You Know I'm No Good

Nick couldn’t have been more vague about what I was supposed to wear, which lead me to stepping in front of the full-length mirror around fifty times that night. I had crashed my fair share of parties in my day, but none of them were ever referred to as “events”. And they certainly weren’t held by Radio 1.

“Cammie,” I heard from downstairs. “It’s bloody nine-thirty already!”

I groaned in response, eyeing my figure (or lack thereof) in the simple black dress. I decided it would have to suffice as I yanked on a pair of silver pumps and slid on a mess of jewelry. The only part of my outfit that I was satisfied with was my makeup, and that was only because I forgot what it looked like when it was properly done. I sprinted out my room, snatching my clutch off the decorative table in the hallway before nearly stumbling all the way down the stairs.

Nick was in the kitchen, a bottle of champagne already open on the counter in front of him. He rolled his eyes when I slid in, adjusting my dress and glancing up at him expectantly.

“If you didn’t look brilliant, I’d be furious right now,” he said, handing me a glass of champagne.

“You don’t think I look like a slag?”

“Well you’re dress reaches past your fingertips, so Sister Catherine couldn’t possibly complain,” he joked.

I rolled my eyes and smiled at him, feeling slightly less nervous. We sat in the kitchen for a half an hour, drinking champagne and dancing about. It was nice to be somewhere that I felt comfortable, with someone who actually knew me. We polished off the bottle and gathered our coats before making our way to the car that was waiting outside.

“I don’t think I’ll get used to this,” I said to Nick as he climbed in after me.

“Hm?”

“The cars and parties, hearing your voice on the radio every morning,” I laughed. “You’re still my brother who blamed me for breaking the front window when you kicked a football through it, and then cried when you got caught in your lie.”

“I was nervous!”

“You were fourteen,” I told him, giving him a look. “And I couldn’t play football to save my life.”

He gave me a wide smile and relaxed back into his seat. “It’s all a bit bizarre, yeah?”

“Yeah,” I agreed as the car rolled to a stop in front of Mahiki, a club that I remembered sneaking into once when I was seventeen. However, I didn’t remember much from inside the club, if I’m being honest.

Nick opened the door and I followed him out, only to be met with dozens of camera flashes and shouting. If I thought this whole situation was crazy before, I don’t even know what was running through my mind now. Nick grabbed my hand and practically dragged me behind him. I glanced up, seeing a bright smile plastered to his face, and I remembered that as ridiculous as it all sounded to me, these photos would be seen by people. With that in mind, I did my best to muster up a small smile, peeking at the cameras through thick lashes as I hurriedly followed my brother inside.

I hoped I didn’t look as overwhelmed as I actually was when Nick turned to face me.

“You all right?” he asked with a smile.

I nodded, pushing my shoulders back and looping my arm through his. He grinned and pulled me along, introducing me to people that I had only ever seen in British Vogue and the Daily Mail. I smiled politely, shaking hands and kissing cheeks when necessary, and sipped champagne. I was already quite buzzed by the time we finally sat down in a round booth, but I was enjoying myself, so I didn’t see any need to stop drinking. Nick had to schmooze some of the executives, so rather than sit there awkwardly while they talked about work, I made my way to the bar. I rested my elbows on the granite surface, leaning up on my tiptoes in order to get the attention of the bartender.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t graced with my brother’s height, and therefore could barely be seen from behind the crowd of people.

“You look like you could use a hand.”

I turned to face the source of the voice, my eyes landing on a curly-haired brunette in a blazer. He was a good six inches taller than me, even in my heels. He was fit, I couldn’t deny that, and any other night I probably would have flirted right back while simultaneously drinking myself into oblivion, but I had to remind myself that I was here for Nick, at a work function, no less. Meaning this lad probably wasn’t as random as I liked my bed partners to be.

“Mmm, nope,” I turned slightly away, my eyes back on the bar, “just a drink.”

He eyed me for a second, probably unsure of whether I was playing hard to get or if I really was just uninterested. I guess it was both, but he didn’t look like the kind of guy that experienced either of those treatments regularly.

“What are you doing at the bar anyway?” he asked, leaning in so I could hear him over the music.

“Like I said,” I paused, pursing my dark red lips and glancing up at him briefly, “getting a drink.”

He nodded slightly and I thought that I had finally shaken him.

“That seems unnecessary when your table has bottle service,” he shrugged. “How do you know Grimmy, anyhow?”

I turned to face him fully, my eyebrows raised. I really didn’t enjoy him questioning my motives in getting my own drink at the bar. I finally got the attention of one of the bartenders and quickly rattled off my order.

“We go way back,” I told him with a slight smirk.

“Funny,” he said, “Nick never mentioned any gorgeous ex-girlfriends. I suppose that means you’re off limits, yeah?”

My eyebrows knitted together. I couldn’t even remember the last time Nick had dated a female, but if I had to venture a guess it would probably be when he was in university. I noticed the sarcastic smirk on his face as he watched me.

“Something like that,” I trailed off.

I forced a smile, clutching the Crown and ginger in front of me. I suddenly felt a hand graze the small of my back and turned to see Nick, his face slightly flushed from the champagne.

“Harold,” he grinned, “I see you’ve met my sister.”

His eyes widened slightly and I had to choke back a laugh.

“Erm, yeah,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his head.

Nick glanced back and forth between the two of us, scrunching his face up slightly.

“Well,” he cleared his throat, “as riveting as this is, Fearne has been bugging me all night about meeting you, Cam. ‘Scuse us, Harry.”

He clutched my hand, dragging me behind him once more toward the back of the club. I glanced back once more at the brunette, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, dumbfounded.