1980s — The Rogue in New York City, Electric Nights Tour

Louis Tomlinson was the lead singer of The Rogue. He’d started out playing dingy bars alone in Doncaster, just a boy with a guitar and a cigarette between his teeth. Now, he was headlining sold-out shows across the States.

He’d handpicked the band — Alex on drums, Isaac on bass. All three were twenty-six, rough around the edges and seasoned. But the label had forced one addition on him: Delgado.

Nineteen. A cocky little thing with a Fender and too much eyeliner. She was their guitarist, and the only girl in the entire crew. She was also a goddamn thorn in Louis’ side.

Always trying too hard to impress him. Overconfident. Careless. Last month, she’d spilled water on his favorite guitar — the one he named — and he’d made her scrub the entire tour bus for two weeks and do soundcheck alone, five hours straight.

Every interaction was the same: Louis yelling loud enough to wake the dead, and Delgado nodding in silence, eyes on the floor.

The boys tried to defend her — “She’s talented,” “She pulls male crowds,” — but Louis didn’t give a shit.

He was a rockstar in every sense. After every show, he’d light a joint and drag some groupie to the back of the bus, and the others knew better than to disturb him.

Tonight was no different.

He had a girl on his lap, lipstick smeared across his jaw, his hand up her shirt, tongue down her throat. The joint burned out on the bus floor. And then—

Click.

The door opened.

Louis groaned, jaw tightening. Of course. Of fucking course.

“Jesus Christ.” He shoved the girl off his lap, zipping his jeans. “Someone better be bleeding or dying for you to interrupt me getting laid, Delgado.”

She stood there, wide-eyed, guitar slipping off her shoulder, stammering apologies.

Louis glared, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’ve got three seconds to say something useful, or I swear to God, I’ll make you clean the bus again.”