Perfect ➵ h.s

She doesn't like him, he doesn't like her.
But somehow in the middle of the media perception of two different people, they find each other.


Harry Styles Real Life


2. 1 | "Funny you should mention Harry."

Songs for this chapter:
- Chandelier | Sia
- Bad Reputation | Avril Lavigne
- Liquor Store Blues | Bruno Mars
- Seven Nation Army | The White Stripes


Chapter One.


[Indiana POV]


Another none-mattering day in my none-mattering life.

Another stroll down those same roads, with the same people walking down it.

Thomas. The drunk that doesn't know which way he's actually going. He got kicked out of college after a year and was too afraid to face his parents, so now he lives at the one of the bars; making his troubles go away with each shot he downs, and each bottle of Jack he finishes up.

Judy. The prude, as I personally like to call her. Her husband is the priest of one of the churches, and she always looks with disgust and fear at all the people below her; people like Thomas, and myself. She thinks better of her life than ours, but everybody, much like herself, knows that her husband - despite being a strong believer - has screwed around with every female being, in this shithole of a town. Myself included.

Andrew. He wanted to make it big here in Los Angeles, like many others, except he didn't really make it. He spent all of his money on that trip, only to be kicked to the curb, by every single person he visited. To be fair, he really isn't that good either. So now, he lives on the streets, getting enough money to live by, by making small acts, that no one actually watches, but only pities.

Lucy. She thinks that spending her life by doing drugs, is the way to do it. Same routine every day; do whatever drugs she has, go to some lame-ass party with the same lame-ass people, fuck some random guy that she's never going to see, ever again, and that's it. In a way, I guess I can relate to her way of living. The way she wants to get away from reality and just be.

Tyler. He has some fucking weird obsession with me, and I can't count the many times we've been together. He's good looking enough, I guess, but that's about it. His dad is a drunk, like himself, and his mom is abusive as hell, but he never tells the truth when he comes to a party with a black eye. But I know the truth; I see the way he flinches by the mention of his mom, I hear the way their screams fill the atmosphere around their dump of a house.

Then there's me; Indiana. I'm not going to give you some sap-story about my fucked up life, and how I know that I'm wasting it away by drinking and partying every night. I'm putting my troubles in life away, by using some innocent soul for my own pleasure, every night. I could tell you that I regret turning into this, but I don't. I don't regret one single - fucking - thing. I mean, rather this, than the infernal pain that comes with being sober.

Rahter this, than feeling.

My thin, fishnet stockings is ripped several places, and the cold wind is blowing right at my exposed skin. My red lipstick is smudged and the perfect eyeliner I drew last night, has demolished into black stains under my eyes. The short, black dress I'm wearing, keeps riding up, but I don't mind it. It's not like the people of this town, hasn't seen me in a worse shape.

Judy passes me and looks at me with disapproval in her brown eyes. Or are they blue? I really can't tell, but I can tell that she needs to fuck off with her judgement. She doesn't know me, and she never fucking will. I roll my eyes at her and bring my half-empty flask to my lips and take a swig on the burning liquor.

I welcome the burn with happiness and swipe the excess liquid around my lips, away with the back of my hand. I observe the red stain that has marked my hand and I sigh. This is what life has become; one big dwell in red lipstick stains and half empty flasks.

I look up into the open space and feel the cool raindrops on my skin, but the sudden smell of smoke from a cigarette, pulls me out of my daze and I walk towards the person who's got the key to yet another high. I would smoke my own, but the idget I fucked a couple of hours ago, snatched them when I wasn't looking.

I sit down beside the stranger on the small, wooden bench and run a hand through my disheveled, brown hair, but my fingers get caught in a sticky knot, and I cringe at the thought of what the sticky substance might be. Puke? Some sort of gross, fruity liquor?

"Can you spare a smoke?" I ask the stranger and lean back against the bench and look at the hooded figure beside me. The bloke's wearing sunglasses even though it's fucking spring and clouded, and a hood pulled over his brown hair. He looks some-what familiar, but with the alcohol still in my system and the hood and fucking sunglasses, I can't make out who it is. Maybe some guy I once wasted my night with?

"Sure," he speaks in a funny voice, but I ignore the urge to laugh in his face, and instead take the cigarette he's holding out for me and put it between my lips. With help from the hooded stranger, I get it lit and take a long breath in; the smoke filling my lungs in the most perfect way.

It's that itching feeling in my throat, that makes me hate the douche who stole my cigarettes even more. It's the smoke in my lungs that make me love this dangerous little object even more. It's the high you get, that makes me enjoy every breath I take even more.

"So, what's your problem, love?" The man asks me with a hoarse voice in a British accent. I look over at him and squint my eyes to remember who the fuck he is. He sends me a small smile and pulls his sunglasses off, and in a moment of pure shock, it feels like all air - or smoke in this case - has been knocked out of my lungs. Sitting before me, is Louis - fucking - Tomlinson.

"What are you talking about?" I ask with a sharp voice and push the thoughts that has been haunting me, to the back of my mind and look away from Louis. I put the cigarette to my lips again and mentally curse the entire world out for being so fucking ironic.

He chuckles and turns his body to get a better view at the girl beside him. His eyes scan over my low amount of clothes and the holes in my stockings, right to the stains on my face. Probably mentally judging the shit out of me. "I know problems when I see them. So what's yours?"

"My problem?" I let out a sarcastic laugh and shake my head at him. Of course, Louis Tomlinson would ask me what my fucking problem is. He probably doesn't even care, it's only for the public view of it; hoping that I will tweet something braindead like 'omg, Louis Tomlinson just asked what my problem was, ain't he the cutest and sweetest unicorn in this world?', and that's not happening.

"Louis Tomlinson does not want to hear about my problems." I state and look up at the clouds above us. How is it again I got stuck in this situation? I blame this whole thing on Mark, or whatever his name is, and his need to steal my fucking cigarettes.

"Try me," he urges and smiles at me.

"My mom is a psychopath, my dad is a rich motherfucker with no feelings. My step-mom is truly the Wicked With of the West, and some prick stole my cigarettes. Want me to carry on, or have you had enough with the charity-case?" I sneer and look him dead in the eyes. He flinches slightly at my harsh tone, but quickly recover and a smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

"Sounds like quite the hassle." He says. Thank you, Captian - fucking - obvious. Before you came along, I thought my life was apple-pie sweet, with a cherry on top, so thanks mate, you just saved my day.


"Yea like you'd know," I scoff and and roll my eyes. I don't need people's pity, and that's exactly what I'm getting here. My life is fucked up, yes, but other people shouldn't meddle in my business, they should just stay in their own messes of a life and let me be. And this guy, with no knowledge of how the world actually works, does not need to give me the whole 'it's so sad for you'- speech.

"Who says I don't?" He questions and raises an eyebrow at me. Well, I guess no one does, but it's pretty obvious that he doesn't. I mean, the guy has lived the perfect life since he was, what, eighteen? He's had everything served to him on a silver-plate for the past seven years, so no, I don't think he knows what real problems is.

"I do? Look, I appreciate your efforts in making me feel better, but I honestly don't need someone like a One Direction dude to cheer me up." I remark and throw the smoked cigarette onto the road and look at how the smoke dies out in the water puddle I threw it in, and how the rings in the water spread at the sudden movement.

"What do you have against One Direction?" He asks, but not with a trace of hurt in his voice. He must've heard that a million of other times. Not that I blame the other people for saying it. These four guys needs someone to pull their heads out of their asses from time to time, and I can't think of a better way to make that happen, than to tell them they suck.

"A lot of other things, actually." I shrug and lean my elbows on my knees and look down at my black heels. One of the straps has been ripped off and the other can't be closed properly. There's dirt up the sides of them and green spots from walking in grass. They're practically ruined.

"Like what?"

"Like Harry and his stupid-ass face, and his stupid way of thinking that he could ever make it in the movie business." I laugh and shake my head. He's going to be nothing. Sure, people will watch the movie, but it will only be pubescent teenage-girls who wants to see Harry and all his glory. And when his new album comes out, people will surely listen to it, but then they'll quickly realize that he's nothing without the three other guys on stage. It's simple as that.

"It's actually funny you should mention Harry," Louis chuckles and discards his cigarette. The rain is cool against my skin, and I love the feeling is gives me. It's like a numbness that spreads in my entire being. On the contrary to many other people, I actually enjoy the rain. It's one of the few things that are constant in life. Much like stars.

"I must've missed the part where that's funny." I snort and he rolls his eyes at me.

"I'm going to a club with him later," he starts, but I've honestly already lost interst in what he's saying. There's no way that him going to a club with fucking Harry Styles, is of any relevans to me. But that doesn't seem to stop Louis.

"And that's important for me to know, why?" I ask dumbfounded and push my eyebrows together; giving him a hint that I don't fucking care about his fun night out with his mate. It will be plastered all over the intenet, how two friends reunite in the boring city of Los Angeles, but will I care? Abso-fucking-lutely not.

"Well, if you would just let me finish, then I would tell you that I want to invite you. We're going to a place called The Argyle, you know it?" He asks and runs a hand through his perfectly styled hair. I mentally compare the difference between the two of us; he's got relaxed clothes on, but surely hungover. I've got an uncomfortable little, black dress on with annoying and broken high heels.  His hair is styled and clean, mine's unruly and filled with unknown, sticky knots.

"The Argyle? Do I know it, yes. Have I ever been there, no fucking way." I chuckle and look at him with wide eyes. He can't honestly expect me to believe that he's actually inviting me along to the Argyle with him and Harry Styles, right? I mean, he has to be joking right?

"Well, there's a first for everything, yea?" He smiles and stands up from the bench, but I keep sitting, just looking at him with a weird face. I expect him to laugh in my face and tell me that it was all a joke and I should've seen my priceless expression, but he doesn't. In fact, he just stares at me expectantly, like he's actually waiting for me to answer his crazy proposal.

"Wait, you're serious about it?"

"Of course I am. Should I put you on the list? I mean, we'll be seated in the VIP area, of course, but a guard can come and get you at, let's say nine?" He says and buries his hands in his pocket. The rains seems to bother him, as he pulls his shoulders up to his ears and stand from on foot the other.

"Well,  I never say no to a party invitation. You can write me on the list," I smirk and stand up beside him. I may not exactly like Louis and his ex-band, or whatever's happening to that thing, but I never say no to a chance of getting absolutely drunk. And it's not everyday you get invited to go to a club with Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles, and it amuses me how ironic it is, that so many girls would die to be in my position, but I could actually care less. I'm only going to the club with them for the alcohol.

I turn around to walk away from him, not wanting to waste uneccessary time with this Ken-doll of a man, but stop when I hear him call for me to stop, so I turn around and listen to what he has to say to me. "What's your name?"

I grin and push my hair out of my face before replying. "Indiana. Indiana Harris." He grins back and nods his head, waving once before turning on his feet and start walking towards a car parked a few feet away.

Nine o'clock. The Argyle. VIP section. Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles.

What have I gotten myself into?


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