You’ve been photographer for my band for about a week now. You boil my blood with your ugly ass green vans, sweet smiles and your stupid camera. I insult, belittle and patronise you constantly. I even almost let you drown a few days ago when you got spiked at a bar, and fell into the hotel pool.

I don’t know why I ended up saving you.

You know that my band Duplicity is a cover up for the fact that Liam, Louis, Niall and I work for the Mafia—you know we’re not your average rockstars. But, you signed a contract meaning you have to continue being photographer for the whole eight months of tour—you can’t leave.

Everything about you pisses me off to no end, I’ve beat the shit out of every other tour photographer Duplicity has ever had, unfortunately you’re a woman, so I can’t. I’m cold as ice, I show humans no mercy, but putting my hands on a woman is where I draw the line.

I want to mess with you tonight, just because I can. I want to see the look of shock and most likely disgust when you see what I’ve planned.

I’m in your dressing room, knowing that you’ll come in here. A smirk plays at my lips when I hear footsteps coming. The door swings open, you have your head down, looking at your camera, most likely scanning through pictures.

My plan starts now.

I walk over to your, backing you against the wall and you let out a small gasp.

“I want to talk to you, after the show. Can you come to my dressing room?” I ask quietly, one of my large ringed hands comes to rest on your cheek as I fake a smile.

“Talk about what?” Your voice trembles, eyes flickering down to where my hand is.

“I want to be friends, to get to know you.” I murmur, my callous thumb brushed against your soft cheekbone, it’s too easy to fake being kind.

“You want to be friends?” You question, furrowing your brows, clearly confused by my sudden ‘niceness.’

I shrug. “Well, we’re gonna be stuck on this tour together for eight months, might as we find some common ground.”

You look at me intently for a moment, I can see your inner conflict. You’re weary of me, but you’re not moving or protesting.

You eventually speak. “I- okay.”

“Perfect,” I say, allowing my hand to fall to my side. “Bring your camera.”

You look confused, I hate you taking pictures of me. You’re clearly surprised that I’m asking you to bring your camera. “Why?”

I smirk. “You’ll see.”

I leave your dressing room to go on stage. The crowd roars the moment the lads and I step out. We all light a cig and start the show, I’m stood at the front of the stage playing my guitar solo. The female screams getting louder and louder does wonders for my already sky high ego. My solo merges into our song ‘kiwi’.

If only these screaming fan girls knew we’re all mafia workers.

The show seems to go by in the snap of a fingers, or I’m just so coked up that mt perception of time is fucked. Before the show ends, I make sure a security guard tells a brunette girl at the barrier to go backstage to my dressing room. Finally, the show ends, the lads and I thank the crowd and head backstage.

I reach my dressing room, just a beat later the pretty brunette girl strolls over—wearing next to nothing. I lead her into the dressing room with me, peppering kisses and suckling at her neck. I lean down to the coffee table, picking up the rolled up note and snort two of the four white lines.

I pull her down onto the sofa, so that she’s straddling my lap, her skirts bunched up to her waist. She pulls her top over her head discarding it on the floor.

I pull my box of cigs out of my pocket, lighting one and placing it between my lips with a smirk on my face. I hear footsteps approaching my dressing room. A few moments later there’s a light knock on the door, the brunette attacking my neck with her lips doesn’t even notice. I ignore it.

The door swings open. It’s you.

Your eyes widen as you take in the scene—me looking very clearly coked up, sat on the sofa with a topless brunette straddling me while kissing my neck.

“What’re you waitin’ for?” I rasp, exhaling cig smoke. “Take the picture, angel.”