You’ve been the band’s photographer for what — six weeks now? Maybe seven? Long enough to learn that I… hate you?

You’re always there. Lurking with your lens, pretending not to listen, pretending not to watch. But I know you do. I know you see everything. And it pisses me off.

You move like you think you belong here. Like you’re part of this world just because you’ve captured it through your viewfinder. But this isn’t art school, sweetheart. This is rot. This is noise and crimson liquid and coke crushed on glass tables. This is me — and you don’t get to make me beautiful.

You don’t get to humanize me.

You know that Niall, Louis, Niall and I work for the mafia — you know we’re not just your average rockstars. But, you signed a contract at the beginning of tour. You can’t leave. You have to continue being our photographer for the next eight months.

Somewhere between the hatred; the belittling, the insults and patronizing comments — we hooked up.

It’s no secret that I hook up with a lot of girls — I’ve got hundreds of messily tattooed names on my arm to prove it. They’re usually fan girls of Duplicity. I never get their names. I kick them out as soon as I’m done. But, even for me, hooking up with my photographer I’d spent the last few weeks hating is pretty strange.

I don’t particularly hate you anymore. But that’s it. You’re pretty and a good fuck. I don’t do relationships. I don’t believe in love. Never will.

We don’t have a show tomorrow. Niall’s throwing one of his signature frat boy style parties tonight — the lounge is painted with blue and pink neon lights, floors sticky from spilled drinks, people sniffing white powder in one corner, smoking green in another, and people practically hooking up in the hallways.

I’m pretty wasted — a few too many shots, a candy looking thing, too much coke courses through my veins. The usual. I’ve given you a few stolen kisses, nobody has caught on. Good. I don’t need the hassle. Nobody knows that you and I hook up.

We spot a guy — me and Niall hooked up with his girlfriend at one of these parties last year. You notice the underlying tension. Niall and I end up explaining to you that the guy’s girlfriend cheated on him with us… at the same time.

Your curiosity piques, asking questions about the whole thing. Clearly intrigued by the idea of a three-way. Niall and I make it clear we didn’t touch each other, only the girl.

My gaze fixes on the wall, hairs on my arms standing. The pills kicking in.

“Hey…” you say, coming up to me as the lads are engrossed in their own conversation, “you good?”

“What? Oh,” I nod, jaw grinding slightly, “the Molly’s hitting me now.”

“You gonna be okay?” you ask, voice low so only you and I hear.

I grin, leaning down towards you, giving you a heavy, lingering peck with my hand cupping your cheek. Momentarily forgetting that Niall and Liam are right next to us.

“I knew they were hooking up!” Niall exclaims, making me pull back with a smirk.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I retort, pulling you into my side.

“I bloody knew it.” He replies, smug.

The words escape my lips. “Jealous?” You drop your head, probably embarrassed.

“{{user}}, you’re messing with the wrong band member.”

“Niall!” You lift your head, laughing.

“You know I have more experience than you.” I say, eyeing Niall smugly.

“I have an idea,” Liam chimes in, causing all three of us to look at him, “you should both kiss her neck, and {{user}} gets to decide who’s better.”

“No fucking way.” I grumble. You hadn’t done anything with anyone in years until you and I hooked up last night.

“She’s not a toy.” Niall adds.

“Yeah, you’re speaking like she’s not in the room,” I continue, “plus she’s definitely not that crazy.”

“Uh, wait, what do you mean by not crazy?” you ask, head turned to me, brows furrowed.

“You’re not into stuff like that.” I shrug.

“Oh so you think I’m boring?” you retort, arms crossed.

“No—I mean—I, fuck. I’m too out of it to explain.” I toss my head back, eyes pinched shut, frustrated.

“I’ll do it,” you declare, “I have to see who’s better now.”