The Love Club

Harry’s eyes make me uncomfortable, but I’m not sure why.

I’m thinking about this as I shift in my seat and reach for my water, if only for something to distract me from his gaze. He’s wearing a slight amused smile, but his brows are raised because I’ve caught him completely off guard. He waits for me to finish my sip of water before asking one more time, “What?”

It’s true that what just left my mouth might be slightly... well... unorthodox. I’m starting to feel slightly stupid for bringing it up, but he’d been prodding me with questions since the waitress left with our order and I told the first story that came to mind.

“She was freaked out by it, too,” I assure him. “No one wants to hear that question on a first date, but still. It makes you think.”

“It’s horribly morbid,” he answers automatically, his lips pouting into a slight frown as he finally drops his eyes from me. I try not to sigh in relief. A moment later, I hear his voice again, colored with amusement.

“But you’ve thought about it.”

I pause in reaching for a breadstick, looking over to him.

“And you’re not?”

He tilts his head to one side slightly as if allowing this before he leans forward on the table, hands clasped. “So what is it?”

“No,” I tell him immediately. This makes him chuckle. I cringe because I know he’s about to repeat the question back to me and I’ll probably end up actually answering it beneath his steady stare.

“Mina, if you were to fill a bathtub with lukewarm water, lay in it, and slit your wrists, what song would you want to hear as you faded out?”

It sounds even worse coming from him, and I can’t help the snort that escapes me.

“I can’t believe someone would ask another person that,” I say instead as I take a bite into the breadstick.

“I’m asking you that now.”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do.”

I want to deny it again, but those damned eyes are settled on me and I know I can’t escape them.

“Okay,” I sigh, setting down the bread and ignoring his fist pump of victory. “But you have to give me time to explain first.”

He nods, urging me to go on, so I do.

“It’s called ‘I Wish I Was The Moon’. It’s by Neko Case...”

He already has his phone pulled out of his pocket and is typing furiously into it. I laugh and he smiles and, for a moment, I feel sort of dizzy, but I chalk it up to low blood sugar and take another bite of the breadstick. His eyes scan the screen of his phone as he reads the lyrics.

“It sounds better in song form, I assure you,” I tell him. “But I don’t know. There’s a sort of calm to it, and it’s also kind of fearless. I listen to that song and it tells it like it is. It’s not really about giving up, but about knowing there’s nothing more you can do about something you’ve fought hard for... I find peace in that.”

Harry locks his phone and puts it back in his pocket, nodding to himself as he listens to me. It isn’t until I tell him it’s his turn to fess up that he looks back up at me and offers a lazy smile. A moment later, he reaches both his hands up to rub over his face, as if he’s trying to snap out of something.

“I dunno,” he mumbles, a slight tone of embarrassment to it. “A moment ago, I’d have probably said a Rolling Stones song or something equally as stupid, but now I feel like I need to think on it and come up with something good.”

“That’s not stupid,” I tell him, and he shoots me a look of disbelief. “No, really. It doesn’t have to be something deep or anything even related to the state of mind you’d be in if you were offing yourself.”

I take this moment to sneak another bite of breadstick, half because his eyes have me feeling dizzy again and half for dramatic effect. Swallowing, I continue.

“If you really like a song, it can become a catch all. And if a Rolling Stones song is that for you, then so be it. Don’t be embarrassed about something you like.”

He has that entertained look on his face again and I’m starting to feel self-conscious. I wonder vaguely for a minute if I have something in my teeth, but I haven’t been doing anything except gnawing on this breadstick, so I settle on the idea that I’ve messed up a part of my makeup or something.

“I’ll be back...” I tell him as I set my napkin down and push out my chair. He doesn’t say anything in return as I stand and head in the direction of the restroom.

I make it down a dim hallway and push open the door, finding solace in the small enclosed space. It’s quiet, so I feel fairly confident no one else is there as I stride up to the mirror to check my face.

Besides a light smudge of eyeliner above my right cheekbone, nothing’s out of order. I try baring my teeth in an attempt to find something wrong there, but there’s nothing.

Hm. Weird.

I turn, leaning my back against the faucet, and close my eyes. Exhaustion is starting to catch up with me, but I have a full order of fettuccini alfredo on its way to my table and I don’t want to appear rude to Harry, who would probably only wrap up his own food and demand to walk me home anyway.

Something is off, and I wonder vaguely for a moment if I’m sick, but dismiss it. Even with the workload I’ve been putting in, I’m really not under much more stress than usual if you don’t factor in that whole uncertainty bit. Being on different continents makes my job more difficult, but somewhere in the back of my mind I’m starting to come to my senses the more I settle into this weird tour routine. The more comfortable I’m becoming around the boys, the easier it is to focus on the task at hand.

Which right now includes Harry Styles and a table for two.

With a sigh, I push myself up and give my reflection one last once over in the mirror before pulling open the door and stepping back into the dining area.

Our food has arrived, but Harry hasn’t touched it yet. I have to commend him for his table manners, his phone is no where to be seen despite my absence. He smiles up at me as I settle back down to my seat and quietly apologize.

“No worries,” he tells me as he reaches for his silverware. I follow suit and plunge a fork into my plate, twirling noodles around the tongs.

We lapse into comfortable silence as we eat. I’m thankful that he seems mostly caught up in his own mind, too much to watch me ungracefully slurp fettuccini. Mentally, I’m berating myself for being so dumb. There is no attractive way to eat garlic noodles.

For a boy, Harry eats smoothly. He takes his time stabbing his penne and calculates his every bite of chicken, making sure he gets the right ratio. I know he’s been starving, I could hear his stomach growling from beside me in the car. I’d look over to him and he’d grin sheepishly, unapologetic.

It’s all very endearing, but I’d never let his smug ass know that.

So instead I try to focus more on getting the noodles to my fork and my fork to my mouth in the most efficient way possible. If I can’t go about this in an attractive way, I’ll go about it as quickly as I can.

I hear Harry chuckle and glance up to find his green eyes on me, a dimpled smirk on his face.

“Hungry?” he comments, and I blush at being caught in the act. I softly set down my fork and lean back in my seat, glaring at him to compensate for my mild humiliation. He throws his hands up in mock surrender.

“No judgment here. I’m flattered you feel comfortable enough to just have at it, honestly.”

I want to correct him, that I feel uncomfortable enough around him that I want to stuff as much in my mouth as possible and chew furiously while he’s not looking, but I obviously don’t. Temporarily, I’m frozen by the way he looks at me, his teeth bared in a boyish smile. He’s intently focused on me, like everything I do holds some sort of mild interest to him.

He clears his throat and glances away. I find I’ve been holding my breath.

“Are you starting to feel any more comfortable?” he asks after a moment, his attention back on his plate of chicken penne.

I nod, but then remember he’s not looking at me any more.

“Yes.”

“Good. I hope I’ve helped somewhat in making the transition easier for you.”

Infinitely is the answer on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it back before it passes my lips. What is wrong with me?

There are a few beats of awkward silence before he speaks again.

“In other words, I’d like to consider us friends.”

I nod dumbly, unsure of where he’s taking this. He looks slightly uncomfortable, sheepishly raising a hand to rub the back of his neck while he glances around the rest of the dining room.

“I just... I’ve been thinking a lot about what you’re doing for Niall. And I know you have a lot on your plate and all, but I thought maybe if some of those girls didn’t work for Niall... maybe they’d work for me...”

I almost choke on the water I’ve raised to my lips.

With his green eyes focused on me again, I try to swallow back my cough, the burn in my throat almost enough to bring tears to my eyes.

He misunderstands my reaction and rushes to correct it.

“You’ll be compensated, of course. I know this is your job.”

“No, that’s not...”

“I’m sorry?”

“I...”

I’m flustered as I reach up self-consciously to run my fingers through my short hair. He’s still watching me, waiting for my answer, so I give him what he’s hoping for.

“Of course.”

He looks more relaxed, thanking me quietly before changing the subject. I’m too focused on the sinking feeling in my stomach to hear any of it.

–

The last day of the South American leg of the tour has snuck up on all of us. I’m mostly looking forward to going back to the apartment, even if it is just for a couple of days. I think Gatsby is starting to miss it, too, as she anxiously walks the length of the hotel room she hasn’t left, much to her dismay.

I hear a knocking at my door and go to check who it is. I’m surprised to see Liam standing there, hands folded behind his back as he patiently waits for me to open my door. When I do, he smiles warmly at me and asks if he can come in.

“What’s up?” I ask as he takes a seat at one of the decorative arm chairs. Gatsby, who has claimed this spot for her own, mews in protest. Liam absently leans down to scoop her up and folds her onto his lap, which she smugly accepts as she rolls onto her back for a belly rub. He obliges.

“Sort of what I wanted to ask you,” he says in response. “Any plans for tonight?”

I shake my head no.

“The lads and I are planning this party. A real one, not like the big dinner we did at the beginning of tour. We want you to come.”

I hesitate to accept. I’ve never really been much of the party type, unless you count drinking entire bottles of wine alone in my apartment and dancing with my cat a party. At the same time, it hits me that I’ve never really been invited to one, either.

“Where is it?” I ask instead, still unusure of whether or not this will be a good idea.

“There’s a club nearby. I can text you the address,” he offers.

I swipe my tongue along the top row of my teeth as I think it over. Liam is still engulfed in Gatsby and doesn’t seem to notice. I settle for, “I might show up.”

Liam looks up at me and he seems to accept that this is the most he’ll probably get from me.

“Why didn’t Niall ask?”

The question is more for conversation’s sake, I guess. He hadn’t made any sort of move to abandon the arm chair or Gatsby’s wriggling body beneath his grasp, and I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

He shrugs in response.

“Forgot. He’s out on that date you set him up on.”

When I called Mariana a few days ago to tell her what this was all really about, she seemed to be in a state of utter disbelief. It took a lot of heavy convincing to get her to even consider I might be telling her the truth. Eventually, she settled for showing up on a “blind date” with someone I claimed might be Niall, and if it was true, she’d be pleasantly surprised.

I’d made brunch plans at a local restaurant, a date which had started hours ago. Apparently, Niall still isn’t back, which I suppose is probably a good thing.

I’m in the process of taking a seat on the edge of my bed when Liam speaks again.

“What’s going on with you and Harry?”

I miss the mattress and hit the corner of it on my lower back. Despite being a quite comfortable bed to sleep on, the corner of it hit my back just right, enough to make it ache as I correct myself.

The question is so out of left field, I’m momentarily stunned.

“What?” I manage to sputter out.

Liam’s focused intently on my face, rolling his eyes at my incredulous reaction.

“You two just really seem to get on. We were wondering if there was anything going on there?”

I blink. Then something occurs to me and I have to backtrack.

“We? Is this a discussion the four of you have had?”

He only nods in response. Gatsby must sense my distress, because she hops from her place on his lap and rubs against my leg.

“Harry’s been trying to help me adjust to all this,” I say, gesturing around the area as if to prove my point. “Nothing romantic.”

“Not even after dinner the other night?”

“Absolutely not. Made perfectly clear when he asked me to play matchmaker for him, too.”

It’s Liam’s turn to look shocked. His brows raise, brown eyes blankly staring ahead as he processes this new tidbit of information. I can’t help but feel smug, as if I’ve proven my point.

“What an idiot,” he mumbles before standing. I stand, too, for lack of anything else better to do.

As he makes his way to the door, he’s shaking his head to himself, as if disappointed in me or Harry or this entire situation. I’m still uncomfortable with the fact that apparently our blossoming friendship is a topic of discussion amongst the rest of the band, and I feel the intense urge to call up Niall and yell at him, but don’t want to disrupt his date.

Guess I’ll be showing up at that party after all.

The thought makes me both nauseous and excited at the same time. After shutting the door on Liam, I turn to Gatsby and put my hands on my hips.

“Well, whatever item of clothing you want to lay on most is probably the one I want to wear to the party, so what’s it going to be?”

She doesn’t bother to hold my gaze as she licks at her paw. I sigh and run a hand through my hair, knowing I’ve lost it when I’m talking to Gatsby this way.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out to find a text from Liam with an address. I also have a text from Duncan, sarcastically describing an encounter with an unhappy soccer mom in the produce aisle.

Funnily enough, I somewhat miss our weekly encounters at the register. Despite the fact that I’d been keeping him at an arms length before leaving on tour, he’s the only friend I have back home. I find myself typing back a sympathetic response and asking him what he has on his calendar for two days from now. After sitting down my phone, I strip out of my clothes and turn on the shower.

With the luxury hotels the boys have booked for the tour, it took some getting used to to figure out different shower settings and jacuzzi tubs. This one seems simple enough, one handle to control a step-in shower, but I somehow muck it up and have to wait ten minutes in a towel for the water to heat up.

When I’m finally able to stand the water temperature, I quickly run shampoo through my hair and scrub my body. For a second I contemplate not shaving, but know this might be unwise on my part in a club setting. Not that I’ve ever been, but I imagine it might be a bit crowded.

Unfortunately for me, this doesn’t take much time. I spend the next two hours on Netflix, watching Once Upon A Time and absently scratching behind Gatsby’s ears. When I finally glance at the clock again, I deem it a proper time to start getting ready.

I shimmy into a black skater dress with lace overlaying the lining. The back dips into a deep V, ending at the small of my back where the skirt starts. I narrow my eyes at it, uncomfortable by the amount of air I can feel. I’d just bought the dress when I left the UK and brought it in case of emergency. Under other circumstances, I’d pair it with a blazer, but it seems a ridiculous notion to bring one of those with me to a club.

Returning to the bathroom, I consider what I’ll do with my face. Normally, I’d swipe on some eyeliner and mascara and call it good, but I’m afraid that’s not going to cut it for a South American club, especially if I’ll be wearing this dress for any amount of time. After a few moments of deliberation and one last time check, I pull out foundation, blush, eyeliner, mascara, and eye shadow and get to work. After I’m finished with my smokey eye, I’m feeling quite accomplished and have effectively wasted enough time to head in the direction of the club.

The address is far enough that I have to hail a cab. It’s nearer to the arena where the boys are finishing up the last songs of their set and I know they’ll probably find their way over as soon as possible. Just as I’m about to slide into the back seat and fire off the address, someone slides in beside me.

I’m startled at first, but relax at the sight of Mitchie. She smiles easily at me as she tells the driver in Spanish where we’re going.

“Hello,” she greets afterward, falling backward into her seat beside me.

“Hey,” I answer. “Didn’t know you’d be coming. I would have suggested riding down together.”

“What are we doing now?” she jokes. “But really, don’t worry about it. I didn’t know I was coming either. Last minute invite.”

“From who?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

“Harry, actually. “ At my raised brows, she laughs. “Just as much of a shock to me as it is to you. Don’t even know how he got my number, let alone why he thought to invite me.”

We lapse into silence again as we continue the drive to the club. After a few turns, we hit downtown city traffic and I deem it fit if we walk the rest of the way, which turns out to only be three blocks.

The club is called D–Edge, and I stop in wonder of the line waiting around the block to be granted entrance. I can hear the bass thundering from here and muse on how it is Mitchie and I will find ourselves actually within the club itself, but I don’t have to worry about it for long. Mitchie is already striding up to the bouncer and speaking fluent Spanish to him. A moment later, the rope is lifted and she gestures for me to follow her. I do so in awe.

“What the hell was that?” I ask.

“I name dropped the alias the boys booked VIP under,” she shrugs.

“Liam never gave me that...” I say, relieved Mitchie is here beside me.

She doesn’t respond, whether it’s because she doesn’t have a comment or because she can’t hear me over the intense volume of the music, I don’t know. I feel her hand grip my wrist as she pulls me forward through throngs of people milling around the main lobby area and into the thick of it.

The walls are filled with lights that change colors, running in lines up and down the expanse of the room. I’m stunned at the effect it has, but Mitchie is directing me toward a private area near the back and I follow. Again, she’s the one who coerces us in.

It’s apparent to me now that when the boys said a “party” at a club, it only meant the select thirty or so people who were invited. The majority of these people are already here, sitting around tables and sipping on drinks they recieve from a small, private bar. Mitchie wiggles her eyebrows at me suggestively and makes a beeline for it.

In the mean time, I find a semi-unoccupied table to slide into and drum my fingers awkwardly while I wait for Mitchie to find me again. I hear a bit of commotion and turn in my seat to be greeted with five familiar faces, sweaty in their post-concert glory, but obviously ready to party. They seem to have changed into clean clothes at least, but I can tell by the perspiration on Louis’ fringe that they haven’t wasted time in showering.

They’re being warmly recieved by everyone in the room, which is why I’m surprised when I feel body heat beside me and turn to face Harry.

“Hi,” he grins brightly at me.

“Hi,” I return easily. Without thinking, I turn to look over at the bar where Mitchie is eyeing a bartender as he mixes two drinks. When I return my eyes to Harry, he has followed my gaze.

“You’re friends with her, right?” he asks. “I invited her because I thought maybe you’d feel more comfortable with her here and she seems nice enough...”

I cut him off before he can go any further in doubting whether or not he’s made the correct decision.

“We’re friends. You did good.”

He relaxes beside me, opening his mouth to say something before he’s once again interrupted by someone at a nearby table calling his name. His eyes are apologetic as he stands to go, but I only push him away dramatically in an attempt to encourage him to socialize elsewhere.

Besides, I have other business to attend to.

“Niall Horan!” I call, catching the blonde as he passes my table with a beer in hand. My hands have flown out to wrap around his arm and he jerks back in surprise.

“Mina Underhill!” he answers enthusiastically, if not confused. It’s then that he notices my glare and sucks his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Look, I don’t know what I did, but I really need to be going–“

“Sit.”

Surprisingly, he follows my command, taking a seat opposite me and glancing at the two girls at the other end of our table, too immersed in gossip to give notice to either of us.

“What’s up?” he asks somewhat timidly.

“Liam stopped by my room today to ask me what is going on between Harry and I,” I inform him. He cringes, as if he knows where this is going. “Apparently this has been speculation between multiple members of One Direction.”

Niall doesn’t respond, only takes a long drag of his beer. I smack his arm and he lets out a yelp of surprise.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me you’ve been killing this before it starts!”

“Oh, believe me. It’s started and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Mina, are you kidding me? There is obvious chemistry here.”

I let out an exhasperated sigh.

“We’re friends. I’m helping him the same way I’m helping you.”

“You’re what?” he asks, suddenly upset.

I’m taken off guard by his change in attitude. I haven’t seen Niall angry before, annoyed and frustrated, absolutely, but not angry. And right now, I don’t have another word for his reaction. I’m not sure what he’s planning on doing, but whatever it is, it doesn’t look good. Just as he stands to leave, I grab his hand and pull him back.

“It seems a bit hypocritical to me for you to get mad at him for doing exactly what you’re doing,” I tell him.

He only shakes his head and takes another drag of his beer.

“I need the help,” he says, and I roll my eyes. Pausing, he breaks a smile and adds, “Well. Maybe not anymore.”

I follow his eyes to the corner of the room and set upon the likes of Mariana herself, awkwardly shifting her weight on a couch while her eyes scan the contents of the room before her. She looks completely out of her element.

“We got on really well earlier. I think I really like her...” he tells me as he watches her. Their eyes meet and she smiles, then offers a small wave at me, which I return.

This complicates things somewhat for me because I’m still on a hunt for Niall’s soulmate, but at least this will get him off my back temporarily. I’m torn between warning him that Mariana was a temporary set-up, not a long-term goal, but he looks so pleased and I don’t want to ruin it for him. Instead, I urge him to get his ass out of here.

For a moment, I can breathe, but then Mitchie slides back into the seat Niall has just left unoccupied and slides a drink over to me.

“What took you so long?” I ask.

She frowns at me, obviously upset, but takes a long sip of her drink.

“Good for nothing bartender. Had to taste test everything he made because he’s shit at his one job in life.”

I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face as I lift the drink to my lips. It’s strong and somewhat bitter, whatever it is, and there’s bits of lime floating in it. I don’t bother to ask what I’m drinking, instead content to be sitting with someone who isn’t one fifth of the world’s most popular boy band and, consequently, a pain in my arse.

Mitchie doesn’t force conversation, which is somewhat of a relief. I plan on heading out early anyway, only showing up in the first place to be polite, but I’ve always loved people-watching and now is a prime time to do it.

For example, a boy sitting at a table with Zayn keeps looking over here every few seconds, his eyes settling on the girl directly across from me who is obliviously mouthing along to whatever South American song the DJ is bumping right now. I can’t really blame him, it seems my friend has shown up dressed to kill. In a black and white sleeveless geometric dress that fits her curves perfectly, she’s the definition of a Puerto Rican beauty. This is only exemplified further in her choice of bright red lipstick.

“Hey, do you know that guy over at Zayn’s table?” I ask, nudging her with the tip of my flat as I tilt my head in his general direction. Her eyes follow mine to alight on the boy there, tall and broodishly handsome. He’s dressed casually and I think I’ve seen him unloading equipment before.

“Ty?”

I nod.

“Sort of. He helps set up the stage and sometimes our paths cross when I’m moving boxes of merch. He’ll help me when he can.”

She shrugs this off as if it’s no big deal, but I’m still staring at her. After a moment, it hits her and she almost spits out her drink.

“No, Mina. Noooo.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not at all his type. He’s like, one of Zayn’s good friends on the tour. They have similar personalities. I’m awkward and loud and not at all like the skinny model type he probably goes after.”

“I’m calling bullshit, mostly because I don’t like the way you just talked about yourself, but also because he keeps glancing over here every few seconds.”

“No he doesn’t,” she denies, but I can hear a hopeful tone in her voice as her eyes unwillingly flicker in his direction. His seem to be pulled to us as well, and he half-smiles at her before turning to one of his friends to say something. A moment later, he’s standing and on his way over to our table.

“Shit. Shit. Shit. What do I do?” Mitchie asks, flustered. I don’t answer as I grip my drink and slide out of my seat.

“Where are you going?” she hisses at me, making a move to grab my arm. I’m too quick, stepping out of the way as she reaches out.

“I could use a refill on my drink,” I shrug casually as I begin in the direction of the bar. She’s staring after me, mouth agape when Ty slides into my previous seat. I can hardly surpress my grin.

“What will it be?” the bartender asks in accented English when I approach him.

“Two shots of Fireball,” comes an answer, surprisingly not from my mouth. I wheel to face Harry, his cheeks are flushed as he shoots me a dimpled grin.

“Not the whiskey type,” I tell him, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Good thing it doesn’t taste like whiskey, then,” he answers smoothly, leaning against the counter beside me. A moment later he adds, “That dress looks good on you.”

Now it’s my cheeks that are flushing.

“How much have you had to drink, Styles?”

He laughs, but doesn’t reply. Instead, he thanks the bartender as he slides two shot glasses over, filled to the brim with amber colored liquid. Handing me one, he throws back the other for himself, not even flinching as he slams the empty glass back down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Your turn,” he instructs.

“Do I have to?”

“Yes,” is his immediate response. I frown, but oblige him, cringing as the liquid burns down my throat. When it’s gone, it leaves an awful taste in my mouth that has me gagging. Harry is cackling beside me like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever witnessed, eyes clenched shut as his body shakes with laughter.

“What are you going to do for an entire week during which you can’t force me into awkward situations and watch me flouder?” I ask sarcastically.

“Miss putting you in awkward situations and watching you flounder,” he easily retorts.

I snort and ask the bartender for a water. Harry frowns at me.

“I don’t plan on staying long,” I explain. His frown only deepens.

“Why not?”

“Not really my scene,” I shrug. “But I appreciate the invite.”

“I’ll buy you more drinks if you stay,” he tries. I only laugh.

“Go have fun with your mates,” I tell him.

“But I want to have fun with you,” he whines.

I thank the bartender when he returns with my water before turning back to Harry. He’s pouting, but I give him a friendly shove and promise to see him later, making my exit before I crumble beneath his green eyed stare, like I’ve been tending to do as of late.

I make mental note that I should probably do something about that.