4. My Sexual Partner is a Washing Machine

"So,um" Harry's eyes rolls to the ground semi- awkwardly. "I'm missing my pants."

"Yeah" I sigh, resting my hand on my hips. "Uh..." I rummage through my overflowing dresser for a moment, pulling out a pair of black soccer shorts. "Here."

"Um" he catches and unfolds them, examining with a wary eye. "I don't know."

"Just put them on" I roll my eyes. Shaking his head, he pulls then on, and besides the fact they fall a little shirt on his thighs, they look alright.

"Do I look hot?" He swivels his hips, sticking out his tongue. I can't help but laugh.

"The hottest" I reply, snagging my own shorts from where they were kicked under the bed and skipping them up on my legs. "Well, at least you're getting your jeans washed for free."

"Your dad almost caught you giving me a hand job" Harry smirks and my face explodes.

"Uh" I stammer, fiddling with the elastic around my wrist. "Yep." We meet each other's eyes to exchange gentle smiles. "If you, uh, don't mind me asking... um... was I... erm-" I swallow hard. "Never mind. I'm going to... um... go down to the laundry room." I clamp my teeth down on to the laundry room." I clamp my teeth down on my fluttering tongue. Time to shut up, Kay.

"I'll join you."

His words make my head hurt and I struggle to makes sense of them. Harry is giving brain damage, with his musky scent and precious dimples... My god, that level of male beauty should most definitely be illegal, and if you disagree, obviously you have never been this close to living-breathing perfection. He'll, I gave this living-breathing perfection a freaking wiener dog massage. Congratulations, Kay, finally getting a boy out of his pants.

I bite my inner cheeks to hide the smile, but he catches it as it slips past me. His arm hooks around my waist, pulling me towards the door. I follow him limply. Is it possible for a man to turn your limbs to noodles? If it's not, then something is most definitely wrong here.

"Where's the laundry place?" Harry asks as he leads me down the front steps and down the path.

"Uh" I say. Harry cocks an eyebrow. "It's... Erm..."

"You alright, Kay?" he leans towards me, the orange sun catching in the ends of his curls. I open my mouth again.

"Yup!" I reply over-enthusiastically. "I'm just... Who knows. It's, uh, to the left." We turn sharply, making our way down the main walkway. The stout brick building comes into view shortly. Rumbling machines are already audible as we approach the door, growing louder as we step inside.

It's deserted, and it's nearly impossible to identify your own wet, spinning clothing from the next lowly classed hotel employee without opening and closing every single washer and rummaging through, so I hop onto an machine filled with finished clothes to wait patiently, Harry clambering up beside me. I honestly have no idea why I am here. I used it as an excuse to get away from Harry before this ridiculous urge to set myself on fire grows any stronger, but he's like gum on the sole of my shoe.

Good gum, of course. Gum actually don't want to get rid of.

Spearmint, most likely.

Yes, I definitely must have brain damage.

"So" Harry says loudly over whirring and gushing. This is the less-glamorous side of the resort business."

"Absolutely " I agree. "Come to the Bronze Palace Resort, where you can watch your maid's dirty underwear slosh around in boxes whilst basking in the glorious tropical sunshine!" I bite my lip as soon as the words spill out, but, thank you, Harry finds me funny.

He laughs. "Spend time tanning, swimming, and hiding from rampant gay fathers!"

"And watch housekeeping vacuum in solely your birthday suit!" I add.

"Check out the amazing post-nuclear disaster site hidden in the closet of a gorgeous employee!"

I blush at that one, but catch myself in time to continue out commentary. "Don't forget to visit the angry ex-boyfriend!"

Harry chuckles again. "Hand jobs included."

"Who told you that was free?" I raise my eyebrows and purse my lips. He smirks.

"I guess it doesn't have to be..." He replied slyly.

"I-" I start but suddenly his lips are against mine again. I lean away, stunned. "What are you doing?"

"Returning the favour" he states, hopping off the machine. His finger jabs at a few buttons, and before I can say a word, the washer begins rocking and shaking violently.

"I w-w-was ju-u-st ki-dd-ing!" My words are jarred as I ricochet atop of the machine. He places a single finger to my lips.

"What number are we at?" He questions gently. The confusion is obvious across my face, and he continues quickly. "The facts we were sharing yesterday, I mean. Nine? Let's just say nine. Okay, fact number nine about me is that when someone does something nice for me" he narrows his eyes slightly, "I feel obligated to do something nice for them back."

"H-H-Har-r-r-y?" I ask, bouncing vigorously.

"Shh." He hushes me, pressing down on my spread knees, and suddenly there's a shaking pressure elsewhere, stirring an unfamiliar sensation.

If you know what I mean. "Oh" I gasp, my toes curling inwards. "Ah."

Harry smiles cheekily, watching as I squirm beneath his strong palms on my bare legs. His hands run along my thighs, settling on my knees, then running up again. I remember I haven't shaved my legs in a week and try to wiggle away, but he pins me down with a grin. Thankfully, he doesn't seem to mind the fact that my legs feel like the ugly love child of Big Foot and a cactus, and continues running his fingers along my rough skin. He bends over, planting gentle kisses along the hemline of my shorts, wrapping his arms around my waist and pushing my body closer into the vibrations.

It feels good. Like, really good.

Damon told me once about his friend who used the spin cycle as a source of pleasure, but I'm more of a ew-it's-gross-down-there kind of gal myself. Up until now, it had never crossed my mind, but it's not often you have internationally-known hottie pawing at the hem if your t-shirt, and that seems to give you a new perspective on many different things.

The ends of his curls brush against the flat tops of my thighs and I suppress a shudder.

My mind struggles to make sense of what is happening, but the only image I can muster is a flawless curl-framed beam. Evan though my thick denim bottoms, the quaking is so extreme it sends harsh trembles through my shoulders. His fingers trace aimless circles into my sides, soft lips pressing into my skin.

My heart hammers and echoes in my ears, his burning fingertips dipping underneath the frayed edges if my bottoms. That's when it happens . It goes on for at least five minutes, his mouth agains my skin, the machine pushing firmly between my legs.

Every single sensation grows more intense, a new feeling building in my stomach.

But just before the bubble into explodes ecstasy, a piercing shriek cuts through the air with deafening audacity, signaling the end of the short washing cycle startling us both. The machine stops suddenly beneath me, Harry straightening. The sensations fade, leaving me breathing roughly and clenching tight the edge of cool white metal seated on.

Harry smirks.

"Your laundry's done" he says, opening the washer and pulling out a soaked pair of tights of a blinding shade of pink. "Fashionista." He unwrinkled them to hold them out a reveal the waistband to be at least four times the width of his hips.

"Those are Mrs. Poribsli's." I chuckle, picturing a slide of the woman strutting through the lobby with legs that could be mistaken for the setting sun. "But I think they'd look good on you."

"I'm already wearing lady's pants" Harry clucks, shoving the spandex back into the open machine. "Those pink pants would shatter the world views me."

"The world?" I snort. "I'm the only one you seem to hang out with on the island."

"Maybe you're my world" he gushes, throwing his arms across his heart in a melodramatic gesture. The laughter pours from my mouth.

"It's like hanging out with a block of cheese" I say, hopping from my seat and beginning to rifle through the nearest dryer in search of out clothes.

"Everyone likes cheese though" Harry states. I shake my head.

"My Papa's lactose intolerant" I form an expression of disgust. "He definitely does not like cheese."

"Touché." We search silently for a few minutes before Harry calls out, "this yours?" I'm not sure if I should be flattered or concerned for his vision by the beige monster of a bra the size of San Francisco he hold before him.

"About as much as it's yours" I reply coyly, rummaging through another dryer. "Aha! Found them!" The curly-haired thing pops up beside me, reaching in feeling for his jeans.

"Got them." They look like two dangling navy raisins, but they're no doubt his.

As he shakes out dark pants, a piece of fabric slips from the leg. My face burns hot enough to grill a steak to nothing but a hunk of very well-done charred crap.

Just my luck, my underwear had to fall onto his exposed toes. And is it the expensive, sexy kind my Canadian friends bought me so I could-and I quote-'get some Australian D'?

Of course not.

It's the oversized, bulky white kind, one if pairs specifically reserved for the week of hell where my hoohaw profusely cries tears of blood.

Not. Pleasant

Harry senses my embarrassment-how couldn't he? King Tut is probably cringing in his sandy desert tomb-and scoops them up an extends them towards me.

"Uh" I snatch them from him, crumpling the granny-panties tight into my fist. "Thanks." I struggle for something witty to say. "You found my white flag."

"Your white flag?" Harry's lips twitch into a smile. "What do you use it to surrender to?"

"Red stains" if he doesn't understand my reference, he sure doesn't make it obvious. "One day it's gonna turn into a Japanese flag for sure."

Stop telling the cute boy about your period, you big freaking idiot.

"Sounds rough" he shift awkwardly, pulling his jeans up to his chest. "Can I just throw these in a dryer?"

"Of course!" I reply too loudly. "Throw them right in!"

He balls up the denim and kind them into an empty dryer, twisting the dials until it begins tossing the pants like a salad. The air in the room is suddenly uncomfortable. I silently award myself ten thousand mental punched to the gut for making everything awkward. I'm already at about two thousand punches when Harry pipes up.

"Gosh, Kay" he chuckles quietly. "You are something else."

"I am everything else" I reply absentmindedly, fixating my gaze on a spinning washer. He laughs again.

"It kinda seems like it" he says.

"What was your first memory?" I ask, propping myself up against the stilled machinery. A faint grin morphs onto his pink lips.

"My first memory was when I was four" he says. "I fell down a flight of stairs and cracked my head open. The curls hide the scar now." The image of a clumsy, green-eyed little boy with tiny dimples peeking out timidly from behind his mother's leg flashes in my mind, instantly warming my heart. Harry catches my smile.

"You find that amusing?" He questions teasingly. My shoulders rise and fall in a shrug.

"I find the idea of klutzy toddler Harry adorable."

"I'm still that same itty bitty boy" Harry's voice is squished tight and high, as though he's talking to a really slow puppy. "Just now I'm a little bigger and I make a few more sex jokes."

"Just a few" I repeat with laughter. The lad grins.

"Hey, I started young."

I open my mouth with a witty remark when there's a sudden bang, instinct throwing me flat to the floor with my hands clamped over my head.

"What the hell was that?" Harry is still on his feet, striding to the window and peering out. Once the initial shock has worn off, I peel myself off of the linoleum and creep to look out beside him.

"Oh" I say, embarrassed by my reaction. "It was just a stupid bird."

"Just a stupid bird?!" Harry cries, startling us both, I think. "But at how cool it looks!" The colorful bird twitches. It's future does not look too bright.

"It's just a Rainbow Lorikeets" I reply. "We see them all the time on the island."

Harry eyes the multicolored corpse lying with spread wings in the dirt with utter fascination. "It's so beautiful."

"I guess, yeah" I say with bored. "I mean, birds are just like people, though. The prettier they are, the stupider they tend to be."

Harry frowns. "That's not true."

"I know it's a little stereotypical and judgemental" I admit. "But really, like, very, very few people have brains and the looks. It's such a small percentage to get either. The odds of inheriting both traits are minuscule."

"I know plenty of beautiful smart people" Harry stares at the motionless bird with a vacant expression. What is up with this guy?

"Yeah, but you're famous" I say pointedly, as though it actually makes a valid argument. "You know way more people than me."

"But, Kay, if beautiful people are supposed to dumb" The British boy says. "Then you contradict your own law."

"What?" My eyes flicker to his face, but he still watches out the window at the tropical parrot.

"You're really pretty" Harry says. "And you seem relatively intelligent." He shakes his head and chuckles inwardly. "Unicorns don't go around saying unicorns don't exist."

"But unicorns don't exist." His metaphor is at loss for me.

"But a unicorn saying unicorns don't exist is a walking exception to its own rule" Harry explains. "It doesn't hold solid evidence and it will take a whole lot more effort to raise a convincing argument."

"Um" is all I can say.

Harry sighs. "I'm making no sense aren't I."

"If I was smart, I would've understood that" I state, returning my gaze to where his sits animal. "I'm not smart."

"Well, you're smart in some ways and dumb in others, just like everyone else" he says, I ignore the fact he sort of called me stupid.

"How so?"

"Well" Harry says. "If you were smart in the sense of dealing with dangerous situations and not taking such unfavorable risks, you would've ran as you met me."

"What?" I ask turning to face him. He doesn't meet my eyes. "What is that supposed to mean?"

His lips remain pressed together, green eyes flutter around the bushes. When he doesn't answer, I decide against prodding and focus on the bubbles visible in the spinning washing machine.

Harry Styles confuses me. Very, very, much. He has secrets that he drops hints about, then cad up. He make rude gestures and remarks, then gets upset about a dead bird. He uses a freaking washing machine to repay me for my earlier actions, and then listens to ramble about how my grandmother, listening intently while practicing extreme patience.

This boy is an enigma.

I love puzzles.

The mood has become a tad awkward, and after a few minutes of dead silence, Harry excuses himself to return back to his cabin, pulling his damp pants from the dryer and towing them in hand as he makes his way to the exit.

"I'll see you later" he says sullenly. I wave, watching him slouch and duck out of the doorway.

Suddenly the laundry room is incredibly boring. I'm not going to lie; the idea of hopping back on the spin cycle might have crossed his mind, but there's just something I find undeniably pathetic about doing that right now.

You have a sexual partner? Cool, so do I. Just instead of being a real human being, he's actually a washing machine.

I settle for reading a brochure about the homemade laundry detergent Mr. Gerommi makes in his bathroom sink with some very mysterious and concerning ingredients someone had placed conveniently beside a leading and actually legal brand. I finish in minutes, returning to the beginning, not because ecological laundry detergent is so darn interesting, but I'm having a bit of trouble paying close attention to the jumbles of handwritten letters. It's a screech of a daydream of Harry's fingers. I get to immediate work at folding mine Dad's clothes, and ok done in five minutes. Hauling the stacks of fabric back home, I check the time to find I have time to shower before dinner.

I return with wet dripping hair dripping down my back, digging through mountains of clothes for the skirt Dad suggested I wore earlier, eventually excavating a pale yellow skirt. I pair with a white blouse and my black TOMS knock offs, as the real ones were far over my budget. I string a thin necklace with a 'W' dangling to my collarbones I've had forever. I don't even know what the W stands for, but I don't actually really care. Then to deal with my sopping hair.

After much struggle, I finally have dry hair tumbling to my shoulders in failed attempt of beachy waves, but I'm too tired from breaking up ditching work and swimming and giving poor hand jobs and lying and doing laundry and riding a damn washer and dealing with famous singers mood swings to make the effort to even put it up.

It's been a busy day.

I'd even go far enough to say it was busy enough that I earned a nap.

I flop down without a single thought about wrinkling my outfit or messing up my hair. When I open my eyes again, Dad is shaking me awake.

"Wake up, sleepyhead" he says. "Let's go."

It's not often that we get to eat with the guests. There are a few resturaunt a on the island, and our particular favorite also happens to be the most expensive. Lenny, our ridiculous boss, decided to abolish staff discounts the second he gained control of the resort, which cut back the variety of our meals drastically. When employees went on their weekly voyage to the city, Dad began to return with bags and bags of frozen bachelor meals, which is basically what we've been living on for months now.

I don't recognize our waitress, but she seats us in a pleasant and private area with a breathtaking view of the multicolored ocean stretched beneath the melting sunset. Dad smiles at me as I place my order. Not like a nice smile, though. It looked almost awkward and forced. It makes me realize his little time I actually spend with my father considering he raised me. I moved here to live with him, and now the only time we get to be together is uncomfortable, maybe because he knows I heard his conversations with Papa arguing about how he definitely did not want me to live with him.

Hurtful; yes. Surprising; no.

I am far from an ideal daughter.

"Um, okay, do you want to get appetizers?" My father clears his throat and adjusts his collar. He looks like a seventh- grader on a date with his crush.

"Yeah" I hold up the menu, squinting at the formal lettering in the dim lighting. Him asking if I want food just furthers my proof he knows absolutely nothing about me. "Let's get the Caprese Garlic Bread." He sips at his red wine. We sit in silence again, looking across the waters, drumming our fingers on the table.

Dad pipes up after an enter nitty. "Okay. You know, we really should do this more often. Why don't we ever go out?"

Because this is boring and awkward and I like microwave pizza.

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