My Psychopath | h.s

Chapter 3

*Harry's POV*

I am uncomfortable, all too aware of her presence beside me.

Apparently Arabella was in 'too much of a state' to walk the catwalk, and I was given the charge of taking her to sit in the audience with me.

I transfer my phone to my other hand so I can twist my ring around. Looking to my right, I see she is looking at my hands, frowning slightly. She notices my eyes on her and looks up at me, flushing at being caught staring.

"You have nice hands," she says. Her voice is soft and slightly raspy. I am positive it is just a genuine comment, not a hint or flirtation.

"Thanks." I smirk at her.

I look down at her own hands. Her chipped nail polish is nude with sparkles on top, her fingers long and elegant.

She balls her hands into fists when she realises I am looking, glaring at me. Calm down! Hypocritical little shit.

The catwalk is boring as fuck, as usual.

You can only go to so many of these bullshit events before you are bored to tears. The sad thing is that I only go to these after fucking Rita, meaning I have fucked her too many God damn times. I sigh and tug fingers through my hair, this had better end soon. I look at my watch.

Fuck.

Fuck.

I spring to my feet and Arabella looks at me, confused.

"I have to go," I say. "Meeting." I know I am being rude, but all I can think about is being skinned alive by management and the boys.

Late.

I don't do late.

I lean down and kiss her cheek, out of habit. She smells of vanilla and another nice scent: her own. I linger for a little too long.

"Goodbye," she says, and gives me the faintest smile.

"Bye, Arabella."

*

They all look at me suggestively.

"I've said I am sorry," I say through my teeth. If one of these assholes makes another dig at me he might find himself without a finger, or maybe I should decorate his face. Niall looks at me sympathetically and rolls his eyes, as if to say: bastards. I smile at him appreciatively.

"Harry, I need to talk to you," Michael says.

"Ok?" I prompt.

"Alone?" he says, mimicking my voice.I have to literally grip my arm to restrain myself from doing something that will surely lead me to prison.

"Fine," I mutter. He leads me to a small white room with a basic desk and a few chairs adorning it.

"Sit."

I oblige, spinning round a bit on the chair just to piss him off. He scowls at me and sits opposite, behind the desk.

"So," he begins. "Rita." What?

"Uh, yeah."

"She's a whore." My eyes widen and I mutter something unintelligible. "You see, Harry," he says, dragging his body closer to mine by a his sweaty grip on the desk. "We can't have you being around... people like that. Bad for business and all that, eh?" He grins manically as if that was actually funny.

"Get to the point." His grin fades.

"The paparazzi are going wild with this information. Harry the Player. Harry the Man Whore." Harsh. "There are rumours, and you know what that means?" I am blessed with the image of his decaying teeth as he smiles. "Bad for business," he chants. I really never want to hear that phrase again, ever. He moves his head even closer to mine. I look from the spit pools at the corners of his mouth to his overly- obvious nose hair. "And we can't have that." If he is trying to sound intimidating, he has failed to an extreme point. "So I'll get to the point." Finally. "You need a 'girlfriend'. And that girlfriend has to be Arabella Field." What? What?

"What?" I yell, jumping up from the chair. I feel my heart pound and feel slightly nauseous. "But she's crazy!" I turn quickly and run out of the room.