The Middle | Hemmings + Styles AU

19. violated and uncomfortable

"Damn it, Louis." 

I groaned, trying to pull the jammed receipt paper out of the till. "Is it that hard to just come to work and do your job without getting stoned or screwing up?"

I pulled a little harder, cursing under my breath. Grunge should just fire his ass, I thought to myself. Louis does nothing useful or productive around here. 

My hands flew up into the air, admitting defeat against the stupid machine. Otherwise, I'd end up picking it up and throwing it out the window. I didn't even know it was possible to get a receipt roll jammed. 

Since the store was empty, I took to fixing up the CDs on the shelves that had found their way out of order; courtesy of people who browse and don't remember that, no, they didn't pick up that Lady Gaga album from the Country music section.

I'd only moved two CDs when the front door chimed, and when I looked up it's the last person I felt like seeing: Harry. He was carrying two posters underneath one arm and holding a canvas bag with his opposite hand.

"Doesn't the contract state that Clarke is my point of contact?" I snapped, taking the posters and the bag from him delicately, if only to retain a hint of professionalism. I wasn't a total cave-woman.

"Hello to you too, Stella," he murmured politely. "What a pleasure it is to see you again." The real crime was the way pleasure rolled off of his tongue, which only made me feel more irritated.

"Hello Harold," I smiled sarcastically. "What a freaking pleasure." I unrolled one of the posters on the front counter, revealing large black text reading: Pilot Records Presents: The Forgotten Kids. Underneath stood three generic, black-haired musician types. They looked like every other up-and-coming punk band.

I could feel Harry watching me. "You look skeptical," he noted a moment later. I looked up from the poster. He looked different today. He was wearing a plain white shirt rather than his usual preferred prints. 

"I am skeptical," I told him, setting down the poster on the counter. Inside the canvas bag were a stack of t-shirts with The Forgotten Kids in the same font as the poster and about twenty self-titled EPs. "Who scouted this lot?"

The corners of his lips turned up in amusement. "I did. Why?"

I walked straight over to the Punk Pop shelf, picked up a handful of CDs and handed them over to Harry. "Short Stack,  The Comeback, Drop Deaf Fred."

He barely looked over the CDs before his green eyes were burning into mine again. "I'm afraid I'm missing the connection." In his slow, accented voice it sounded more like: I'm uh-frayed I'm miss-hing thuh cuhnnection. I let out a sigh through my teeth.

"The connection is that they are just three bands that failed their genre because of basic riffs, terrible lyrics and ear-bleeding vocals. If you want to make yourself a name in the Pop-Punk scene, you better make sure you're damn good at it."

His eyebrows raised a little. "And you're putting a band you've never heard before in the same category as these three?"

"Yes," I told him confidently. "I know music, Harry."

"And I know people, Stella. I know the kind of music people respond too and I know," he was glaring right back at me, clearly upset by me insulting his professional opinion. "I know, that The Forgotten Kids are going to make people respond." My eyes rolled so hard, I think I saw the back of my brain.

"Now, why don't you tell me why you're so frustrated?"

"Who said I was frustrated?" I tried to fold my arms over my chest, but he handed back the CDs.

"Like I said," he smiled. "I know people."

Harry stared at me, waiting for a response. I'm not a violent person but at that moment I just wanted to push him another foot back from me. When I didn't say anything, he turned his attention to the opened till. His beautiful hands nudged at the paper roll, pulling it out effortlessly.

"If you know people so well, why don't you tell me what's irritating me?" 

I'll give you a hint: he's tall and lanky with tousled curls and unnerving green eyes. Unnerving to me, I meant. And how did he fix that stupid receipt jam?

"Or I could tell you how to cure it," he stepped closer towards me. I was distracted by his chest for a moment, even though you'd have thought I'd be used to it. He walked around displaying his upper body like it was an art exhibit in a gallery.

"If you say something sexual, I'm really not - "The smirk on his lips told me that I'd completely misconstrued what he was about to say and my mouth shut quickly.

"I was going to suggest some herbal tea or some yoga," he mused. "But whatever works for you..."

The embarrassment could actually be felt in my cheeks. Why did it always end up like this with Harry? Luke and I could have had this exact conversation and instead of feeling embarrassed or frustrated, I'd be laughing and having fun. I was grateful when a customer walked in at that moment, saving me from Harry.

By the time I helped the middle-aged man find a Johnny Cash album and signed him up to our loyalty program, Harry had left and the store was busy for the rest of the afternoon, leaving me no time to be distracted by my thoughts.

"Have you ever met someone," I had the phone pressed between my ear and my shoulder as I painted my toe nails red. "That is, good looking, but... impossible to talk to? Like, every interaction somehow makes you feel angry towards them, and you don't even know why?"

"Yep. You're feeling built-up sexual frustration. I'd recommend jumping his bones, you'll feel better after it." 

My face screwed up. "Olivia, that's a load of shit."

"Excuse me," she exclaimed. "Who's the sex expert here, you or me? You know shitty bands, I know sex. Trust me, on this one."

We could only talk for a few more minutes because Oliver was coming to pick her up. I wondered if she was still trying to convince herself it was a relationship built solely on physical needs rather than feelings. "I'll talk to you tomorrow then," I said as I hung up the phone. "And they aren't shitty bands!"

Olivia did have a point. She'd been around the block enough to know enough - if she ever stopped living off of her parents money, she could probably build herself a great career doing sex-ed at school - and yet I still wasn't convinced.

When Aunty Peg came over the following night, with another bottle of wine in her hand (I told you she did it on purpose) I asked her the same question, and I basically got the same answer:"Sometimes your heart can't see things your lower anatomy can. Trust me, as annoying as he might be, your body knows that he'd know how to get down."

"Get down?" I mouthed at my aunt, who, still never failed to surprise or disturb me.

"Oh, come on, Stella. You know know what I mean," she straightened up, a sly grin on her face. "Stop trying to make your poor aunt feel violated and uncomfortable."

If only she knew how many times she'd made me feel violated and uncomfortable.

i'm feeling a bit hella today