Stall 2

Chapter 65.

"oh, heaven knows

We belong way down below"

Song: Heaven Knows - The Pretty Reckless

*******

HARRY'S P.O.V:

"What kind of monster does something like this? Is this some kind of sick fuckin joke?"

"Jimmy... relax."

"No! I swear I'm gonna find who did this, and I will cut their fucking head off."

"Jimmy..."

"You see what that says?"

Jimmy shoves the packet of chips at my face, and I smack his hand away, trying my best not to swerve as I'm driving.

"Chicken nugget flavoured chips," he yells, his voice booming over the Mariah Carey he's had blasting since he, Jacob and I left Jimmy's place.

Honestly if it weren't for Abby I would've driven this fucking car into oncoming traffic at this point.

I already considered shooting myself at Jimmy's, where we've been practicing for his goddamn wedding tomorrow. I'm glad I proposed to Abby before all this, because after today weddings are at the bottom of my list of things I like.

Jacob is sitting in the back on his phone, smoking and playing whatever game he is obsessed with on that damn phone.

"You know what I expect these to taste like?" He shouts, holding the open bag up and shaking it, sending several potato crisps tumbling out of the bag, "Chicken nuggets. And you know the one thing they don't taste like?"

I keep my eyes on the road, gripping tighter on the steering wheel, doing my best to ignore this fucking rant he's been going on with since he opened that damn bag.

I knew I shouldn't have let him eat in my damn car.

"Chicken-fuckin-nuggets- it's a bag of fucking lies, I've never felt so disrespected," he shouts, winding his window down and throwing the bag out of it. The bag flies out and smacks into a cyclist going past us, making them lose balance and go crashing off of their bike onto the sidewalk.

I slap my hand up the side of his head, cussing, "Now look what you fucking did you idiot. Don't throw shit out of the window."

Jimmy smooths his hand through his hair, making sure I haven't messed it up and holds his other hand out in front of himself with a frown, "It's not my fault, blame those cunts that made that bag of ass flavoured bullshit. You don't play with someone's emotions like that."

I grind my teeth, shaking my head, "it was a bag of chips. Grow up dickhead."

"Says the dickhead who calls tampons spice girls and google's his feelings," he scoffs, starting to skip through music on his phone to find - what a surprise, another Mariah Carey song and mumbles to himself, "You don't screw with a man and his nuggets."

I look at him with a glare, but also confused and wondering who the hell told him about the tampon thing.

"Peaches told me," he shrugs when he notices my expression, reaching into his pocket to get a piece of gum from the endless supply of packets he seems to carry on him, "Spice girls do kinda make sense though, girl power and all that. So do you like name em' then? Like if she got some of those super tampons would you call it scary spice? Or if she got the little ones would you call that baby spice? Or if she got some super fancy expensive ones would that be posh spice?"