standing in front of me, his gaze so intense it takes my breath away.
Frank starts crooning… an old song, one of Mark’s favorites. ‘Witchcraft.’ Harry leisurely traces his fingertips down my cheek, and I feel it all the way down there.
“Dance with me,” he murmurs, his voice husky.
Taking the remote out of his pocket, he turns up the volume and holds his hand out to me, his green gaze full of promise and longing and humor. He is totally beguiling, and I’m bewitched. I place my hand in his. He grins lazily down at me and pulls me into his embrace, his arm curling around my waist, and he starts to sway.
I put my free hand on his shoulder and grin up at him, caught in his infectious, playful mood. And he starts to move. Boy can he dance. We cover the floor, from the window to the kitchen and back again, whirling and turning in time to the music. And he makes it so effortless for me to follow.
We glide around the dining table, over to the piano, and backwards and forwards in front of the glass wall, London twinkling outside, a dark and magical mural to our dance, and I can’t help my carefree laugh. He grins down at me as the song comes to a close.
“There’s no nicer witch than you,” he murmurs, then kisses me sweetly. “Well, that’s bought some color to your cheeks, Mr Tomlinson. Thank you for the dance. Shall we go and meet my parents?”
“You’re welcome, and yes, I can’t wait to meet them,” I answer breathlessly.
“Do you have everything you need?”
“Oh, yes,” I respond sweetly.
“Are you sure?”
I nod as nonchalantly as I can manage under his intense, amused scrutiny. His face splits into a huge grin, and he shakes his head.
“Okay. If that’s the way you want to play it, Mr Tomlinson.”
He grabs my hand, collects his jacket which is hanging on one of the barstools, and leads me through the foyer to the elevator. Oh, the many faces of Harry Styles. Will I ever be able to understand this mercurial man?
I peek up at him in the elevator. He’s enjoying a private joke, a trace of a smile flirting with his beautiful mouth. I fear that it may be at my expense. What was I thinking? I’m going to see his parents, and I’m not wearing any underwear. My subconscious gives me an unhelpful I told you so expression. In the relative safety of his apartment, it seemed like a fun, teasing idea. Now, I’m almost outside with No boxers! He peers down at me, and it’s there, the charge building between us. The amused look disappears from his face and his expression clouds, his eyes dark… oh my.
The elevator doors open on the ground floor. Harry shakes his head slightly as if to clear his thoughts and gestures for me to exit before him in a most gentlemanly manner. Who’s he kidding? He’s no gentleman. He has my boxers.
Taylor draws up in the large Audi. Harry opens the rear door for me, and I climb in­side as elegantly as I can.
We speed up the M4, both of us quiet, no doubt inhibited by Taylor’s steady presence in the front. Harry’s mood is almost tangible and seems to shift, the humor dissipating slowly as we head north. He’s brooding, staring out of the window, and I can feel him slipping away from me. What is he thinking? I can’t ask him. What can I say in front of Taylor?
“Where did you learn to dance?” I ask tentatively. He turns to gaze at me, his eyes unreadable beneath the intermittent light of the passing street lamps.
“Do you really want to know?” he replies softly.
My heart sinks, and now I don’t because I can guess.
“Yes,” I murmur, reluctantly.
“Mr Payne was fond of dancing.”
Oh, my worst suspicions confirmed. He has taught him well, and the thought de­presses me – there’s nothing I can teach him. I have no special skills.
“He must have been a good teacher.”
“He was,” he says softly.
My scalp prickles. Did he have the best of him? Before he became so closed? Or did he bring him out of himself? He has such a fun, playful side. I smile involuntarily as I recall being in his arms as he spun me around his living room, so unexpected, and he has my boxers, somewhere.
And then there’s the Red Room of Pain. I rub my wrists reflexively – thin strips of plastic will do that to a guy. He taught him all that too or ruined him, depending on one’s point of view. Or perhaps he would have found his way there anyway in spite of Mr P. I realize, in that moment, that I hate him. I hope that I never meet him because I will not be responsible for my actions if I do. I can’t remember ever feeling this passionately about anyone, especially someone I’ve never met. Gazing unseeing out of the window, I nurse my irrational anger and jealousy.
My mind drifts back to the afternoon. Given what I understand of his preferences, I think he’s been easy on me. Would I do it again? I can’t even pretend to put up an argu­ment against that. Of course I would, if he asked me – as long as he didn’t hurt me and if it’s the only way to be with him.
That’s the bottom line. I want to be with him. My inner goddess sighs with relief. I reach the conclusion that she rarely uses her brain to think but another vital part of her anatomy, and at the moment, it’s a rather exposed part.
“Don’t,” he murmurs.
I frown and turn to look at him.
“Don’t what?” I haven’t touched him.
“Over-think things, Louis.” Reaching out, he grasps my hand, draws it up to his lips, and kisses my knuckles gently. “I had a wonderful afternoon. Thank you.”
And he’s back with me again. I blink up at him and smile shyly. He’s so confusing. I ask a question that’s been bugging me.
“Why did you use a cable tie?”
He grins at me.
“It’s quick, it’s easy, and it’s something different for you to feel and experience. I know they’re quite brutal, and I do like that in a restraining device.” He smiles at me mildly. “Very effective at keeping you in your place.”
I flush and glance nervously at Taylor, who remains impassive, eyes on road. What am I supposed to say to that? Harry shrugs innocently.
“All part of my world, Louis.” He squeezes my hand and lets go, staring out of the window again.
His world indeed, and I want to belong in it, but on his terms? I just don’t know. He hasn’t mentioned that damned contract. My inner musings do nothing to cheer me. I stare out of the window and the landscape has changed. We’re crossing one of the bridges, sur­rounded by inky darkness. The somber night reflects my introspective mood, closing in, suffocating.
I glance briefly at Harry, and he’s staring at me.
“Penny for your thoughts?” he asks.
I sigh and frown.
“That bad, huh?”
“I wish I knew what you were thinking.”
He smirks at me.
“Ditto, baby,” he says softly as Taylor speeds into the night toward Holmes Chapel.
It is just before eight when the Audi draws into the driveway of a colonial-style mansion. It’s breathtaking, even down to the roses around the door. Picture-book perfect.
“Are you ready for this?” Harry asks as Taylor pulls up outside the impressive front door.
I nod, and he gives my hand another reassuring squeeze.
“First for me too,” he whispers, then smiles wickedly. “Bet you wish you were wear­ing your underwear right now,” he teases.
I flush. I’d forgotten my missing boxers. Fortunately, Taylor has climbed out of the car and is opening my door so he can’t hear our exchange. I scowl at Harry who grins broadly as I turn and climb out of the car.
Dr. Anne Styles is on the doorstep waiting for us. She looks elegantly so­phisticated in a pale blue silk dress; behind her stands Mr. Styles, I presume, tall, brunette, and as handsome in his own way as Harry.
“Louis, you’ve met my mother, Anne. This is my dad, Des.”
“Mr. Styles, what a pleasure to meet you.” I smile and shake his outstretched hand.
“The pleasure is all mine, Louis.”
“Please call me, Lou.”
His blue eyes are soft and gentle.
“Lou, how lovely to see you again.” Anne wraps me in a warm hug. “Come in, my dear.”
“Is he here?” I hear a screech from within the house. I glance nervously at Harry.
“That would be Gemma, my older sister,” he says almost irritably, but not quite.
There’s an undercurrent of affection in his words, the way his voice grows softer and his eyes crinkle as he mentions her name. Harry obviously adores her. It’s a revelation. And she comes barreling down the hall, raven haired, tall, and curvaceous.
“Louis! I’ve heard so much about you.” She hugs me hard.
Holy Cow. I can’t help but smile at her boundless enthusiasm.
“Lou, please,” I murmur as she drags me into the large vestibule. It’s all dark wood floors and antique rugs with a sweeping staircase to the second floor.
“He’s never brought a girl home before,” says Gemma, dark eyes bright with excitement.
I glimpse Harry rolling his eyes, and I raise an eyebrow at him. He narrows his eyes at me.
“Gemma, calm down,” Anne admonishes softly. “Hello, darling,” she says as she kisses Harry on both cheeks. He smiles down at her warmly, and then shakes hands with his father.
We all turn and head into the living room. Gemma has not let go of my hand. The room is spacious, tastefully furnished in creams, browns, and pale blue, comfortable, understated, and very stylish. Zayn and Edward are cuddled together on a couch, clutching champagne flutes. Zayn bounces up to embrace me, and Gemma finally releases my hand.
“Hi, Lou!” He beams. “Harry.” He nods curtly to him.
“Zayn.” He is equally formal with him.
I frown at their exchange. Edward grasps me in an all-embracing hug. What is this, hug Lou week? This dazzling display of affection – I’m just not used to it. Harry stands at my side, wrapping his arm around me. Placing his hand on my hip, he spreads out his fingers and pulls me close. Everyone is staring at us. It’s unnerving.
“Drinks?” Mr. Styles seems to recover himself. “Prosecco?”
“Please,” Harry and I speak in unison.
Oh… this is beyond weird. Gemma claps her hands.
“You’re even saying the same things. I’ll get them.” She scoots out of the room.
I flush scarlet, and seeing Zayn sitting with Edward, it occurs to me suddenly that the only reason Harry invited me is because Zayn is here. Edward probably freely and happily asked Zayn to meet his parents. Harry was trapped – knowing that I would have found out via Zayn. I frown at the thought. He’s been forced into the invitation. The realization is bleak and depressing. My subconscious nods sagely, a you’ve-finally-worked-it-out-stupid look on her face.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Anne says as she follows Gemma out of the room.
Harry frowns as he gazes at me.
“Sit,” he commands, pointing to the plush couch, and I do as I’m told. He sits down beside me but doesn’t touch me.
“We were just talking about vacations, Lou,” Mr. Styles says kindly. “Edward has decided to follow Zayn and his family to Barbados for a week.”
I glance at Zayn, and he grins, his eyes bright and wide. He’s delighted. Zayn Malik, show some dignity!
“Are you taking a break now you’ve finished your degree?” Mr. Styles asks.
“I’m thinking about going to Doncaster for a few days,” I reply.
Harry gapes at me, blinking a couple of times, his expression unreadable. Oh shit. I haven’t mentioned this to him.
“Doncaster?” he murmurs.
“My mother lives there, and I haven’t seen her for a while.”
“When were you thinking of going?” His voice is low.
“Tomorrow, late evening.”
Gemma saunters back into the living room and hands us champagne flutes filled with pale pink Prosecco.
“Your good health!” Mr. Styles raises his glass. An appropriate toast from a doctor’s husband, it makes me smile.
“For how long?” Harry asks, his voice deceptively soft.
Holy crap… he’s angry.
“I don’t know yet. It will depend how my interviews go tomorrow.”
His jaw clenches, and Zayn gets that interfering look on his face. He smiles over-sweetly.
“Lou deserves a break,” he says pointedly at Harry. Why is he so antagonistic towards him? What is his problem?
“You have interviews?” Mr. Styles asks.
“Yes, for internships at two publishers, tomorrow.”
“I wish you the best of luck.”
“Dinner is on the table,” Anne announces.
We all stand. Zayn and Edward follow Mr. Styles and Gemma out of the room. I go to follow, but Harry clutches my elbow, bringing me to an abrupt halt.
“When were you going to tell me you were leaving?” he asks urgently. His tone is soft, but he’s masking his anger.
“I’m not leaving, I’m going to see my mother, and I was only thinking about it.”
“What about our arrangement?”
“We don’t have an arrangement yet.”
He narrows his eyes, and then seems to remember himself. Releasing my hand, he takes my elbow and leads me out of the room.
“This conversation is not over,” he whispers threateningly as we enter the dining room.
Oh, crapola. Don’t get your boxers in such a twist… and give me back mine. I glare at him.
The dining room reminds me of our private dinner at the Didsbury. A crystal chan­delier hangs over the dark wood table and there’s a massive, ornately carved mirror on the wall. The table is laid and covered with a crisp white linen tablecloth, a bowl of pale pink peonies as the center piece. It’s stunning.
We take our places. Mr. Styles is at the head of the table, while I sit at his right hand, and Harry is seated beside me. Mr. Styles reaches for the opened bottle of red wine and offers some to Zayn. Gemma takes her seat beside Harry, and grabbing his hand, squeezes it tightly. Harry smiles warmly at her.
“Where did you meet, Lou?” Gemma asks him.
“He interviewed me for the MU student magazine.”
“Which Zayn edits,” I add, hoping to steer the conversation away from me.
Gemma beams at Zayn, seated opposite next to Edward, and they start talking about the stu­dent magazine.
“Wine, Lou?” Mr. Styles asks.
“Please.” I smile at him. Mr. Styles rises to fill the rest of the glasses.
I peek up at Harry, and he turns to look at me, his head cocked to one side.
“What?” he asks.
“Please don’t be mad at me,” I whisper.
“I’m not mad at you.”
I stare at him. He sighs.
“Yes, I am mad at you.” He closes his eyes briefly.
“Palm-twitchingly mad?” I ask nervously.
“What are you two whispering about?” Zayn interjects.
I flush, and Harry glares at his in a butt-out-of-this-Malik kind of way – even Zayn wilts under his stare.
“Just about my trip to Doncaster,” I say sweetly, hoping to diffuse their mutual hostility.
Zayn smiles, a wicked gleam in his eye.
“How was Niall when you went to the bar with him on Friday?”
Holy fuck, Zayn. I widen my eyes at him. What is he doing? He widens his eyes back at me, and I realize he’s trying to make Harry jealous. How little he knows. I thought I’d got away with this.
“He was fine,” I murmur.
Harry leans over.
“Palm-twitchingly mad,” he whispers. “Especially now.” His tone is quiet and deadly.
Oh no. I squirm.
Anne reappears carrying two plates, followed by a pretty young woman with blonde pigtails, dressed smartly in pale blue, carrying a tray of plates. Her eyes immediately find Harry in the room. She blushes and gazes at him from under her long mascara’d lashes. What!
Somewhere in the house the phone starts ringing.
“Excuse me,” Mr. Styles rises again and exits.
“Thank you, Gretchen,” Anne says gently, frowning as Mr. Styles exits. “Just leave the tray on the console.” Gretchen nods, and with another furtive glance at Harry, she leaves.
So the Styles have staff, and the staff are eyeing up my would-be Dominant. Can this evening get any worse? I scowl at my hands in my lap.
Mr. Styles returns.
“Call for you, darling. It’s the hospital,” he says to Anne.
“Please start, everyone.” Anne smiles as she hands me a plate and leaves.
It smells delicious – chorizo and scallops with roasted red peppers and shallots, sprin­kled with flat leafed parsley. And in spite of the fact that my stomach is churning from Harry’s veiled threats, the surreptitious glances from pretty little Miss Pigtails, and the debacle of my missing underwear, I am starving. I flush as I realize it’s the physical effort of this afternoon that’s given me such an appetite.
Moments later Anne returns, her brow furrowed. Mr. Styles cocks his head to one side… like Harry.
“Everything okay?”
“Another measles case,” Anne sighs.
“Oh no.”
“Yes, a child. The fourth case this month. If only people would get their kids vacci­nated.” She shakes her head sadly, and then smiles. “I’m so glad our children never went through that. They never caught anything worse than chicken pox, thank goodness. Poor Edward,” she says as she sits down, smiling indulgently at her son. Edward frowns mid chew and squirms uncomfortably. “Harry and Gemma were lucky. They got it so mildly, only a spot to share between them.”
Gemma giggles, and Harry rolls his eyes.
“So, did you catch the Liverpool game, Dad?” Edward’s clearly keen to move the con­versation on.
The hors d’oeuvres are delicious, and I concentrate on eating while Edward, Mr. Styles, and Harry talk football. Harry seems relaxed and calm talking to his family. My mind is working furiously. Damn Zayn, what game is he playing? Will he punish me? I
quail at the thought. I haven’t signed that contract yet. Perhaps I won’t. Perhaps I’ll stay in Doncaster where he can’t reach me.
“How are you settling into your new apartment dear?” Anne asks politely.
I’m grateful for her question, distracting me from my discordant thoughts, and I tell her about our move.
As we finish our starters, Gretchen appears, and not for the first time, I wish I felt able to put my hands freely on Harry just to let her know – he may be fifty shades of fucked-up, but he’s mine. She proceeds to clear the table, brushing rather too closely to Harry for my liking. Fortunately, he seems oblivious to her, but my inner goddess is smoldering and not in a good way.
Zayn and Gemma are waxing lyrical about Paris.
“Have you been to Paris, Lou?” Gemma asks innocently, distracting me from my jealous reverie.
“No, but I’d love to go.” I know I’m the only one at the table who has never left main­land England.
“We honeymooned in Paris.” Anne smiles at Mr. Styles who grins back at her.
It’s almost embarrassing to witness. They obviously love each other deeply, and I wonder for a brief moment what it must be like to grow up with both one’s parents in suit.
“It’s a beautiful city,” Gemma agrees. “In spite of the Parisians. Harry, you should take Lou to Paris,” Gemma states firmly.
“I think Louis would prefer Athens,” Harry says softly.
Oh… he remembered. He places his hand on my knee – his fingers traveling up my thigh. My whole body tightens in response. No… not here, not now. I flush and shift, try­ing to pull away from him. His hand clamps down on my thigh, stilling me. I reach for my wine, in desperation.
Little Miss European Pigtails returns, all coy glances and swaying hips, with our en­trée, a Beef Wellington, I think. Fortunately, she gives us our plates and then leaves, al­though she lingers handing Harry his. He looks quizzically at me as I watch her close the dining room door.
“So what was wrong with the Parisians?” Edward asks his sister. “Didn’t they take to your winsome ways?”
“Ugh, no they didn’t. And Monsieur Floubert, the ogre I was working for, he was such a domineering tyrant.”
I splutter into my wine.
“Louis, are you okay?” Harry asks solicitously, taking his hand off my thigh.
Humor has returned to his voice. Oh thank heavens. When I nod, he pats my back gently, and only removes his hand when he knows I’ve recovered.
The beef is delicious and served with roasted sweet potatoes, carrots, parsnips, and green beans. It is even more palatable since Harry manages to retain his good-humor for the rest of the meal. I suspect that it’s because I’m eating so heartily. The conversation flows freely among the Styles’, warm and caring, gently teasing each other. Over our des­sert of lemon syllabub, Gemma regales us with her exploits in Paris, lapsing at one point into fluent French. We all stare at her, and she stares back puzzled, until Harry tells her in
equally fluent French what she’s done, whereupon she bursts into a fit of giggles. She has a very infectious laugh and soon we’re all in stitches.
Edward holds forth about his latest building project, a new eco-friendly community to the north of London. I glance up at Zayn, and he’s hanging on every word Edward says, his eyes glowing with lust or love. I haven’t quite worked out which yet. He grins down at him, and it’s as if an unspoken promise passes between them. Laters, baby, he’s saying, and it’s hot, freaking hot. I flush just watching them.
I sigh and peek up at Fifty Shades. He’s so beautiful, I could stare at him forever. He has light stubble over his chin, and my fingers itch to scratch it and feel it against my face, against my chest… between my thighs. I blush at the direction of my thoughts. He peers down at me and raises his hand to pull at my chin.
“Don’t bite your lip,” he murmurs huskily. “I want to do that.”
Anne and Gemma clear our dessert glasses and head to the kitchen, while Mr. Styles, Zayn, and Edward discuss the merits of solar panels in Chesire. Harry, feigning inter­est in their conversation, puts his hand once more on my knee, and his fingers travel up my thigh. My breathing hitches, and I press my thighs together in a bid to halt his progress. I can see him smirk.
“Shall I give you a tour of the grounds?” he asks me quite openly.
I know I’m meant to say yes, but I don’t trust him. Before I can answer however, he’s on his feet and holding his hand out to me. I place my hand in his, and I feel all the muscles clench deep in my belly, responding to his dark, hungry green gaze.
“Excuse me,” I say to Mr. Styles and follow Harry out of the dining room.
He leads me through the hallway and into the kitchen where Gemma and Anne are stack­ing the dishwasher. European Pigtails is nowhere to be seen.
“I’m going to show Louis the backyard,” Harry says innocently to his mother. She waves us out with a smile as Gemma heads back to the dining room.
We step out onto a grey flagstone patio area lit by recessed lights in the flagstones. There are shrubs in grey stone tubs and a chic metal table and chairs set up in one corner. Harry walks past those, up some steps, and onto a vast lawn that leads down to the bay… oh my – it’s beautiful. The city twinkles on the horizon, and the cool, bright, May moon etches a sparkling silver path across the water toward a jetty where two boats are moored. Beside the jetty stands a boathouse. It is so picturesque, so peaceful. I stand and gape for a moment.
Harry pulls me behind him, and my shoes sink into the soft grass.
“Stop, please.” I am stumbling in his wake.
He stops and gazes at me, his expression unfathomable.
“My shoes. I need to take my shoes off.”
“Don’t bother,” he says, and he bends down and scoops me over his shoulder. I squeal loudly with shocked surprise, and he gives me a ringing slap on my behind.
“Keep your voice down,” he growls.
Oh no… this is not good, my subconscious is quaking at the knees. He’s mad about something – could be Niall, Doncaster, no boxers, biting my lip. Jeez, he’s easy to rile.
“Where are we going?” I breathe.
“Boathouse,” he snaps.
I hang on to his hips as I’m tipped upside-down, and he strides purposefully in the moonlight across the lawn.
“Why?” I sound breathless, bouncing on this shoulder.
“I need to be alone with you.”
“What for?”
“Because I’m going to spank and then fuck you.”
“Why?” I whimper softly.
“You know why,” he hisses.
“I thought you were an in-the-moment guy?” I plead breathlessly.
“Louis, I’m in the moment, trust me.”
Holy fuck.