The Love Club

Something is happening in the hall outside my hotel room.

At first, I’m startled by it. Gatsby stares at the door as if she can see through it from the pillow she’s taken residence upon at the head of the bed. I’m poised above my suitcase, wondering what exactly it is a personal assistant for a member of the world’s most popular boy band should wear when I hear the scuffling.

The voices are distant at first, muffled. I can hear words between the yelps and thuds, but I can’t understand what they’re saying until they’re outside my door.

“I’m just curious,” comes one voice, a tone of humor ringing throughout.

“There’s better ways than storming her room, mate,” comes a second, words almost indistinguishable between the thick accent and obvious exertion.

I’m imagining Zayn restraining Louis, and it’s now that I realize watching that movie with Felicity and dad has had some serious effects.

A third person coughs uncomfortably, and though I haven’t met him, I know Liam is probably glancing down the hallway uneasily.

“What are you doing?” Harry’s slow, heavy voice asks.

“Get away from there!” Niall yells in a panic, and I can hear him running out of his room.

Now seems as good of a time as ever to pull open the door, so I do just that, stepping aside just as Louis collapses onto my floor, Niall on top of him mid-tackle. It seems Zayn has let go just in time and is wincing at the scene that has just unfolded before him. Liam watches me with a curious, wary expression, but my eyes shift behind all this to see Harry shaking his head sadly, leaning against the doorframe of his room directly across from mine.

“You must be Mina.”

Liam is the first to break the silence, reaching over the two bodies on the ground to offer me his hand. I take it hesitantly, shaking it for a few brief moments before stepping aside to allow Louis and Niall room to stand. Niall is rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, but Louis confidently strides into my room. When I make no objections, Zayn hesitantly follows, offering me a half-smile as he passes. Liam places a hand softly on Niall’s shoulder and ignores the glare he recieves. Harry is the last to enter, sending me a knowing, yet good-humored passing glance.

When I turn, I realize suddenly that I have the entirety of One Direction sitting on my bed, watching me expectantly. I awkwardly shift my weight before offering a lame, “Hi.”

Harry suppresses a smile and drops his eyes while Niall runs a hand over his face. Louis speaks first.

“You’re a bit young, yeah?”

Zayn speaks his name, the sound of it falling from his lips like a tired warning. Liam turns his eyes to the eldest member of the band, looking as if he wants to say something, but doesn’t.

“I’m twenty,” I confirm, crossing my arms over my chest.

He’s trying to intimidate me, but I’m not moved. His blue eyes sweep over me and I can practically see his mind racing to figure me out.

“You’re a matchmaker?”

“Yes.”

“Why is that?”

I try not to scoff, but fail miserably. When he raises his eyebrows, I open my mouth to respond.

“You’re a singer? Why is that?”

He cracks a smile, tilting his head to one side before answering, “Fair point.”

“Ignore him,” Zayn says before Louis can utter another word. “He’s wary of everyone. I’m Zayn.”

I don’t bother to tell him that this information is obvious. Instead, I accept the hand he has offered me. Louis has a sour look on his face, as if he doesn’t appreciate Zayn speaking on his behalf.

Zayn feels warm, the way everyone does to me once they’ve found their match. It’s a nice confirmation, as someone who is helping people find their true loves, to have this reassurance if ever I doubt myself. When Louis offers me his hand, I’m surprised to feel the same warmth in him.

“So what exactly are you planning to do with this one?” Liam asks, gesturing to Niall. My eyes fall on the form of the blonde as I contemplate my answer. He has thrown himself backward on my bed and has his face buried in his hands as if this is the worst case scenario. Harry sits cross-legged beside him, watching me with mild interest as if he knows I have no plan.

“I haven’t decided yet,” I admit, trying to word it in a way that suggests I somewhat know what I’m doing. Any other situation, and I’d already have a line of girls waiting to be interviewed, but this is new territory.

Louis opens his mouth to say something, but is cut off by the abrupt pounding on my door. Liam stands and crosses the room, looking through the peep hole to see who it is.

“It’s Paul,” he declares, stepping away from the door. “He looks mad.”

“Bloody hell,” Louis murmurs under his breath as he stands to join Liam. Pulling open the door, he reveals an intimidating man, his shoulders broad enough that he has to step sideways just to fit through the doorframe.

“What the hell is this?” he asks as he scans the room. His eyes land on me and I can tell he’s running through worst case scenarios in his mind. He’s practically reading the headline now: One Direction Bodyguard Walks In On Bizarre Orgy In South American Hotel Room.

“We were getting to know Niall’s new personal assistant,” Zayn tells him, pushing himself up from the bed.

Paul’s face relaxes from a place of terror to confusion.

“I just passed Elsa in the hallway...”

“It’s complicated,” Niall tells him, waving his hand in an attempt to shoo away the question.

Wordlessly, he and Harry join the rest of the band in the hall. They’re pre-occupied, and I try not to be offended by the fact that none of them bother to say a farewell as they leave.

Just as I’m turning to get back to whatever it was I was doing before five boys pushed their way into my room, a hand lands on the door and pushes it open again. Niall pokes his head in through the small crevice and half-smiles.

“Sorry about them. They’ll settle down after the first few shows.”

“It’s fine,” I assure him. He seems to accept this with a nod of his head.

“We have soundcheck, but there’s a big dinner thing we’re doing for everyone on the crew to kick off the tour. You can come to that, then after we can try to think of some sort of game plan.”

I nod vaguely and he disappears, my door closing softly behind him.

Turning, I go to say some sort of comment to Gatsby, but she’s not on the pillow any longer. Instead, she’s poking her head out from beneath the bed, scanning the room to make sure the coast is clear.

One member of One Direction and Gatsby is golden. Two and she’s living the dream. More than that, and she’s cowering beneath the sheets.

I can relate.

-

It’s times like these that it fully dawns on me how truly awkward I am in social situations.

The hotel ballroom is filled to the brim with people, all official looking and all with their groups of friends from previous tours. They’ve done this all before, that much is obvious, and as they sit down beside one another with plates full of authentic Argentinan food, I feel completely out of place.

The boys are here, but they’ve all managed to ingermingle with these pre-existing cliques and haven’t taken notice to my arrival. Not that I expected that, but since they’re the only ones I’ve even met since I decided to run away with this circus, I may have had the smallest seed of hope.

“You look scared. And lost.”

The voice is female, and as I turn, I am met with a friendly smile. She’s distinctly hispanic, and I wonder for a moment if she’s hotel staff, but she’s holding a plate of food so I dismiss it. Her brown eyes scan me from behind black framed glasses, as if she’s trying to place exactly what my job on the tour could possibly be.

“You’re not with the merch group. I know those bitches, and you’re not one of them.” I shake my head to confirm this and she arches an eyebrow. I realize she expects me to speak.

“I’m Niall’s new personal assistant,” I say. The statement sounds weird falling from my mouth, as if I’m unsure of this position I’ve taken up. She furrows her brows like she’s just as confused.

“But Elsa is sitting right over there.”

I frown, taking in a deep breath. “It’s a long story.”

She looks like she wants to question me further, but shrugs a moment later, apparently deciding it isn’t worth it. Instead, she starts in the direction of a semi-full table. Half-way, she pauses to glance over her shoulder at me. “Are you coming, or are you going to stand there all night?”

My feet react before I can fully process what she’s even said to me. I’m desperate to look like less of a loser, so I’m happy to pull up the chair beside her, setting down my plate as I flatten my dress to sit down.

“You look nice,” she tells me. It’s almost accusatory.

“I always dress like this,” I shrug.

I’m trying to play it cool, like this is the first I’ve noticed of it, but the truth is that the moment I stepped foot in the room, I was met with cargo pants and tee-shirts. In a white floral print cotton dress, I felt so out of place I almost turned around to leave. The smell of the food convinced me otherwise, and that was how I found myself standing alone on the outskirts of the ballroom in the first place.

As the girl begins to sort through her food, I look over to the rest of the group at the table. Four girls sit across from us, early to mid-twenties. They’re wearing different variations of tank tops and short shorts, laughing and talking to each other as if we’re not even here. They’re all slight in frame with long blond hair and blue eyes, the stereotypical portrait of classic beauty.

“And that is how I knew you weren’t a merch bitch,” the girl beside me says, following my eyes to the group. “I’m HMBIC,” she explains with a slight smile. “But my friends call me Mitchie.”

I laugh. “Head Merch Bitch In Charge. I like that. My name is Mina.”

“How did you land personal assistant? Thought you had to have a degree for that.”

It’s yet another stab at my age that I’m choosing to ignore. One of these days, someone will find something else to comment on, but apparently today is not that day.

“A friend highly recommended me,” I answer instead, maneuvering a forkful of rice into my mouth. “You look pretty young yourself,” I add after a moment.

“Started younger,” she tells me between mouthfuls of food. She doesn’t seem offended, a testament to her laid back personality. “I was seventeen when I started selling merch on a summer tour for a friend’s band. Worked my way up from there.”

“Are you from here?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Puerto Rico.”

“I hear it’s beautiful,” I offer lamely. It’s the only bit of information I have to comment on. She rolls her eyes as she chews before opening her mouth to respond.

“It’s beautiful, but small. Too much world out there to see for me to be satisfied staying there for the rest of my life.”

I nod, dropping my eyes back to my plate. The desire to travel has never been very strong in me. I’ve always been happiest with my family, as close to home as possible. Even when I made the decision to move to London, it was for the career opportunity. Some people like to view London as a place of bustling commotion and chaos, but I’ve always been into the structure behind it all. The underground system, the interlocking of streets, the boxy buildings and grids of city blocks. It’s all as it should be, filed neatly into an organization that works to make the city what it is.

London feels safe, like home. I could spend forever getting lost in the beauty behind the structure of it all. Traveling? Obviously, the unknown doesn’t really appeal to me.

When I look back to Mitchie, she looks like she’s about to say something, but stops suddenly. At the sound of stifled giggles, my eyes flicker across the table to the Blonde Brigade, but their eyes are focused back at me. Confused, I turn to face a butterfly tattoo.

I nearly hop out of my seat, startled by the popstar leaning on the back of my chair. He’s smirking like this was his intended plan of action and I try to regain my wits.

“Who are your friends?” Harry asks, eyes flickering first to Mitchie, then over to the girls who let out yet another round of giggles. My gag reflex threatens to kick in.

“This is Mitchie,” I answer, wondering if he plans on leaving my personal space anytime soon. It doesn’t look like it, since he keeps his weight leaning on arms that are still supported by the back of my chair. He offers Mitchie a smile.

“You’re with merchandise, right?”

“That’s me,” she replies with a grin, perking up at Harry’s recognition of her.

“Did you need something?” I ask, and his eyes flash back to me. He’s slightly taken aback by my snippish attitude, but I’m unamused with his flirtations. Still, he’s watching me like I’m the most interesting thing he’s seen since landing in Argentina, and it’s making me uncomfortable.

“Niall’s ready to talk business if you’re finished eating,” he finally says.

“And he sent you to send me this message?”

He shrugs, pushing up off my chair as he shoots me a dimpled grin.

“I volunteered.”

Rolling my eyes, I look to Mitchie for help, but she’s completely under his spell. So are the other girls across the table, but when I turn around he’s still focused on me.

So I sigh and stand, pushing my chair in and picking up my plate to throw away.

“I’ll talk to you later,” I mutter to Mitchie.

I think she nods, but I don’t stick around to watch it. Instead, I toss the rest of my plate in a trash bin and start in the direction of the elevator. Harry is following close beside me and I shoot him a glare.

“What are you doing?”

“Coming with you,” he answers, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Why?”

He doesn’t bother to respond, sending me a glance as he hits the button for the elevator. I cross my arms as I wait, the lift arriving a few moments later.

Harry was amicable enough on the plane, but he’s beginning to get under my skin. Standing beside him now, tapping my foot while we make our way up through the floors of the hotel, I can feel his gaze. It’s only my first day, and I’m already growing tired with the scrutiny I’m suddenly under. It might be jetlag, the unfamiliar territory I’m in, or a combination of the two, but I’m feeling less than friendly right now.

“You seem on edge...” he speaks.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I snap, and immediately regret it.

We land on our floor and I run a hand through my hair, letting my eyes fall shut. When I open them, Harry is watching me, biting on his lip.

“You’re just tired,” he assures me, but I’m already shaking my head.

“I’m so far out of my league,” I breathe.

It’s the first time I’ve admitted it to myself, let alone anyone else. He’s nodding his head, eyes moving from me for only a moment as the elevator doors begin to close. He reaches out to catch them and gestures that we should probably step off. Despite the fact that I’m half a step away from hyperventilation, I follow him with the knowledge that being stuck in a lift will do little to help my situation.

I’ve never doubted myself. Not once.

It’s nearly impossible for me to fail at this task. It’s what I was born for. Yet it all seems so much more daunting when I’m so far from home, surrounded by strangers. Instead of looking at a database, I’m literally going to have to search crowds of people in different cities every night. It’s nauseating.

“Mina, how long have you been doing this?”

“Eight years.”

“How many clients have you had?”

“Hundreds.”

“How many have you successfully set up?”

“All of them,” I mumble.

“It’s no different,” he tells me. “We’re no different.”

My eyes flicker reluctantly to him for a moment. There’s some hint of sadness in his voice, and though he smiles at me, I realize suddenly that even though this is his lifestyle, sometimes he feels like he’s drowning in it, too.

For a moment, I feel less alone.