Burn Me Like the Sun

I woke up a little before ten the next morning, my eyes greasy and tired and my hair styled in the shape of a bird’s nest. I had stayed up late the night before, my eyes practically glued to Louis’s mobile. I had moved it from the island in the kitchen to the second-hand coffee table in front of the sofa, weary of having to sprint to the other side of the flat just to retrieve it before it finished ringing if someone would call. I gave up staring at it after Fran went to bed, because really, who would call their own phone after midnight if they were trying to get it back? But I caught myself staring at the screen a few times, and I even found myself playing with it in my lap later in the night.

Louis’s lock screen was a picture of him and the other boys from One Direction. I asked Fran if she had ever seen that particular picture, but she said no, so I assumed it was one from Louis’s own personal collection. All five of them were standing together, their arms wrapped around each others’ backs. Each boy was smiling wide, and they were all drenched in sweat. The blond bloke at one end had a microphone in his hand, so I could only assume that it was taken off-stage after one of their concerts. Louis was clad in a white shirt buttoned all the way to his neck and dark blue braces that matched a tan, swoopy-haired lad’s jacket and another, taller boy’s pants. His hair was longer than it was now, swept across his forehead and shaped like a fat squirrel’s tail.

And despite the sweat, wrinkled shirts, cheesy outfits, and red faces, all of them still looked like proper models.

After I got up, I took the fastest shower I possibly ever had and dressed for work in my black slacks and matching shoes just as quickly. My white dress shirt hung unbuttoned over my shoulders, still wrinkled from the small dinner we did last Thursday. I tucked my black bowtie into the waist of my pants before stumbling into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

Unfortunately, Fran and I had the same shift today. Usually, I’d be over the moon to be working with Fran, whose humor knew no bounds while we were catering. Even if my feet were aching and I had to pee, I’d feel better if Fran was there to make me laugh at her jokes about the company we were serving. But I was weary of leaving the flat without Louis’s iPhone. Anyone could call while we were out and just jump to the conclusion that someone had stolen it if no one was answering. And it was a definite possibility, considering that the texts had stopped altogether by tea yesterday. We hadn’t heard a single noise from his mobile since then.

I was almost done grinding my toothbrush against my tongue when I heard the familiar opening notes of a Take That song. I started humming along before I remembered belatedly that Fran despised Channel 4 with a passion, and that the stereo system that I had brought with me from home (which painfully outperformed our run-down television) didn’t sound tinny and quiet like a cell phone.

Hot blood was pooling under my cheeks and my breath was dangerously short when I finally stood at the entrance to the kitchen from the corridor, both of my hands planted firmly on the doorjamb as I hunched over to catch my breath. I ripped my toothbrush from my mouth and shamelessly spat out my toothpaste onto the floor.

“I will pay you in sex favors if you please, please tell me that Louis’s ring tone is ‘Everything Changes.’”

Fran pressed her hand to the mobile’s mouth piece after asking whoever was on the other end to hold on for a second. “Maybe on a rainy day,” Fran said, waving me in as she pressed the phone closer to her ear.

“Give… Give me that!” I finally forced out, my lungs heavy with stale air. I unceremoniously tossed my toothbrush on the island then reached for the dishtowel that hung on the fridge door handle to wipe my mouth.

I plucked the mobile from a surprised Fran, then set it on the island, sweeping my thumb over the screen to put it on speaker.

“…a deranged, psychopathic fan, I’m just gonna get a new one.”

“Em.” I cleared my throat, and there was shuffling on the other end. I leaned against the island, my arms folded, and Fran copied my pose on the opposite side. “Yeah, who’s this?”

“Louis Tomlinson. You have my mobile, yeah?” His tone wavered somewhere between accusing and nervous, and his voice was just as tight and strained as when he was gassed up at the dentist’s office. Like a dog’s squeak toy, I amusedly recalled.

I nodded and reached over for my toothbrush, flipping it between my fingers – a nervous habit I had picked up with my pencils during Sixth Form. “Yeah. You… you probably don’t remember me. I was in the reception area. You, like, came up to me and started talking about—”

“Sardine sandwiches, yeah,” he finished, his voice short and jumpy. He sounded annoyed. I couldn’t blame him. “Dadrian wouldn’t let me forget. But I think remember you. Short, brazen hair, yeah? Kind of reddish?”

“Aye,” I confirmed. I stopped spinning my toothbrush and set it down, my nerves calming down from the buzzing jitter when I had entered the kitchen. “You thought I was Harry.”

“Oi, I do not look like a girl!” another voice indignantly shouted out, slow and steady like someone struggling to escape from quicksand. There was a light smack, and I could hear Louis protest, his voice faraway.

“But you have the bollocks of one,” another boy, decidedly Irish this time, pointed out. “Nonexistent.” There was another smack, and an annoyed groan shortly followed.

“Anyway…” There was another shuffle and Louis came back to the phone. “What are you girls’ names? I’m gonna come pick my mobile up later tonight, if that’s alright.”

“Blake Eaton. Flat’s under Cox, though. Francesca Cox.”

There was a snigger, and the Irish fellow repeated our last names, his voice shortly followed by another dull smack.

“What? It’s funny!” he protested, and I could hear Louis shooing him away.

“Sorry about him. He can be a prick,” Harry, the one with the groggy voice, said. It felt like I had to wait an eternity for him just to finish his train of thought. His voice was like warm honey on toast, sticky and annoying but sweet. “And he’s really… really… What’s the word?”

“You’re quite slow on the uptake, mate,” I said, ignoring all the manners I learned as a child.

Harry, at least I assumed it was him, made a noise of protest. But Louis interrupted him before he could get a word out, which quite honestly, didn’t seem very difficult to do. His brain waves probably traveled slower than his voice did.

“Right. So. Where’s your flat?” Louis asked, sounding tense.

I gave him some quick directions from the nearest tube stop, but it was only after I finished my virtual tour that I realized he’d probably drive himself and just needed an address. Or better yet, he’d have someone else pick up his mobile for him. He probably had a gaggle of security guards on speed dial, or even a personal assistant. Come to think of it, that burly ginger at the dentist was probably one of the many simpletons they used for security. I nearly snorted at the thought of his band needing huge men like Dadrian to protect them from screaming fan girls.

“Who’s picking up your mobile?” Fran asked, spotting the detached look on my face.

“Well, err…” There was more shuffling, and when Louis spoke again, his voice was clearer and closer. He probably took his mobile, or rather, Harry’s mobile, off speakerphone. “I didn’t want to get PR involved. They’re always such a bloody hassle. And Dadrian, I mean, my security guy… He hasn’t a clue. I just told the people that oughta know that it was missing.” He cleared his throat and paused for a moment. “So I’ll just be dropping by if that’s alright. You’ll have it, yeah? In the afternoon?”

“We’re gonna be at work,” Fran told him, leaning forward so she could speak into his mobile. “But we’ll be back by, what, Blake? Five? Six?”

I nodded, leaning away from the island. I started buttoning up my shirt when I glanced at the time on the clock that hung over the sink. We had about five minutes before we had to be ready to leave for a luncheon.

“Yeah, we’ll be here by then,” I agreed, snapping the last button closed at my neck. I reached for my bowtie, which was still hanging from the waist of my pants, and started tying it up, no longer needing a mirror to knot it together perfectly. “Did you need the directions again?”

But before I even finished my sentence, Louis had hung up.

“What a git,” I said, the corner of my mouth screwing up slightly. “Seriously, what the hell is up that obnoxiously huge bum of his?” Fran snorted. “I at least expected him to be grateful, you know?”

“First of all, I’m not even going to hold it over you that you checked out his arse at the dentist. Because that man should be in any and all future rap music videos.” I rolled my eyes. Fran always liked a nice bum – not that I thought Louis’s bum was nice. “And secondly, you weren’t polite, either, teasing Harry like that,” Fran pointed out, reaching for Louis’s iPhone. But I pushed her hand away, taking it myself. I turned around and dropped it in a drawer on top of a stack of dishtowels, then shut it closed with a pronounced whack.

“Whoa, Blake, chill out, yeah?” She sighed, giving me an unreadable look. “No need to get riled up. I’m sure he’ll be in and out of here well quick.” She came around the island and back-handed my shoulder, yelling from the corridor as she left the kitchen, “With any luck, it’ll be as fast as I bet he is in bed.”

I was so annoyed and confused by everything that had happened that I couldn’t even fathom a smile.

Alex was the one to pick us up in one of the three vans that Margaret used with Veal on Wheels. The design, the name spelled out with flowers in hopes to make it seem less like it was named by a couple of intoxicated uni students, was brush-painted on both sides, stretching all the way from the boot to the hood. As usual, Alex was late, so instead of doing the smart thing and calling ahead to tell us to come down, he honked when he arrived, holding down the horn for a solid ten seconds while he waited by the curb.

By the time we got down from our third story flat, Alex was halfway done with a cigarette, his arm hanging out of the window as he manically drummed the steering wheel. I yanked open the sliding door and let Fran in before me, and we both plopped down onto the two milk crates that were zip-tied through the holes in the floor where the van’s seats used to be. Instead of using the remaining seat belts hanging on the walls, which were frayed anyway, there were two beat-up belts tied to either end of the crates, and you’d have to buckle them across your lap if you wanted to hold onto the slightest chance of staying put. It was especially true if Margaret Cho, the owner of Wheels, was driving this particular van. Honestly, though, she was just a traffic accident waiting to happen, no matter the vehicle she drove.

I always tried to forget that whenever I bummed a ride off her.

Car rides tended to freak me out, party because that’s how my father was killed. Granted, it was his own fault, and yes, he was completely smashed before he, well, smashed into a copper. But anyone that didn’t fully stop at stop signs or wait until there were absolutely no cars in front of them before making a right turn would put me on edge if they drove for me. So either I walked or stuck with public transit, or I would be the one to drive myself places instead of accepting rides, especially if I was at home in Newcastle during break.

Alex, or Valenti, as he liked to be called, as that was what his mates called him when he was in the R.A.F., wasn’t the greatest driver, but at least he took stop signs seriously. He was a late twentysomething with perpetual stubble and a penchant for menthol smokes and nu metal. But the weirdest thing about him, by far, was that he loved pop culture. Really, anything to do with the celebrities that always made me question why they were even relevant to begin with would interest him. He was especially proud of his gossip magazine collection, which he would always recycle as kindle during the sweeping winter months.

All of this was why I was weary about him finding out how I had Louis Tomlinson’s mobile, as Valenti was not only bound to know who Louis was, but he’d likely know other random facts about him off the top of his head, like where he was born or, oh, I don’t know, his blood type.

Valenti took his pop culture very seriously.

“Alreet,” he mocked, glancing at me from the rearview mirror. “I’m tellin’ ya, Newcastle, if Marge smashes in me balls for being late again, I’m gonna blame you. Just fair warning.”

I scoffed, playing offended. “How about Fran? She couldn’t find her bowtie this morning. I had to loan her my extra one.”

Fran gave me a dark look and shoved me sideways. I nearly toppled over, taking the milk carton with me.

“How about this? You take responsibility for your fuckups because you’re an adult, and you let us poor girls go,” Fran countered with a raised brow, reaching back and brushing her hair from her face. She tied it back with one of the elastics she always kept on her wrist during an event, then straightened her bowtie, which I had to tie for her before we left.

“To what do I owe the prickly attitude, duckie?” Valenti stubbed out his cigarette on the dash, where he had glued a cracked piece of tile a while back. “We’re going to a wedding after all!” he yelled out the window, a whoop quickly following his words.

“Yeah, and we’ll be going to your funeral straight after if you don’t shut up.”

He clicked his tongue her, shaking his head. “Damn, Fran. I’ll leave ya be. But don’t be acting like I’m the one with his fist up your bum, you naughty girl,” he teased, wagging a finger at her.

Valenti usually made me laugh even though he had the tendency to be annoying, especially when he took the piss out of someone. He once told me he couldn’t really take the shit in life seriously because all of the celebrities he loved to keep track of lightened him up. “Their only value,” he had said, “is to make you forget the crap you have to wade through every day. And that’s why I love ‘em.”

I couldn’t exactly say he was a sage ahead of his time, but what he had going for him worked, so I couldn’t really hold it against him.

“Who even has a wedding on a Monday?” I asked the van.

“Twits that wait years just to book the soonest date at some posh-ass chapel that’s way out of their league,” Valenti contended. “At least my weekend was free. That was the dog’s.”

“Aye,” I agreed, stealing a quick glance at Fran. She had her hands tucked between her knees, and her eyes were focused on the empty seat next to Valenti. “You alreet?” I nudged her arm with my elbow.

“Hmmm?” She glanced at me and shook her head, then went back to staring at the passenger seat. “Nah, just tired. I couldn’t sleep last night. Too busy worrying about Louis’s stupid mobile.”

I chuckled lowly, eyeing Valenti as he drove, hoping he’d stay distracted. “Yeah. Same. Couldn’t keep my eyes off it.”

“What are you two birds chatting about back there?” Valenti called after a few blocks, eyeing the two of us from the rearview mirror. “Got a pretty date on the weekend that you never told me about?”

“Valenti, I promise you, even if I went on a date with Prince Harry himself, I wouldn’t tell you. You’d blab to every single gossip magazine worth its name in the entire United Kingdom.”

“Oi. You know me, duckie,” he teased, tossing her a wink. “Though, mind you, all those dailies aren’t worth shit.”

“Glad to see you’ve still got some sense locked up in that old nubbin of yours, mate,” I said, reaching up to flick his head.

“Oi! Down, Newcastle, or I’ll swerve.” He reached up and rubbed a hand over his buzz cut where I flicked him. “That hurt.”

“Are you sure he was in the R.A.F., Blake?” Fran asked, loud enough so that Valenti could hear her even with his window open.

“I don’t know, Fran.” I reached up and rubbed my chin thoughtfully. “He’s not as tough as he pretends to be, you know. Methinks the buzz cut and tattoos are just a show.”

Fran laughed and kicked Valenti’s seat, and he clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he smiled. “Bet you could take him down with a few more flicks to his ears.”

It was good fun taking the mick out of Valenti for a change. In the least, it helped me forget that I’d have a pop star waiting on my doormat for me when I got home from catering what was sure to be a disastrous week-day wedding.