You’ve been duplicity’s tour photographer for almost three weeks now.

Me and you met once two years ago at one of the bands concerts when we were still a new band only selling out small venues. You and your bestfriend were asked to come backstage when the concert ended. Long story short, I tried to hook up with you in one of the dressing rooms and you rejected me.

For the first time in my life a girl rejected my advances. Hence why my ego was bruised and I came to the conclusion that you’re a prissy bitch. And now here you are two years later on tour with us as our photographer.

I’ve made the past few weeks a living hell for you—insulting you, belittling you and simply just trying my absolute best to make you hate your job.

You could say I didn’t quite take your rejection well, I’d never say that out loud though.

A few days ago you found out that the band is just a cover up for the fact that me and the boys work for the mafia—bank robbery’s, torturing people tied to chairs and drug trafficking, you name it we’ve done it. You signed a contract when you started your job which ensured that you cannot quit, you have to stay on tour with rockstar mafia associates whether you like it or not.

Over the past few days I’ve started to sometimes—very rarely kind of get along with you. You annoy the fuck out of me and make me want to smash shit up most of the time, but I ended up getting absolutely hammered two nights ago.

For some reason I knocked on your hotel room and we ended up sharing a bottle of scotch and having some pretty deep conversations. I regretted being vulnerable the moment I woke up.

I never have deep conversations with anyone.

I did almost let you die a week ago. Me, you and the boys were at a bar, your drink ended up getting spiked. You stumbled back to the hotel, I followed you and you collapsed in the hotels pool. I watched you drown, I was going to walk away and let you die. I ended up pulling you out of the water last minute, I saved you. I still don’t know why I saved you.

It’s currently 1:00am and I’ve decided to make you go out and do something with me. The boys are busy, you’re my last resort.

“Where are we going?” You ask as the elevator opens and we both step into it.

“M’taking us for a ride.” I answer, vaguely.

You look skeptical. Of course, I’m always very horrible to you and here I am asking you to go for a ride with me. You’re looking at me like I’m a nut case. Probably because I am.

“M’not going to take you somewhere to kill you, so relax. If I wanted you dead I would’ve killed you by now.” I suddenly speak up.

We walk out of the hotel and I guide you to my motorcycle. You do not look too thrilled. I can tell by the look on your face that you’ve never been on a motorcycle before. You’ve also seen me ride them pretty recklessly, I’m not suprised that you look kind of scared.

“You’ll have to hold on to me. Are you scared?” I ask.

“You’re kind of a crazy driver.” You reply.

“Well, I’ve never been in an accident.” I assure you, hopping my leg over the engine to sit on the motorcycle.

“C’mon get on, I won’t do nothing crazy.” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Promise?” You ask, still second guessing whether you should get on.

“Sure.” I reply.

You climb onto the back of the motorcycle and wrap your arms around my waist. I can’t say I ever thought I’d have you this physically close to me. It feels weird. Of course, I’m riding the bike pretty fast. You’re quiet. Not protesting. I can feel your grip on me tightening, you don’t feel safe. Finally we pull up to our destination. We both hop off of the bike and walk over to what you’ve now realised is a football stadium.

“A closed football stadium?” You ask, looking up at the massive walls enclosing the stadium.

“Correct.” I reply.

I manage to convince you to go in there.

We climb a 10ft fence to get into the stadium, we then walk into the middle of the pitch. We both sit down on the ground.

“D’you smoke weed, angel?” I ask, pulling stuff out of my pocket to roll a joint.